A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  At last the colt walked naturally, almost as if he were at liberty instead of saddled, bridled, and mounted. He dropped his head into a more responsive position, his neck slightly arched. At Olivia’s signal with rein and heel, he turned away from Perceval, who was all but frozen with terror.

  Thumaz watched with an expression that bordered on approval, his big, gnarled hands moving in sympathy to what Olivia was doing. “She knows horses, I’ll give her that,” he said to Evraud in a measured way. “I don’t hold with women on horses, mostly, but she isn’t a ninny about it.”

  “No,” said Evraud, fascinated at how skillfully Olivia rode. “But breeches—”

  The only answer Thumaz ventured was a shrug. “She’s mistress here.”

  As soon as Olivia had the colt moving away from him, Perceval scuttled for the wall, clambering over it with more alacrity than so portly a man might be expected to possess. He paused on the far side of it to wipe his brow with the hem of his smock. He was panting and his face was a plummy color. “It shouldn’t be allowed,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

  “Who is there to stop it?” said Evraud, striving to keep from smiling. He had found a place on the wall where he could sit in comfort without endangering Olivia as she rode. As he looked over his shoulder at Perceval he gave a discreet sign of contempt toward the acting major domo. Improper though she was, Evraud thought his mistress was fascinating.

  The colt had gone around the arena twice in good form and was starting a third circuit when there was a sharp sound from inside the stable. Immediately he brought his head up and tensed before Olivia had a chance to shift her seat. The colt sprung sideways, all but dislodging his rider with the suddenness of his action; his calm deserted him.

  “Magna Mater!” Olivia swore as the colt leaped into the air, landing heavily and badly, jolting the both of them as his hooves came down. She righted herself in the saddle as the colt skittered sideways, but in the next instant had to cling to his neck as he reared.

  “Saint Antoine!” Thumaz spat, watching the colt dash toward the wall of the arena. He tugged the door open and stepped into the arena to try to help to bring the horse under control.

  “No!” Olivia shouted. “No one move!” She had brought herself upright in the saddle again and was doing her best to get the colt’s attention.

  There was a second louder report from inside the stable, almost as if someone had fired a gun in one of the stalls.

  This was too much for the colt, who neighed in distress and took the bit in his teeth. His eyes were wild as he started a bucking run toward the open door.

  Thumaz stepped back and pulled the door closed an instant before the colt crashed into it.

  The colt staggered, his body shuddering, and in the next instant, he toppled, landing heavily just as Olivia got out of the saddle.

  “Madame!” cried Evraud as he came off the wall, rushing toward her.

  Olivia’s face was dark with anger as she knelt beside the dazed colt. “Who made that noise?” she demanded in a tone of voice that none of the men had heard before. “Who?”

  Evraud stopped, afraid to come nearer. “I … I do not know, Madame,” he said, frowning as he watched Olivia stroke the colt’s neck.

  “Someone get me a cold towel. Do it now,” Olivia ordered sharply. “And find out who is responsible for this.”

  Thumaz made a clicking sound with his few teeth, and then hastened away into the stable, more willing to face the cause of that explosive sound than to remain and take the brunt of Olivia’s temper.

  The colt was breathing hard, thrashing his feet, but Olivia kept weight on his neck. “No, boy, not yet. You aren’t getting up until I’m satisfied you’re all right,” she said to the colt, her voice as soft as it had been insistent. Her gaze lighted on Evraud. “Well, get the towel. Now.”

  Evraud ducked his head. “Madame,” he whispered, and hurried away to do as she told him.

  Perceval had come back to the wall and now he stared into the arena, his eyes darting nervously. “Is there anything you wish—”

  “Make sure there are no more noises. And fetch Dione. I want this colt checked thoroughly,” she said, keeping her voice low so that she would not startle the colt. “Now.”

  “But Dione is…” Perceval let the words trail off. If he said where the farrier was, he would also reveal some of the activities that were carried out here without Olivia’s knowledge or permission.

  “He is off with those thieves, I suppose,” said Olivia, and if she noticed the shock in Perceval’s expression, she did not comment on it. “But fetch him. This is more important than the booty of a few robbers.”

  Perceval bowed at the waist and started to leave.

  Olivia’s voice pursued him. “And Perceval, tell your brother that I will not tolerate him using my stud farm for a storage house for his theft. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Madame,” he said, feeling as if the weight often sacks of grain had been placed on his shoulders. He wanted to turn to her, to ask her how she knew of Octave’s enterprise, but his body remained stubbornly turned away from her and his tongue would not form the questions that were in his mind.

  The colt gave a strong whinny and lashed out with his feet.

  “Steady, fellow,” Olivia said to the colt. “Not yet, not yet.” She leaned forward so that she could see his head. There was a bloody patch on the side of his forehead, but he did not appear to be badly cut. She patted his neck and made herself stop shaking so that her distress would not communicate itself to the colt.

  A face appeared over the edge of the arena wall. “Oh, Madama!” Avisa cried out as she saw the horse down and Olivia kneeling beside him.

  “It is nothing, Avisa,” said Olivia, knowing that her maid was not worried about the colt. “There was an accident.”

  “Are you hurt?” Avisa asked, her face creasing with anxiety. “What happened? Gran Dio!” She crossed herself and leaned a little closer.

  “The horse is hurt, not I,” said Olivia, adding, “As soon as the farrier arrives I will stand up. This is for the horse’s protection.” She patted the colt’s neck, noting with alarm that he was sweating more. “Keep your voice low, Avisa; he is very easily frightened.”

  Her eyes round with apprehension, Avisa put one hand to her lips as if to hold in all words and sounds. She blessed herself and stood quite still.

  Just then Thumaz came back to the arena. “Something happened in the feed locker,” he said as he opened the door into the arena. There were bits of grain and straw all over his clothes, as if he had been caught in a high wind.

  “How do you mean, something happened?” Olivia asked. She could hear the colt’s labored breathing, which troubled her. In all her years with animals, she had never accustomed herself to their patient capacity for suffering.

  “Not doing well, is he?” He shook his head sadly. “Poor lad, could be a cracked head.”

  “I hope not,” said Olivia, fearing that it was.

  Thumaz came closer, moving carefully and speaking softly. “I don’t know what to say to you, Madame,” he began. “It is like something out of a battle. Evraud says it is like an explosion.”

  “It certainly sounded like an explosion,” said Olivia brusquely.

  “Then it might have been, though what there was to explode in the locker, I don’t know. We keep no musty grain, Madame, and Octave knows enough to keep his activities away from the stable.” Thumaz nodded to Olivia. “Get up, if you like, and I’ll handle him.”

  “In a moment,” said Olivia, who was reluctant to give over the care of the young stallion to Thumaz or anyone else. She stripped off her gloves and stuffed them into the wide belt holding her breeches.

  “As you wish,” said Thumaz at his most philosophical. “If you want to inspect the locker, Evraud is guarding it. We’re waiting for your instructions.”

  “You will have them.” She stroked the colt’s neck, making sure there was strength in her hands so that
the horse would be reassured instead of frightened. “Where is Perceval?”

  Avisa pointed away from the arena. “There,” she said.

  “Fetch him back,” said Olivia. “I’ve changed my mind.” She did not like admitting, even to herself, that the farrier could make no difference for the colt, but she knew it was so. “Avanti, Avisa,” she said. “Or presto.”

  Obediently Avisa hurried away, not quite running—inconceivable in a lady’s personal maid—but at a kind of trot. She called out to Perceval, first in Italian, then in French. “You must return!”

  Perceval was relieved to be halted, and he quickly obeyed his new instructions, coming back to the arena at Avisa’s side.

  Olivia heard their approach; she waited until the two were near enough to hear her speak without raising her voice. “I have another task for you, Perceval.”

  At the sound of his name, Perceval stuck his head over the top of the arena wall. “Madame?”

  “I want the gates to the entire estate closed and guarded. At once.” Her words were crisp, stern.

  “But the farrier—” he began, then stopped.

  “I will attend to the colt,” she said, wishing she would not have to. She was pragmatic enough to know she ought to have issued this order first, but she had been too worried about the colt. “Post the guards. Anyone coming or going is to account for his actions, and if there is any question whatsoever about his actions, then bring him to me at once. Or her,” she added, knowing that Octave’s band made use of sisters as well as wives to bring them what they desired. “No exceptions.”

  Perceval bowed. “As you wish, Madame.”

  “And see that I am notified at once if anyone leaves the estate unexpectedly. Do it now, Perceval.” With that, she turned her attention away from him, not waiting to see how swiftly he carried out her orders. She glanced from the colt to Thumaz. “What do you think?” she asked the old groom, seeing the answer in his eyes before he spoke.

  “He’s not good, that’s sure,” Thumaz answered carefully.

  “He’s getting worse,” said Olivia. “Listen to how he breathes. And he continues to sweat.”

  “I have a towel, if you want it,” said Thumaz, recalling her first orders.

  Olivia shook her head. “No, I guess not.” She got up, releasing the horse, then watched with sinking hope as the colt struggled slowly and dazedly to his feet, wobbling as he stood. “It’s the skull or his neck, one of the two,” she said, as much to herself as to Thumaz.

  “As you say, Madame,” Thumaz agreed with a lack of emotion that was more telling than any outburst would have been.

  “What a stupid, stupid waste!” Olivia said with sudden heat. She patted the colt. “Hold his head, Thumaz,” she said, starting toward the young animal. “He’s confused.”

  “Truly,” said Thumaz. “What are you going to do?”

  Olivia’s expression was incredulous. “Unsaddle him, of course.”

  “Ah,” Thumaz said with a wise nod. “It’s bad luck to have tack on a dead horse.” He secured the colt’s head, making sure to stand to the side so that the horse could see him. “Go ahead. The way he’s breathing, no telling when he might fall again.”

  “Yes,” Olivia said sadly as she started to unbuckle the girths. “I’ll need a primed pistol,” she said as she loosened the breastplate. “One of the heavy ones; I don’t want to misfire and I don’t want to do more harm than good.”

  Thumaz had his mind more on the colt than on what Olivia was saying, but he knew what was expected of him. “As you wish.”

  “The wheel-lock from Brescia,” Olivia said, knowing that pistol better than any of the others she had at this estate.

  “As you wish,” he repeated, then said, “I will tend to it, Madame. It isn’t suitable that you—”

  “He’s my horse,” said Olivia as she pulled the saddle from the colt’s back, taking care not to move too suddenly for fear he would fall with the sudden shift in weight. “Poor boy,” she said, seeing his labored breathing and his uneven stance as he strove to stay on his feet.

  “It isn’t … fitting work for you,” said Thumaz with as much formality as he could muster.

  “Who better?” Olivia asked. She carried the saddle to the wall and lifted it onto the rail. “You’d better keep the bridle on him. I’ll hold him while you get the pistol for me.”

  Thumaz coughed. “The trouble is, Madame, I do not know how to load the wheel-lock.”

  Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose before replying. “Then bring me the materials and I will see to it.” It had to be done, she said to herself. It had to be done and it was best to get it over with as soon as possible. The mouse-colored colt was in pain and his condition was growing worse as she watched him. Unwelcome memories flitted like shadows through her mind, conjuring up other times, other horses.

  “Madame?” said Thumaz, watching her face.

  “I’ll need the pistol. Get it. In the case with the ducksfoot.”

  Thumaz made a gesture of approval. “A formidable weapon, the ducksfoot. Nine barrels.” He handed the colt’s reins to Olivia. “I will not be long, Madame.”

  “Good,” Olivia said, her voice somewhat distracted as she looked into the unfocused eye of the young stallion. The white was tinged with red now, she noticed.

  Avisa, who was standing near the door to the arena doing her best to be invisible, moved a little nearer. “Madama, you aren’t going to … to…”

  “To shoot him?” Olivia said, trying not to let her voice sound harsh. “What else can I do? Look at him.”

  “But you … Madama, your groom is right—it is not fitting.” She put her hand to her bosom and touched the large silver crucifix that hung there. “Madama, you must not. Let the others tend to it. They are rough men, and they will not flinch from the task.”

  “Meaning you think I will?” Olivia countered. “My aim has always been good, and at this range”—she touched her hand to the colt’s forehead—“I’m not likely to miss.”

  Avisa blanched. “Madama!” she protested.

  “It is part of the work, Avisa. I breed horses, I must be prepared to deal with their ills.” She blew gently into the colt’s nostrils, trying to calm him. “It won’t be much longer, boy, and then it won’t hurt anymore.”

  “Arcangeli!” Avisa whispered. “Madama, there will be blood. On your clothes.”

  Olivia was not able to smile, but there was a trace of grim humor in her hazel eyes. “Then you’ll have a good excuse to be rid of these reprehensible breeches,” she said, not taking her eyes off the colt.

  Avisa turned away, her face blank, her voice colorless. “I … I must go inside, Madama.”

  “All right,” said Olivia, secretly pleased that she would have one fewer thing to worry about. She had seen Avisa faint before and was certain that if she remained, it would happen again. “I will want a bath drawn,” she added as her maid started away.

  “Certainly, Madama,” said Avisa, going quickly toward the main house.

  Left alone with the colt, Olivia gently eased him so that he could lean on the arena wall. He was less coordinated now and when he walked, his legs almost buckled. “Not much longer, boy,” she said to the colt as she checked his eye and found more red. “Whoever’s responsible is going to answer for this. I promise you.” Not, she added to herself, that it would do anything for the horse. “I’m sorry, boy.” She looked up as Thumaz once again approached, carrying an inlaid box.

  “I have it, Madame,” said the groom, holding the box out to her as if it were an offering.

  “Did you load it?” Olivia asked.

  Thumaz shook his head emphatically. “I have never handled that kind of a pistol. I am afraid of them.” This confession was made with shame, but also with determination. Thumaz was wary of guns. “My brother had a wheel-lock pistol from Germany that blew his hand off when he fired it.”

  “It can happen,” said Olivia, trying not to think of it now. What would happen to
her, she wondered, if her hand were blown off? Would it regrow? She had sustained other injuries and had them leave no trace on her body. Would the loss of a hand or a foot be the same, and in a year or two or three she would have another? She had asked Sanct’ Germain once, but he had no answer for her, though he had admitted he doubted so much damage could be undone. “It is one thing to have no scars, Olivia,” he had said to her, more than a thousand years ago, “but an arm or a leg is … shall we say, more ambitious.” Olivia sighed, knowing that her memories were as much to avoid what she had to do next as to give her courage. “Thumaz, take his head again, will you? And hold it up. He’s trying to go down.”

  “As you wish, Madame,” said Thumaz, coming to her assistance and leaving the inlaid box by the door of the arena.

  The pistol was beautifully made, with an inlaid and filigreed handle and a straight, shiny barrel. Olivia took the tamping rod and attached a bit of oiled rag to it to be sure the barrel was clean. Then she set about preparing the wad and loading the ball. When she had charged it to her satisfaction, she gave it one last quick inspection, then said to Thumaz, “Take care. He’ll go down hard.”

  “I will, Madame,” said Thumaz, his eyes narrowing in respect and shock as he realized that Olivia was quite prepared to shoot the injured horse.

  “Good,” said Olivia, doing what she could to block the sudden rush of sympathy she had for the colt. He had such promise; she hated to act hastily where a good horse was involved; he might turn out to be a good sire for her mares here, and the colts he would throw would be as good or better than he. She made herself stop. There was more blood in the white of the colt’s eye, which meant that there was bleeding in his skull. She could not alter that. The colt’s breathing was more labored, his balance more precarious. The only thing she had left to do was give him the mercy of a swift death. She raised the pistol to the center of his forehead and fired.