I admonish you, Pere Chape, to enlist more in our cause. Among the nobles our numbers continue to increase, and as they increase we take courage that our just cause will prevail, and we will bring down Mazarin and Queen Anne and rid France of the shame of her bastards. The existence of Louis XIV is a stigma on the face of France. To have to endure Richelieu’s by-blow, to show that disgusting little boy respect is more humiliation than any well-born Frenchman should tolerate! How can we not act when the cause is so clear, and when France herself is in great danger from traitors and foreigners within the court and on the Throne?
Take heart, and be bold in all you do. We who seek to restore honor and glory to France uphold your actions and encourage you to persevere. Use my words to fire others, if it will be useful for you. It is not yet safe to reveal my identity to the world, but the day is not far off when all will know me and those who follow me, and they will flock to our lily banner in triumph as France is once again truly French and not a vassal of Spain and Italy.
With my commendation and blessing,
Le Fouet
On the 29th day of August, 1646.
Destroy this.
2
By the end of the first week in October the leaves were changing, turning the woods near Chatillon to all the colors of good wine—dark red, bright red, gold, and straw yellow. The scent of earth was on the wind, and the evenings were chilly with the first hint of winter.
“An early autumn,” said Charles as they strolled through the small vineyard attached to Eblouir.
“Yes,” said Olivia distantly. She looked over her shoulder, then turned to him again and smiled. “Forgive me. I am nervous and…” Her gesture finished the thought.
“Why would anyone follow you?” Charles asked, putting a protective arm around her waist. “Aside from the fact that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, of course.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, but her smile faded. “That’s not it,” she told him seriously. “I wanted to believe it was the result of all the troubles Mazarin is having, that I am catching it from him, like a cough.”
“You never cough,” said Charles.
“Sometimes,” she corrected him. “But not often. I am never ill.” Her eyes once again grew distant. “There is something here, something wrong. I sense it.”
“Women sense things,” said Charles, stopping and taking her in his arms. “I’d rather you sense me.” He tweaked a tendril of her crimped hair. “I don’t have much time. Mazarin is sending me on another mission in a day or two. He allowed me as much time as he could to be with you, but there isn’t much to spare.”
“I know,” she said, for they had discussed this when he arrived a few hours earlier. “I wish there were more time. I wish we had all your lifetime to be together. Then it wouldn’t be so hard to know the time will come when we will no longer be lovers.” She was surprised to hear herself say this, and more surprised to realize it was true.
“We will always be lovers,” said Charles. “Don’t joke about that, Olivia.”
“I’m not joking. I’ve told you that once you come to my life, we will no longer be able to be lovers. Those of our blood require life; it is the one thing we do not have to give.” She touched his chin, remembering that he had shaved off his beard for her. “You are so dear to me.”
His arms tightened. “You are life to me.” His lips were more persuasive than his words. Their tongues met, tantalizing, making promises for more to follow. As they moved apart, Charles whispered to her, “I will have you for eternity, Olivia.”
“Eternity?” She laughed gently. “Aren’t you afraid I would bore you, after a few centuries?”
“Never,” he said, without a trace of cajolery. “Listen to me, Olivia,” he said, stopping in front of her and facing her with determination. “You tell me that you have lived for more than fifteen hundred years. Very well. I cannot imagine that, but I believe you because you tell me it is true. As difficult as it is for me to imagine all that time, it is more difficult still to think of a time, now, or thousands of years from now, when you would bore me. You are everything I have dreamed of, and all the things I have longed for in a woman and despaired of finding. Nothing about you bores me. You never could. You never will.”
What was it about this young—very young—man that compelled her so? Olivia asked herself as she had every night since they had first become lovers. Why should he, of all the men she had known down the years, have the power to captivate her, to hold her? It was not his youth: she had rid herself of the folly of mistaking youth for character more than a millennium ago. It was not simply his ardor or his desire, or his damned flying eyebrows. It was him; it was that Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan was Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan. “I love you, Charles,” she said, her hazel eyes intent on his bright brown ones.
He grinned, and there was passion in his eyes. “Why not go in now? Why not fill that shocking bath of yours and loll about like the Romans of old?” His brows lifted at the corners. “Is that what you Romans really did? loll about in hot water and eat grapes?”
“Occasionally. Most of the time I tried to think of ways to avoid my husband and the men he … he brought to me.” She felt his arm harden against her back.
“I would wish that husband of yours were alive today so that I could have the honor of killing him.” He pointed toward the terrace of the chateau. “There’s your major domo.” As he waved back to Niklos, he said to Olivia, “Was he ever your lover?”
“That was a long, long time ago. And he did not change because of me; he is not of my blood, if that is what you’re asking.” She broke away from him, walking a little faster through the rows of vines. “We have finished the harvest,” she remarked to Charles. “You should have smelled these fields a week ago. The air was enough to make everyone tipsy.”
“And you?” Charles asked as he followed her. “Did it make you tipsy?”
She started up the steps to the terrace. “I don’t know. I am not sure it is possible for me to be tipsy, now. Or not from smelling wine.” She glanced toward Niklos and saw that he was frowning. “What is it?”
Niklos motioned her to come nearer, and to speak softly. “This was brought this afternoon,” he said, handing a packet of papers to her. “From Tours.”
“Tours?” Olivia repeated, motioning to Charles to approach. She broke the seal on the packet and spread out the contents to read. “There have been more accidents,” she said in a still, clear voice. “Five horses have been killed and one of the cottages has collapsed.” She continued to read. “Perceval has been hurt: this is from Abbe Gottard. They have taken Perceval to Sacres Innocentes. His leg was broken.”
“Octave?” asked Niklos. “Would he harm his own brother?”
“I don’t think so,” said Olivia, shaking her head in concern. “That is what troubles me. If it is not Octave, then who is it?”
“Mazarin has enemies in France and you are part of his embassy,” said Niklos in a colorless tone.
Charles bristled. “Mazarin would not knowingly expose Bondame Clemens to any risk.”
“Certainly he would,” said Olivia. “He warned me of the risks when he sent me here, and he has never said that we were safe here.” She put her hand on Charles’ arm to stop another outburst. “I will have to send him word. Oh, not by you, Charles. You have tasks in other places. I will send Meres.” Her face became set. “And I want you, Niklos, to go to Tours and find out how Perceval fares. Discover, if you can, what happened and who was the cause.”
“When?” asked Niklos sharply.
“Tonight. Ride as long as you can. Meres can leave in the morning.” She refolded the letters. “Put these in my study. I want to go over them before I notify the Cardinal of these events.”
“And you?” Niklos demanded of Olivia. “What are you planning to do?”
“Remain here,” she said, looking a trifle startled that Niklos would ask. “Charles has a little time,
and so I will not be completely without protection while you are away.”
“And once you leave?” Niklos asked Charles. “What then?”
Charles bristled. “I will request the Cardinal give me permission to remain with Bondame Clemens until you return, so that she will not be unguarded.”
Olivia interrupted them before they could fall into useless arguing. “Will the both of you stop this?” She waited until the men visibly relaxed. “I am capable of handling arms, I know how to shoot, and I am not afraid to use a pistol if I must. I am reasonably competent with a sword. And I have been on my own before—as well you know, Niklos.”
Niklos folded his arms. “And I have never been at ease when you were,” he reminded her pointedly. “I am never more worried than when you must fend for yourself.”
“Thank you for your confidence,” said Olivia, her sarcasm softened by a chuckle. “But if it is my safety that distresses you, all the more reason to go to Tours and find out what threatens me there. Or would you rather I went?”
“Gia. Sta bene,” said Niklos, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I will leave tonight.” He directed his next remarks to Charles. “Do your best to gain permission to remain here while I am gone. Surely Mazarin can be made to see the necessity of a guard here.”
“I will dictate a request for the lackey to carry,” said Charles to Niklos, his jaw square with determination.
“How thoughtful of you both to make these arrangements,” said Olivia. “I know how to defend myself. I am not about to impose on Mazarin when he is already vulnerable. We can make appropriate arrangements here and inform the Cardinal of what we have done. Jumeau can prepare a full report for him; that ought to be sufficient until we learn more.” She put her hand on Niklos’ arm. “I treasure you, old friend, and I am touched to know how much you are prepared to do for me, but, Niklos, I don’t require it. I would rather not use more preparations than we need, if only because that would alert the Cardinal’s enemies.”
Charles rubbed at his chin. “You have a point, Olivia.” He nodded to Niklos. “How quickly can you get word back from Tours with news if you travel at speed? Chartres the first day and Cloyes-sur-Loire the second? That puts you at Tours on the third day. You can be back in a week.” He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Can you do that?”
“If Perceval sees me and there is a reliable remount for me at the usual places, then yes. You have made the journey in that time, haven’t you?” Niklos challenged. “Then I will be able to also.”
Olivia regarded the two men. “Very well; leave as soon as you can, Niklos, and try to get to Tours in three days. I will give you authorization on the Cardinal’s mandate to get remounts along the way; you know the places and you can pace your horses to them. I doubt Mazarin will think I have abused privilege if I do this.”
“You will be gone before I come back,” Niklos said to Charles. He touched Olivia’s arm affectionately as he went on. “You are not the only one who values her. Make sure you leave her safe.”
“I will not leave otherwise,” Charles promised, and went on to Olivia. “No. Don’t object. I won’t dispute with you, love. I will not abandon you if you are in danger—do not ask it of me.” He gave Niklos a little bow. “I am grateful to you.”
“Do either of you wish to hear my opinion?” Olivia asked them, then held up her hand to keep them from answering. “I want Charles to depart as he has been ordered to do by Mazarin. If he does not, we will once again give warning to these enemies—whoever they are.” She slipped her arm through Charles’. “I will welcome your protection, Charles, for as long as it is right for you to provide it. And I will do all that I can to ensure our safety. To begin, get Meres on his way, Niklos. Do it without display or remark, for it is not unusual for me to send a message to the Cardinal. Make this just another such errand. If there are any questions, dismiss them. You can add that if the message were urgent, surely Monsieur d’Artagnan would carry it. As it is, Meres, a lackey, is taking a simple report to Mazarin.” She nodded her dismissal to Niklos, calling after him, “Ask them to fill my bath for me, will you?”
Niklos offered her an old-fashioned Roman salute, then continued on his way, humming as he went.
“He is more than your servant. He is devoted to you,” said Charles when Niklos was gone.
“Does that upset you?” Olivia asked, unable to read his expression.
“No; I am … grateful to him.” He put his hand on her shoulder, pressing with his fingers. “I am entrusted with your protection, and I have given my word. I don’t want to leave you alone. Don’t ask it of me.”
“I don’t,” she said reasonably, giving him a steady look. “The Cardinal does, however, and you are his courier. There is no reason to fret: we have a few days, and we will use them to good advantage”—she felt his fingers tighten—“not just as lovers, but as comrades in the same battle.”
Charles pulled her close to him. “If we must, we must,” he said through a sigh. “I would prefer to spend it making love, but … but you are right.”
She slipped away from him, keeping hold of his hand. “Come. I have some notes to write and then the bath will be ready for us. Meres will be on his way shortly, and so will Niklos. They need my messages. Then there will be nothing else to bother us.”
Jacques Vidal Jumeau was arranging books in Olivia’s study when she and Charles came through the door. He looked up quickly, dropping the volume he held. “Madame Clemens … I had no idea—”
Olivia indicated her writing table. “I am sorry to inconvenience you, Jumeau, but I have a few letters to attend to. Perhaps you might have one of the cooks give you an early supper while I write them?” She waited for his response, and noticed that his neck reddened at her suggestion.
“As you wish, Madame,” he said with a bow of great and insulting civility. “I will avail myself of this opportunity. How pleasant to eat in the kitchen with the servants.” This last was said through clenched teeth as Jumeau swept out of the room.
“What—?” Olivia looked after him in consternation. “What have I said to offend him so?” she asked Charles.
“Oh, you know clerics; they take on airs. He does not want to associate with servants. Most of them don’t,” said Charles offhandedly. “How do you bear that officious fellow, Olivia?”
She sat down at her writing table and took four sheets of fine paper from their box. As she opened the standish and selected her pen, she said, “I have little choice; he was sent here at the Cardinal’s suggestion. Apparently Chape—you know the Augustinian that is part of Mazarin’s embassy?—he thought it was a wise idea to have Jumeau here, though I am not certain why. Mazarin agreed, and I have no reason to protest.” She dipped the pen in the ink and began to write. “I hope he is not too annoyed with me; I may need to enlist his aid once you are gone.”
“Fine aid!” Charles scoffed. “To think of you depending on a cassocked freak like that one—” He broke off and took a turn about the room, as if his pacing would convey his feelings more than words.
“How do you mean a freak?” Olivia asked a little later when she had signed the first letter and sanded it. As she listened she drew out a stick of wax and lit a candle to melt it.
Charles stopped moving and looked at her. “He is not cut out for Holy Orders. He reminds me of a cat deprived of a mouse. It’s in his mouth, the line of it. He is consumed with anger, not with zeal.” He snapped his fingers. “I am no judge of clerics, Olivia. Pay no attention.”
“That is precisely why I do pay attention,” she said as she set the seal on the first and started the second letter.
“That makes no sense,” he said fondly, stopping across the table from her and watching as she wrote. “Perhaps I should learn my letters better,” he said as she completed the second note and sanded it.
“Is it necessary?” Olivia asked, curious to hear what he would answer.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, staring in fascination as she beg
an the third letter, watching in silence while she wrote.
Meres had taken his message and left, Niklos was in the stable saddling Souris for the first leg of his ride to Chartres, Jumeau had returned from the kitchen somewhat mollified with word that Olivia’s bath was full.
“Not that it is my place to deliver such notice,” he added as he watched Olivia rise from her writing table.
“Then I thank you twice for your service,” she said, motioning to Charles. “I want to wish Niklos a safe journey. I will join you directly. Wait for me in private.” She left the room quickly, hoping that Charles would not decide to engage Jumeau in conversation.
Souris was restive but not nervous as Niklos led her out of the stable into the yard. Around them the vermilion sunset turned the world red.
“I will be as fast as I can,” Niklos promised Olivia as he swung into the saddle.
“You mean you will be as fast as is safe,” she corrected. “I will look for you in a week. If you have not returned in ten days, I will notify the Cardinal to send his Guard to find you.” She took his extended hand in hers.
“You are troubled,” said Niklos. “You will not say so, but I feel it in your hands.”
She shook her head. “I do not know what I am. I feel I am walking on a board over a chasm, a board that shifts under my feet.” Her voice became ironic. “I should be used to that sensation by now, wouldn’t you think?”
“I think you do not want to admit you are in danger.” He stared down at her. “Do you think you are in danger?”
“I think we are all in danger,” she said somberly. “Take no risks, Niklos.”
“Certainly no unnecessary ones,” he promised with a wink. “And you, you take care. I am far less a target than you are, and they know where to find you.”
“Whoever they are,” she said darkly.
“Yes; whoever they are,” said Niklos, echoing her tone. Then he let go of her hand and picked up the reins. “In a week. Keep safe, Olivia.”
“And you,” she said, stepping back so that he could clap his heels to Souris’ sides, starting her into her strong, enduring trot. She watched him pass through the gates of Eblouir, then brought her hands to her eyes as if, after all these centuries, there might be tears there. Stop it, she ordered herself, and lowered her hands as she returned to the chateau, trying to shake off the desolation that swept over her.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 43
