The baker turned a suspicious eye on the messenger and de Rochard. “Good Christians do not take any but Communion wine at this hour,” he informed them.
De Rochard saw the messenger stiffen belligerently, and he decided to intervene. “Of course, and we have just come from Mass. But as you see”—he gestured to his muddy cloak and to the travel-stained garments of the messenger—“we have been on the road, and for us, this is the end of the day, not the beginning. We would like a little wine in order to rest before we continue about our business.” He ended with a little bow to the baker.
The baker folded his massive arms. “There is a tavern at the far end of the place. It is very old, with blackened ships’ beams thrusting over the street. The Silver Ship.” He indicated the racks by the oven where the first baking of the day was cooling. “Bread goes well with wine,” he said, making his hint as broad as possible.
“Surely,” said de Rochard, taking out a few more of his coins and offering them. “Two loaves.”
The baker nodded and selected the largest. “Your friend looks ill,” he said, fright coming into his deep-set eyes.
De Rochard knew that to admit the messenger was ill could bring more attention than they could permit. “Yes; he had the misfortune to be kicked by his horse, and it has left him short of breath and queasy.” He took the change the baker gave him and signaled to the messenger.
“Better have a physician look at him. Kicks like that can be ruinous.” The baker watched them leave, his face set in order to hide his feelings.
“Why did you say that about the horse?” asked the messenger. “It’s shameful to say that about a messenger like me. We’re expected to be, you know … those things … the ones that were men in front and horses behind?”
“I know what creatures you mean,” said de Rochard. “And while we speak of horses, where is yours?”
The messenger gestured vaguely. “There is a stable for travelers. The Cardinal’s messengers use it often. They’ll remount me when we’re through with our work.” He rubbed at his forehead. “My head’s about to split.”
De Rochard spoke bluntly this time. “You are very ill. That’s why your head is sore and that’s why you cough. You need a physician and a bed to sleep in.”
The messenger glared at him with reddened eyes. “I need some hot wine, some pansy, and a good horse.” He all but choked on the words. “I don’t need a child telling me how to care for myself.” He spat bloody phlegm onto the worn cobbles. “No more from you, puppy, or I will complain of you to the Cardinal when I deliver the case you are still carrying.”
“He would not approve of me permitting you to carry his documents if you were too ill to guard them and yourself properly.” De Rochard clutched the case more tightly. “And now I am not sure you are able to carry them.”
“Are you going to stop me?” the messenger challenged, attempting to laugh. He had to steady himself by putting one hand against the wall of the nearest house. “How old are you? Not more than fifteen or sixteen, I warrant. I am twenty-nine, boy, and you are no match for me.” To demonstrate this, he made himself walk briskly, swaggering a little to conceal his shivers.
“You are ill,” de Rochard protested, following after the messenger. “You need medicines, more than the apothecary has. You need rest.”
“I shall have both when I return to Amiens,” said the messenger, as if conceding a strategic point. “I’ll give you my word on that.” He grinned and pointed. “The Silver Ship. Hot wine. And we’ll eat that bread, since you paid for it.” As he spoke he shoved open the tavern door, calling out as he did, “Hot wine with spices, two tankards.”
De Rochard blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. There were lanthorns by the hearth, but the fire had not been laid and amid the ashes only a single log smoldered. He tugged at the messenger’s sleeve and indicated a table near the bar. “We can sit there, friend.” For the first time he felt awkward not knowing what name to call the messenger.
“Don’t worry about it, boy,” said the messenger, taking the chair de Rochard had pointed out. “It’s just as well that we know very little about each other. That way, if anyone asks us, we can deny everything without lying outright.”
“I would not answer,” said de Rochard, his eyes brightening as his face flushed.
The messenger shook his head. “We all would answer, boy. Every one of us. It might take longer and be more painful, but if we were asked by experts, we would tell them everything, eventually.” His expression grew distant. “I saw a messenger once, who had betrayed his comrades. They had put out his eyes with hot irons and yanked out every tooth in his head; they had mashed his legs to jelly with the boot and bound burning pitch in the palms of his hands. So he told them.” He looked up as a small, thin man came into the taproom and bowed. “What is it? We ordered two tankards of spiced wine.”
The small man bowed again. “Of course, of course, and it is being prepared. But, you see, it is so early in the morning, and there is only one cook in the kitchen … it will take a little time.” This time he only inclined his head.
“Well, get to it as soon as you can,” said the messenger, pointing to the two loaves of bread de Rochard carried. “We can start on this.”
“Of course, of course,” said the small man with yet another bow. “It will not take long, but I did not want you to think that you were forgotten or neglected.”
The messenger flipped a large silver coin to the small man. “There. That promises we’ll be here, to have our money’s worth.” He stifled another burst of coughing and then dismissed the man with a gesture. “Let me have my loaf.”
“Of course,” said de Rochard, imitating the little man as he handed over the bread and placed his own loaf on the table before him. “It smells good.”
“All bread smells good,” said the messenger as he broke his into three parts. “Always do this, for the Trinity.”
De Rochard copied the messenger, inhaling the aroma of fresh bread as he did. “When I was little, I used to watch my sisters bake.”
“Your sisters, not the cook?” said the messenger through a mouthful of bread.
“There wasn’t much money for cooks,” said de Rochard stiffly. “And my mother believed that all women should know how to make bread and omelettes.”
The messenger nodded in vigorous agreement. “And so they should. All women should know some cooking, from the highest to the lowest, they should cook.” He broke off more of the bread and popped it into his mouth.
The small man returned; this time he was not alone. Two tall fellows dressed in caped cloaks over bronze livery were with him, both of them conspicuously armed with pistols and swords.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” said the small man, bowing, showing very little nervousness, “but it appears that these men wish to … discuss something with you.”
The messenger was already rising, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am not one to discuss anything,” he said, shrugging his cloak back and moving away from the table.
“It is in your interest,” said one of the two men. His accent was that of Metz, flavored with German.
De Rochard had also risen, and wished that he had come prepared for this. A knife, a sword, even a stout cudgel would be welcome against these two. He held the case close against his chest as he moved clear of the table.
“Another one of the Cardinal’s cherubs,” said the second man, making the term obscene. “What use do you suppose he is, Martel, beyond the obvious?” He was deliberately goading de Rochard, enjoying the insults he offered. “They’re so willing when they are young and pretty, aren’t they?”
“You know that better than I,” said de Rochard, keeping his temper in check with an effort. He gave a single, swift glance toward the messenger and saw that the man was quite pale, his eyes ringed by darkness.
Martel clicked his tongue in wonder. “Well, well, he has learned more than how to bend over.” He turned his attention to the messenger ag
ain. “So, Sigloy, here you are at last.”
The messenger glowered, smothering a cough with his hand. “It is nothing to you, Martel.”
“You are right,” said Martel, mockery in his demeanor. “Were it for me to decide, I would ignore you, for you are so unimportant in yourself.” He cocked his head toward de Rochard. “You are less than he is, and he is nothing more than a pet.”
It took all of de Rochard’s self-discipline not to throw a chair at the man. It was infuriating to listen to him, all the more so because he knew that Martel was deliberately provoking him, trying to goad him into a rash attack. De Rochard held himself in check and covertly began to look for a weapon. He wanted to say something to the messenger, but was afraid that Sigloy—if that was truly his name—would be distracted, and off guard, prey to the sinister intruders.
“Look, Martel,” said the other man. “Sigloy is sweating. His face is wet. I can smell him, like a dying rat.”
“A pity,” said Martel with patently false sympathy. “How does it happen that such a man is reduced to this, do you suppose; running errands for the Italian Cardinals instead of fighting him with true Frenchmen?” Casually he closed his hand around the hilt of his sword. “How can you have fallen from honor so far? Or did you never have it?”
With a roar, Sigloy hurtled at the two men, drawing his sword as he did.
“No!” yelled de Rochard, making a last, futile attempt to block the fight. Then he reached for one of the chairs and, hefting it with his right hand, half-pushed and half-threw it at Martel and his companion as Sigloy crashed into them.
There were howls and shouts and rich cursing as all three went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs. The messenger changed his grip on his swordhilt and slammed it into the jaw of Martel’s companion, grimacing with pleasure at the ominous crack it made. He got onto his knees and dragged his sword all the way out of the scabbard as Martel scuttled backward into the protective cover of the next table.
“You!” the messenger bawled toward de Rochard. “Get out of here! Get out of here! Go. Go!” The order ended on a deep, braying cough as the man all but collapsed.
De Rochard hesitated, not wanting to leave a sick man in such danger. He looked about, as if expecting help to spring out of the walls, all the while clasping the case he carried close to his chest.
“For the King!” the messenger gasped. “Go.”
This time de Rochard was spurred to action. He spun around, relieved to see that the messenger had only one man to battle; surely Martel would not harm so ill a man. He sprinted toward the door, his mind suddenly filled with thoughts of glory. He would find a horse and ride to Beauvais, then on to Amiens, the documents in the sealed case kept safe by his speed and his determination. He would arrive at Amiens and be received by the Cardinal, and then presented to the Queen Regent and the King, who would thank him for his diligence. His future would be assured.
He did not realize at first that the blow on his back was a pistol ball, or that the odd warmth spreading down his body was his own blood. He fell through the door into the street, to lie with his face pressed against the cobbles.
Martel walked up to him and nudged him over with his boot. “What’s that foreigner thinking of, to use boys like him for this work?” he asked, addressing the messenger over his shoulder.
Fontaine de Rochard, looking up, thought that perhaps Martel was pointing at him, for there was something like a cold finger laid on his brow.
“Martel, don’t!” came the choked cry that ended in a fit of coughing.
“Sorry, Sigloy, but I have my orders. We need the papers in that case. If there was another way—” said Martel in a tone that was very nearly genuine. “He’s put paid, anyway.”
The noise and the blackness came together.
Text of a letter from Jules, Cardinal Mazarin to Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles.
To the most dedicated and constant of the King’s military leaders, that most excellent man le Comte de Troisvilles, my greetings and the assurance that I take no satisfaction in the recent developments that have resulted in the—shall we hope?—temporary disbanding of the King’s Musqueteers.
I have your recommendations in hand for the two men among the numbers of others in your command who best suit the needs I outlined to you in January. I appreciate your help in this, for it benefits not only these most worthy officers, but increases the likelihood of the Musqueteers being reinstated at some later time.
When I requested your aid in this matter, I particularly required that the men you selected should be those of the very least fortune in the Musqueteers, having nothing to call their own but their mantles and their swords, so that they would be wholly dependent on me and, through me, upon the King for their very well-being. The two names you have sent are not entirely unknown to me, and I must commend you for your thoughtful reply and your candid assessment of these two Musqueteers. I will keep your recommendations among my papers so that they may later have access to proof of your good opinion, should it be required.
I am aware that you are no supporter of mine, and I know that it was not easy for you to give me the information I asked for, since it would not serve your ends. A good commander such as you have been in the past must realize that there are times when those who command in battle must avoid entering into the court life or the affairs of state. Too often there are disputes that cannot be resolved between those who excel in battle and those who must treat and bargain on behalf of the Crown.
Let me offer you an example in the hope that it might ease the bitterness between us and unite us both more closely to the Crown: very many years ago, before Charlemagne came to rule, there was a monk, known for his piety and devotion, a man without guile who sought simply the presence of God and longed only to purge his soul of sin. Those who knew him regarded him with veneration because of his saintly acts and purity of heart. So it was that his reputation grew, and he discovered that there were many who sought him out for the benefit of his wisdom and his holiness.
At first he was delighted, for he saw that there were many who could be brought to Christian profession through his example and his teaching, and he thanked God for this opportunity to share his knowledge with those who had not yet confessed in Christ. He rejoiced at each new student, and in time declared he would establish a community for those who desired to live in Christian and sinless fellowship. He established his community under the Rule of Saint Benedict and prayed God would send him others to join with his community in the pursuit of Christian unity and the worship of God.
Now, all these attainments are virtuous things, and it is most honorable to pursue righteousness. This monk was doing as Our Lord enjoined all His apostles to do, and he was bringing many to the worship of God, Son, and Holy Spirit. He upheld the virtues of Christians and offered a true example for those in his community to emulate. The monk had in no way erred and he was faultless in the spiritual goals he pursued for himself and the members of his community.
But not all his followers were as honest and guiltless as he, and not all of them found the same peace in the worship of God as he did. Many of them were desperate men hoping to elude the consequences of their sins; some were willing to follow any who would give them protection. And some were the tools of Satan, intent on destroying the community this monk had created. It was not to the credit of the monk that he tolerated such men among the members of his community, for their contagion spread more quickly and more profoundly than anything that could be done by the monk to stop it. Where there had been piety before there was now spite, and the monk did nothing to stop it, for he believed that it was not his right to move the hearts of men once they sought God. He would not punish any for transgression in the community and he refused to confess to the world that corruption and dissipation had touched some of those who had come to the community. He allowed himself to be seduced by these men who wanted only his ruin and destruction. His greatness of soul could not endure the necessary excision and cau
terization to save his community. And so, in time, all of them succumbed to the debauchery of those who were not truly seeking God and Christian worship. In time the community was shunned and the monk’s name was cursed, though he himself had led a life that was blameless in every way but one.
I pray that in time the Queen Regent will allocate the necessary funds to restore the Musqueteers to their place of honor among French regiments. If it were not so precarious a time, I am certain that she would not have made this decision, but with the King so young and unrest in the country being what it is, the Queen Regent does not wish to impose another tax on her subjects and nobles, especially one that might appear to be in preparation for another war. All France is sick of war, I think, and of taxation for it. Given these circumstances, however, I cannot but support her decision, unpleasant though I find it. It is lamentable that the most acceptable sacrifice was your justly famed regiment.
I will, if you wish, report to you annually on the activities of Francois de Montlezun, Sieur de Besmaux, and Charles d’Artagnan. They are ideally suited to be my personal couriers, and without doubt they will serve me and the Queen Regent well. I have promised both men promotions and favor in the Musqueteers when that regiment is reinstated, as I am certain it must be. For such consideration, they, and I, have you to thank, which I do, with my prayers.
May Heaven look upon you and your endeavors with favor, and may you receive the recognition and favor you have earned with so many years of service to the Crown. I am confident that you will be able to rise again to favor when the time is more auspicious.
With my blessing and gratitude,
Jules Mazarin, Cardinal and
First Minister of France
On the 4th day of March, 1646.
A bona fide copy of this letter is retained in my records.
PART IV
Charles d’Artagnan
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 40
