“A mistress,” said Henri, not quite doubting him. “And who is she?”
“I cannot tell you her name. She is a widow, a woman of means.” He leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting for the two to ask more questions, so he would have the luxury of refusing to answer.
“Some companion or maid, perhaps?” Henri suggested mildly.
“Hardly that,” said Charles, stung at the suggestion. “She has a maid of her own, a woman who travels with her.”
“Oh, so she travels?” de Portau asked with just enough suspicion that Charles was goaded into answering.
“Of course she travels—she’s not French.” He glowered at the other two. “And I won’t tell you any more.”
“A widow who is not French, who has a maid and who travels,” said de Portau to Henri. “What do you make of it?”
Henri shrugged. “He says he can tell us nothing. Eh bien, let us have more wine and forget this widow for tonight.”
“She is very beautiful!” Charles burst out.
“Certainly she is, since she is your mistress,” de Portau said, soothing his younger companion. “We don’t question that, boy.” He raised his hand and waved it energetically in the air. “And Lisette is the prettiest woman in the world, if only she’ll bring us another drink.”
Since the three women who were employed at the tavern were plain and stout, Charles turned to de Portau, his face darkening, the ends of his brows tilting upward even more, giving his face a devilish look. “Are you saying that my mistress is like these creatures?”
“Of course not,” de Portau said, but his small, merry eyes were bright with amusement. “Remember what I told you about dueling. It’s a bad idea to begin with one.”
To make matters worse, Henri started to laugh. “Isaac, you always were one to find how to tweak a man’s temper. It’s amazing you have lived so long. It will be a miracle if you reach thirty, the way you are going.”
De Portau threw back his head and let his laughter rumble out of him. “It will be worth it, if I die for amusement.” He reached out and once again patted Charles on the arm. “Take no offence from me, Charles. Ask d’Aramitz there: I mean nothing by these sallies, but to see how much you will endure from me.”
Lisette, her face shiny with sweat, pushed her way through to the table. “More wine,” she said, making an obvious guess.
“Queen of all bottles and spirits,” de Portau enthused at her, “O estimable wench!” He reached out and gave her buttocks a squeeze through her heavy skirts and petticoats. “Firm. It’s always best when they’re firm.”
Henri d’Aramitz guffawed and looked questioningly at Charles. “Well, boy? Do you agree? Is your mistress as amply endowed as Lisette here?”
Lisette gave Henri a cuff on the side of his head. “You be good to the boy. You see him reaching for me? He’s got sense, this one.” She showed Charles a smile with only three teeth missing.
“Bring each of us another tankard and a bottle,” de Portau ordered, clapping his hand to his chest. “And some of that pig!” He made a gesture as if he had a sword in his hand and was about to skewer the thing. “Two slices each, and onions.”
“And some of those little pickles,” added Henri, touching the ends of his moustaches. “They’re delicious.”
Charles tossed a coin to Lisette, saying, “Bread and cheese as well.”
“And money,” said Lisette approvingly. “How useful.” She tucked the coin away in a leather purse tied to her belt. “Wine, pork, onions, pickles, bread and cheese.”
As Lisette pushed her way through the crowd de Portau turned to Charles. “Why give her the money before she brings our drink?”
“In the hope it would hurry her,” said Charles. He patted the mantle he wore and grinned at de Portau. “Not many more days of this, Isaac.”
“What company do you enter?” asked Henri out of courtesy.
Charles grinned. “The First. The Grand Musqueteers. Same as Isaac.” He hooked a thumb toward the other group of Musqueteers. “They’re second company, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” said Henri with a shrug. “There’s little difference between the Grand and Petite, as you’ll discover in battle soon enough. We’ll be on campaign before spring is over.” He glanced toward de Portau. “Are you ready for a new campaign, Isaac?”
“Always,” said de Portau at once. “It’s the reason I’m a Musqueteer, isn’t it? What man joins a fighting regiment if he does not want to campaign?” He pulled out a large, plain handkerchief and wiped his brow. “They’re always the same, these tavernkeepers—all we have to do is have a little sleet in the air and they cannot resist heating their taprooms as hot as their ovens.”
“It’s worse in the summer,” Henri said philosophically.
“Flies,” de Portau agreed. “And the air as thick as carded wool. But this is no better.”
“Do you think the Queen will order us to fight?” Charles asked, trying to recall the few things Olivia had told him about Anne of Austria.
“If she won’t, de Troisvilles will, or the Italian First Minister Cardinal,” said Henri, sighing. “He covets the regiment, that fellow.”
“You mean Mazarin?” Charles said, surprised that Henri would speak so slightingly of the Cardinal.
“Speak to my kinsman,” said Henri, meaning de Troisvilles. “He did not get on well with Richelieu, and he has been opposed by Mazarin at every turn. Mark my word, Mazarin is ambitious for his own family. He is a Colonna with nephews to consider. He will not permit my cousin to continue to command the Musqueteers if he can persuade Her Majesty to permit him to displace de Troisvilles.”
“Surely you’re mistaken,” said Charles, feeling awkward now that the conversation had changed.
“No, he’s not,” said de Portau suddenly. “Not about Richelieu, in any case. He was never one to help de Troisvilles, or to plead his case. This Italian is just another such prelate, and he is more obdurate than Richelieu ever could have been.” He pounded his fist on the table twice. “Mark what I say—if there is no peace between de Troisvilles and Mazarin, our days are numbered. You may come to regret wearing our mantle, Charles.” He picked up his handkerchief and stuffed it into his lace-edged cuff.
“Never,” said Charles with feeling, his cheeks flushing as if he were a boy. “It is the greatest honor, the only honor I have ever sought, to be a King’s Musqueteer.”
“So I thought myself, not so long ago,” said de Portau, his features growing briefly sad. Then he brightened deliberately. “Still, it is the best fighting group in all France, and with the grandest tradition, so I do not regret my choice, no matter what comes of this dispute between Mazarin and de Troisvilles.”
“It would be unfortunate if there were more arguments,” said Henri, then made a sudden lurch to his feet as Lisette waded toward them bearing an enormous tray heavily laden with food and drink. “A meal, and I am hungry enough to eat half an ox.”
De Portau clapped his hands. “Food. Food.” He swept his arm across the rough planking of the table, scattering bits of debris and old scraps. “There’s room enough for all of it.” Then he dug his fingers into the purse he carried and drew out two gold angels. “Here, Lisette. To keep the wine flowing.”
As soon as she had put the tray down, she reached for the coins, testing them between her teeth before giving de Portau an appreciative smile. “There will be wine until dawn, if that is your wish, Musqueteer.”
De Portau could not resist fondling her rump again. “A pity more women aren’t like you, Lisette. More of us would be content to stay home if we could find another like you.”
She boxed his ears playfully. “You are teasing me,” she chided him with a giggle. “Eat your meal and drink your wine and be happy.”
“I would be happier for your company tonight,” de Portau told her, taking hold of her grease-spattered arm. “It would be a warmer night for both of us if you were to give me a little of your time.”
She shoved hi
m away. “Go on,” she said, and moved away from him through the crowded taproom, pausing once to look back over her shoulder and give him a playful wave.
“Ah, what a loss,” said de Portau before he took his dagger to the thick slices of fragrant pork on the plate before him. “To think that a woman like that is going to waste.”
“She may not think that,” Henri said, taking pleasure in goading de Portau. “It may be that she does not fancy a soldier.”
“Nonsense,” said de Portau through a mouthful of pork. “Any tavern wench fancies soldiers. Fact. Every one of them longs for the day when we will make them our field of conquest.” He chewed thoughtfully, then took a generous swig of wine and went on, warming to his subject as he went, “You see, they know the worth of a soldier. They have seen us prove our mettle, at table and in battle, though we do it for amusement. And they know we will not fail them, that we will not falter, that we can give them as good as they give us.”
Charles had torn one of the two loaves of bread in half and was ripping that into more manageable bits. “Why should Lisette want a soldier more than any other man?”
“Because she knows that whether we use a musquet or a lance, we accept no defeat in battle.” He chuckled through his food. “What wench doesn’t seek that in her bed partner?”
Henri had stuck his dagger into a generous pork collop and was nibbling at it. “But if she wants a soldier, why a Musqueteer? Why not one of the King’s Guards, like your friend here still is for a few more days?”
“Because the Musqueteers are the bravest men in the army, that’s why,” said de Portau promptly.
“Ah,” Henri said with a sage nod. “Naturally. And you are the bravest of the Musqueteers.”
“Certainly,” said de Portau at once. “Ask anyone; they’ll tell you that no man is more courageous than Isaac de Portau.” He chuckled again and reached for some bread to soak up the sauce from the pork.
“The cheese is good, too,” recommended Charles, reluctant to be drawn into boasting before he had faced the enemy in battle. Should he falter under fire—not that it was possible—he did not want any remarks coming back to haunt and mock him.
“The tavernkeeper buys it from old Batiste,” said Henri. “The same who supplies us in war.”
“Familiar as a favorite boot,” de Portau approved, cutting a portion of the round for himself. “It is a luxury, spending the evening like this.”
“Yes,” said Henri, then continued, “Since you’re new to the regiment, you won’t know this … ah…” He faltered.
“The boy’s name’s Charles d’Artagnan,” said de Portau. “His brother’s Paul de Batz-Castelmore.”
“A worthy family,” said Henri, unwilling to abandon his subject. “Since you’re new to the Musqueteers, d’Artagnan, you will have much to learn. You will have to find out a few things for yourself, as we all do. It is an honor to be a Musqueteer, and every one of us takes pride in the mantle we wear. But you will discover before you are with us very long that we do not have the opportunity to spend such a pleasant evening as this one very often.”
“All the more reason to enjoy the time we have,” said de Portau, and tore off a section of pork from his dagger with his teeth. He chewed vigorously, grinning around the meat.
“We have our duty, and our vow to defend the King unto death,” said Henri, with a dissatisfied look. “And these days, that means we must try to save the kingdom for a little boy whose mother rules him and us, and is the sister of our enemy, the King of Spain.” He reached down and helped himself to the pickles he had ordered. “And she herself is under the control of a handsome Roman courtier hiding in a Cardinal’s robes.”
Charles frowned. “We still must defend France. Perhaps now more than ever.”
“Yes, we must, no matter what the rest demand of us,” said Henri, reaching for his tankard. “They say it will be colder tomorrow. There could be snow.”
“So early,” said de Portau as he chewed. “Most of the time, it waits until the Nativity at least. Well, it may be a cold year in other ways as well.” He helped himself swallow with a large tot of wine. “Not a bad vintage for a place like this.”
“If it were vinegar, you would say that,” Henri remarked as he drank again. “But you’re right, it isn’t bad.”
“What do you think, Charles?” de Portau demanded, swinging around on his stool to face him.
“I think it is good wine for soldiers,” said Charles, remembering the wine that Olivia had offered him the week before. It had come from the Rhone Valley, he recalled, was a deep, bluish shade of red with a taste that was like the feel of fine velvet. She had given him the whole bottle as he sat at dinner, watching him while he ate. She had played chess with him, though neither of them cared who won, and when they tired of the game, they had gone to her private apartments where tall wax candles burned for them until long after midnight. There had been another cup of wine then, after their lovemaking, yellow as butter and so sweet that it was better than honey. What was in his cup now was so rough and sour that he knew Olivia would not permit it to be poured for her servants. “It’s frisky,” he said candidly. “It’s hearty.”
“All those things,” Henri agreed with a wicked amusement in his eyes. “And not quite as bad as sheep’s piss.”
De Portau started to laugh, but choked on his food and coughed instead, his face going suddenly dark red, his small bright eyes pushing out of his face. He hooked his fingers under his jabot and tugged in an effort to loosen it.
Charles reached over and pounded de Portau once, sharply, between his shoulder blades, thumping twice when de Portau gave a signal for more. He waited as de Portau finally got his jabot untied. “Again?”
“No,” de Portau whispered, his coughing over. The dark suffusion that colored his face began to subside. “No, I’ll do fine now. Just wait a moment.”
“Have more wine,” suggested Henri as he refilled de Portau’s tankard. “What a sound you made, terrible, like bears in the spring.”
“Bears in the spring,” said de Portau as if the words were unfamiliar. He wiped his mouth with the ends of his jabot. “Agh. That was … that was worse than enemy cannonfire.”
“Serves you right, bolting your meal the way you do,” said Henri. “A man should take care eating when he is drunk.”
De Portau folded his jabot and thrust it into the outer pocket of his coat. “I am not drunk now,” he said, and his voice was cool and sober. “Put a noose around a man’s neck, and it will bring him to himself at once, I promise you.” He reached out and took another sip of wine. “If it were not required, I wouldn’t wear anything around my neck. For just such reason as you can mark here.” He touched his neck. “And do not tell me that a jabot will protect me from a sword or a musquetball, for that is ridiculous.” His petulance was as out of place as it was unexpected, and he sensed it as well as his two companions. “I have, occasionally, dreamed that I was hanged.”
Henri, seeing the abrupt change that had come over de Portau, looked at his fellow Musqueteer with a serious expression in his eyes. “It could have been enough to do for you, my friend. If your new recruit had not helped you, I might not have done it in time.” He served himself more wine and then poured some into de Portau’s tankard. “You can use a bit of this, Isaac.”
“True enough.” He sounded a little hoarse. “My throat will be sore in the morning.”
“So will your head,” Henri pointed out. He dipped a chunk of bread into de Portau’s wine and held it out to him. “That will ease you a little.”
Charles was still watching de Portau closely. “Did the meat stick in your throat?”
De Portau shrugged. “Something did. I wasn’t paying much attention. Well.” He picked up his tankard. “To my new companion-at-arms,” he toasted sardonically. “If you are as quick in battle as you were to assist me here, I need never fear for my safety again.”
“If battle is not more confusing than this crowd, I can see no d
ifficulty,” said Charles, reaching for his tankard, and only then realizing that his hands were trembling. He drank quickly, not only to conceal the tremor, but to banish it.
“Well, to the Musqueteers,” said Henri, a bit more formally than before. “For as long as we continue.”
“Shame, Henri. You’ll ruin our festivities. There’s no reason our future must be so dire,” said de Portau. “You make it sound as if the Cardinal is going to exile us all by tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” said Henri, and cocked his head toward the next table. “But soon. He cannot afford to have de Troisvilles against him, and a regiment of fighting men prepared to oppose him as well.” He hitched his shoulder as if to reveal that it meant nothing to him. “I suppose one can always return to the King’s Guard”—he indicated Charles’ mantle—“or you might not want to give it up.”
“All I have wanted to be,” said Charles with feeling, “is a King’s Musqueteer.” He drank again, then clapped de Portau on the shoulder. “And how could I wish for any better comrade than Isaac? The Musqueteers have to continue, if for no other reason that this: the finest fighting men in France are Musqueteers, and France needs all of them.”
“Fine sentiments,” said de Portau, a little of the twinkle coming back into his eyes. “Let’s see if you still have them after you have stood against cannon and cavalry.”
“If I am alive, I will believe it, for it is the truth,” said Charles, leaning forward so that he was no more than a handbreadth from de Portau’s face. “And Isaac, you believe it.” He emphasized the you enough to demand a response from de Portau.
“Yes,” he admitted as he met Charles’ gaze. “I believe it. I believe it.”
Charles pursued his advantage. “Every Musqueteer believes it,” he insisted.
Though Charles addressed de Portau, it was Henri who answered. “No, not every Musqueteer; most of us, I’ll allow you that, but there are others who are here because it is demanded of them, and they, well, they believe nothing.” He offered a pickle to de Portau. “Try this, Isaac. It’s very good.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 31
