A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Text of a letter from Charles d’Artagnan to Cardinal Mazarin, dictated to Isaac de Portau.

  To the First Minister of France, Cardinal Mazarin, my respectful greetings, and my assurance that I have followed your instructions regarding the disappearance of your lackey Fontaine de Rochard, as is the duty you have assigned to me.

  I have been able to determine that he did meet with a man who was possibly your messenger. Both the priest in the church where they met and the baker in a shop nearby saw them together. They agree that the man he met was ill with a cough. The baker told me that they asked the way to the nearest tavern in order to have hot wine. He told them how to find the Silver Ship. They bought some bread and left his shop. It would appear that the baker was the last person to see the two men. No one at the Silver Ship saw, or admits to having seen, these two men. I spoke to the cooks and the tapster, and all of them say that no one came to the tavern that morning. I was not able to learn anything more from anyone at the tavern, and was told that I was not wise to make such inquiries. It was apparent to me that if anyone in the tavern knew anything, it would take more than a few questions to discover it. Once I revealed that I was your courier, I was regarded with veiled anger, which I am convinced was not entirely because I am an officer, but because I am employed by you. No one in the tavern vouchsafed anything of importance, except through what they did not say.

  However, I have also been told by a sensible woman who lives in the house across the street from the tavern that she saw a large man shoot another man with a pistol on that same morning when your lackey met with the courier. She swears that there were three or four men in the tavern, and furthermore, she says that one of the men had a bad cough. This woman is the wife of an upholsterer and known as a good housewife and virtuous spouse. She is honest and industrious and clearly not one to make up stories, or to turn the banging of a shutter to the marching of an army. If she says that there were three or four men in the tavern, I am inclined to believe it is so.

  Going on the information this woman provided, I asked others in that part of the street if they had been aware of any commotion on that morning. Most refused to speak with me, and a few made threats that were not welcome or courteous, but a mercer who keeps a shop in the place said that he heard a dispute or fight in the tavern, and recalls that there may have been three shots fired, though he is not so certain that he would swear to it. Also, a cowman bringing butter and cream to the bakery that morning says he saw a quantity of blood on the street in front of the Silver Ship. This cowman is a simple fellow, but I have no reason to doubt what he has told me, and I am sure he knows what a puddle of blood looks like.

  From this, I must assume that your lackey has met with ultimate misfortune. If the coughing man with him was truly your messenger Jean-Baptiste Sigloy, then I fear that he, too, must be numbered with the fallen.

  I have ordered the Watch to report on any bodies they may discover improperly buried in the district, and to make note of any rumors of harm done to messengers. After so long a time—nearly three months—I fear that anything we discover will be of little use to us, but I wish to have a record of those unexplained deaths and improper burials. If those who attacked your lackey and messenger were wise, then messenger and lackey were buried in holy ground. If that is the case there must be a record of it somewhere, but I have not been able to find such a record. Therefore all reports on bodies discovered may eventually offer some indication of what happened to those men.

  This is to be carried to you by Montlezun de Besmaux; I am returning to Eblouir to await the arrival of the courier from the Vatican. When he arrives, I will bring his messages to you at Amiens with all haste, and without entering the walls of Paris. I will ride in ordinary garments and without my mantle, as you have insisted.

  May God protect you and the King, and may He lend you His wisdom in this troublesome time.

  Your courier

  Charles d’Artagnan

  On the 19th day of May, 1646.

  1

  As the lackeys finished loading his carriage, Mazarin took Niklos Aulirios aside, his features more serious than usual. Gone was his charm and diplomacy; he was worried. “I have to know,” he began after he had satisfied himself that they were out of earshot, “what arrangements Olivia has been making in regard to her return to Rome.”

  Niklos shrugged. “Nothing much. Her retainers at Senza Pari are prepared to send her coaches north upon her order, and the staff here have taken certain measures that—”

  “Yes,” Mazarin cut in impatiently. “That is what I wish to speak to you about.” He was nervous, fidgiting with the lace-edge of his mozzetta. “There are rumors now, very dangerous rumors, that … my embassy is…” He turned quickly as a lackey approached. “We are not to be interrupted!”

  The lackey blanched, bowed, and retreated, his eyes blank.

  “Eminence,” said Niklos when the lackey had gone, “what is the matter? You are not yourself.”

  “No,” Mazarin agreed with a twitch of a smile. “And being myself has become quite an effort.” He made a visible attempt to master himself. “You know that three of my messengers have been killed since the first of the year? Yes.” He nodded with Niklos. “Yes. None of my Italian couriers yet, but the messengers are another matter. They are more … obvious, working between the Queen Regent and myself. At least the Papal couriers move beyond such limits.” He stared away across the fields, his expression softening. “I still like the windmills,” he said softly and inconsequentially.

  Niklos returned to the matter at hand. “What has this to do with Bondame Clemens?” He waited for his answer, and when none was coming, he asked, “Or what has it to do with Charles d’Artagnan?”

  “They are both at risk,” said Mazarin quietly. “All those close to me and the Crown are at risk, in these times.” He glanced away, then met Niklos’ eyes directly. “There are rumors that I am planning to flee, to leave the Queen Regent exposed to the nobles. It is part of the continuing attempts to discredit her and me. The rumor suggests that my flight would be proof that the Queen Regent was the mother of bastards.”

  “Married women cannot have bastards,” said Niklos, his brows drawing together for emphasis.

  “You know that means nothing for a Queen, especially for this Queen.” Mazarin placed his large, long hands together. “And who is to say the rumors are not right, and Richelieu was the father of those children. It is easier to believe that Richelieu was than that Louis XIII was their father, and I say that with no disrespect to the Cardinal.” He hesitated before going on. “If Louis XIV is to reign, it will be because I am stalwart, no matter what the nobles try to do. I gave my word to Richelieu and to God that I would defend and uphold the Queen and her children.”

  “Yes,” said Niklos, unsure what Mazarin was implying. “Why does this concern Olivia?”

  “It…” He dropped his hands. “If it is known, or even suspected, that Bondame Clemens is planning to leave France, it may be interpreted as an indication that I, too, am preparing to leave. If that is believed, then the nobles will do more than plot, they will act. At this time, it would not be easy to defend the King, and it is necessary that he be defended. At this time, my presence gives some force to the Queen’s regency; if that appears to lessen, then she will be far more vulnerable than she is already.”

  “Or to put it another way, Olivia is not to leave, or to prepare to leave yet,” said Niklos with asperity.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mazarin. “Truly, I am sorry. I know I promised her that she could return to Rome by the end of this year, but it is much too hazardous. She will need to remain here for a while longer.”

  “Why tell me, Eminence?” Niklos challenged. “Why not tell her yourself, or does that trouble you? She may be a woman, but she is not a fool, and she deserves an explanation.”

  Mazarin did not protest. “I accept your rebuke. You are right, of course. It would be better if I were to speak with her directly. But I am ab
ashed. I promised her it would be arranged for her to leave before winter, and now, I must withdraw that promise.” His expression became more somber. “I know it was an intrusion to place Jumeau in this household. I know it is more than our arrangement called for. But circumstances here are more difficult, more … complex than I had anticipated. I truly hoped that she could depart before now, with my thanks and favor. I never thought it would be wise to have a member of my staff as part of her household, but with messengers being killed, I can only defend what I have done by the loss of their lives.”

  “You should be saying this to Atta Olivia Clemens,” Niklos told him.

  “It is not appropriate,” Mazarin declared, and from the tone of his voice, he would not change his mind. “When this is over, when she has returned to Rome, then, perhaps, I will be at liberty to discuss these circumstances with her.” He stood a little straighter. “I respect her for her wisdom—few women have her understanding—and I am grateful for all she has done to aid me and the work I do. But be aware that she is a woman, for all her good sense, and that to burden her with cares such as these would be no benefit to her.”

  Niklos’ smile was sardonic. “I would like to hear her answer when you tell her that.” He folded his arms. “Very well; what do you expect me to do, other than endure that prig Jumeau?”

  Mazarin paced a few steps, then came back to Niklos’ side. “I hope you will stop these preparations for departing. It would be most useful if it seemed that Bondame Clemens would live here forever. If it is not possible to do this, then all that you can do to end the rumors that Bondame Clemens is planning to aid my … escape would be welcome. It is important that there be no doubt about this.”

  “I will have to speak with Olivia,” said Niklos. “I take my orders from her.”

  “Certainly. But strive to make it clear to her why I have requested this assistance from her. Tell her of the risk she runs if she continues. The more the rumors appear to be correct, the greater the chance of the nobles acting on them.” He gestured toward the carriage and his waiting escort. “I must return to Paris. I have to speak with the Spanish Ambassador tomorrow. Again,” he added drily.

  “With a Spanish Queen, is it more difficult dealing with the Ambassador?” Niklos asked, partly in genuine curiosity, partly to keep from arguing with the Cardinal.

  “Some days it is one way, some days another.” He gave Niklos another direct look. “I rely on you to protect your mistress, Aulirios.”

  “That you may do with complete confidence,” said Niklos with a bow.

  “Good.” He was about to turn away when one last thing occurred to him. “There is also Monsieur d’Artagnan; he is in danger, as well. If there is a rebellion, he will be caught up in it.”

  “She is aware of that,” Niklos said with gentle severity.

  Mazarin gave a small bow. “As you say,” he agreed, and at last started toward his carriage. His manner changed as he did: he stood straighter, his face lost its exhaustion, and except for the darkness under his eyes, he might have been refreshed by his sojourn in the country. “Thank your mistress for the use of her house, and tell her that I am deeply appreciative that she was willing to go to Tours while I was here.”

  This time Niklos gave him a proper bow. “Certainly, Eminence.” He signaled to the footmen and lackeys to prepare the carriage for the Cardinal. “It is our honor to entertain you here at Eblouir at any time.”

  As the steps were pulled down, Mazarin blessed Niklos and the other servants of Eblouir who were allowed to watch his departure. “Please extend my greetings to her and relay my messages, if you would be so kind.”

  “It will be my privilege,” said Niklos, not quite as gently as he intended. He knelt to kiss Mazarin’s ring just before the steps were taken up and the carriage door closed.

  The Cardinal signed to his escort to move; the coachman raised his whip and the party moved off toward the distant walls of Paris, raising dust and drawing the attention of sheep grazing in the next field.

  Niklos stood watching for some little time, and then made his way through the house to his own apartments, his frown deepening to a glower as he went. By the time he left his quarters, it was almost sunset. The plans he had made did not please him, and he was pondering how to discuss them with Olivia when Meres found him.

  “Aulirios,” he said, offering a half-bow for form’s sake.

  “What is it, Meres?” He was preoccupied and disinclined to talk. “Is it urgent?”

  “I don’t know what you would call it,” said Meres with a slight smile. “Word has just been brought from the stable that Bondame Clemens has just ridden in. She is accompanied by one of the trainers from Tours, a fellow named Evraud. What is required now? I was told to get your orders.”

  Niklos stood straighter at the mention of Olivia’s name. “You have done properly,” he said, and issued orders for Olivia’s bath to be filled, for a room to be made ready for Evraud, and for a meal to be prepared. “Inform Bondame Clemens that I will need to speak with her at her first convenience.”

  “Gladly,” said Meres, adding, “I’m pleased she’s back.”

  “So am I,” said Niklos. He sent Meres off, then went to find Avisa.

  Olivia was already soaking in her bath when Niklos entered the room by a side door. “If the staff ever learned you do this,” she said after she had blown him a welcoming kiss, “they would be shocked.”

  “There are many things about you and me that would shock them,” said Niklos as he sat down on a low bench beside the large, sunken tub.

  Her response was no longer playful. “You’re right, I fear.” She leaned back, half-floating in the steaming water. “What is so urgent and so private that you must speak to me secretly?”

  It was a moment before Niklos gathered his thoughts enough to answer her. “Before Mazarin left, he had a request to make of you. He … he was very…”

  “Very what?” Olivia asked when Niklos did not go on.

  “Anxious, I suppose,” said Niklos as he considered his conversation with the Cardinal. “Not without reason, sad to say.” He bent down so that their heads were no more than two handbreadths apart. “Olivia, remember the problems you anticipated last year?”

  “What of them?” Olivia asked, her attention sharp and fixed. “What has happened?”

  Quickly Niklos outlined what Mazarin had asked of him, adding, “You sensed it when it began, but you thought it would fade. Now it seems that it has not, it has only changed shape a little. There are nobles determined to discredit the young King and to be rid of him, his mother, and Mazarin.”

  “And Giulio thinks that they are watching me, that I will cover his escape, or provide the means.” She began to rub her face with a cloth. “You’re annoyed as much as you’re worried; what is it? Are you afraid that Mazarin is right? Or is it something else? Is it about the nobles? Do you think there is going to be a rebellion after all?” She saw the answer in his face before he spoke. “In Greek,” she warned in that tongue.

  “Mazarin certainly fears it.” He stared at the wall. “He does not want it to appear you are going to leave France. That’s the one thing he’s set on. He is convinced your leaving will trigger the rebellion, by making the nobles believe that Mazarin will leave with you.” His gesture indicated he did not know what to think. “I don’t think the nobles pay that much attention to you, but it would not take more than one or two to spark things, I suppose. Still, I hope that it is nothing more than Mazarin’s fear for the Queen and her sons speaking, but…”

  “But,” Olivia concurred. “We must never forget the but. Well, then we must cooperate, at least for a while.” She indicated a glass jar filled with bath salts. “Hand me that, will you?”

  “You don’t seem upset,” Niklos remarked as he complied.

  “It’s because I’m not surprised. Had this been unexpected, I would probably have been furious.” She leaned back as she poured more of the bath salts into the warm water. “Every hou
se should have a caladarium like this. How do they manage without hot baths, I want to know.”

  “You’re being a Roman again,” said Niklos with affection. “But I warn you, Olivia, I will not be turned from the subject. We have matters we must discuss.”

  “The ploy has worked before,” said Olivia as she put the lid back on the jar. “You were more easily distracted, eight hundred years ago. Now you are a task master: very well, let us consider what is to be done, since it seems we are condemned to remain here for another several months.”

  “Or years,” said Niklos heavily. “And before you tell me, the answer is no, I will not leave you here and go back to Senza Pari to administer it for you. Do not ask me, do not order me. I stay where you are.” His handsome features were no longer as pleasant as they usually were; his implacability would have amazed most of those who knew him.

  “I wasn’t going to suggest that,” said Olivia as innocently as she could. “I wasn’t.”

  “Such charming mendacity,” said Niklos, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “I know you; it’s been on your mind for months.”

  “True,” she admitted, “but I have said nothing. That is significant, isn’t it?” As she slid deeper into the water, so that just her head rose above the surface, she said, “I think we had better make sure we can get to Tours on short notice, however. It is one thing to abandon all plans to leave France, but another thing to be ready to leave Eblouir, if we must.”

  “So you have been thinking of it,” said Niklos with a trace of relief. “You are not adverse to a little strategy.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Olivia, suddenly very tired. “I am growing weary of it, but not adverse to it.” She moved languidly, almost floating in the hot water. “But I wish that it were not necessary, this constant shifting and adjustment that we must do to survive. The Cardinal does not understand what he is asking of us, not really. And Heaven forbid he should learn! Have you ever considered what might happen to us if Mazarin discovered all there is to know of me? Or you?”