“And glory,” said Charles simply. “I do miss battle. I am a soldier and that is what I wish most to do, serve France and the King on the field of honor.”
Montlezun de Besmaux finished off his wine and poured more. “You are a fool. There is no reason to fight but to gain power and influence. War is fought for power and influence, and those of us who fight should keep those objectives in mind, or we are nothing more than burnt offerings, nor do we deserve to be anything more. If power and influence cannot be had, then battle is useless.” He glowered at Charles, daring him to contradict him. “You know I speak the truth.”
Charles was about to give Montlezun de Besmaux a cutting retort when the door opened and a priest stepped into the room.
“Forgive me this interruption,” said Pere Chape. “I have been sent by His Eminence to escort one of you to his presence.” He looked from Charles to Montlezun de Besmaux. “Which one of you wishes to be first? The Cardinal expressed no preference.”
Montlezun de Besmaux waved to Charles. “I leave the first assault to you, since you are so fond of battle,” he said as he lifted his glass in an ironic toast. “When you are finished, you may tell me what I have to contend with.”
Charles was about to refuse, then hitched his shoulder. “Why not?” he said, and favored Pere Chape with an extravagant bow. “I place myself in your hands, mon Pere.” He cast a quick, scornful look at Montlezun de Besmaux. “When I return I will do what I can to put your fears to rest.”
“Many thanks,” said Montlezun de Besmaux imperviously.
Pere Chape held the door open. “Then come with me, Monsieur … I fear I do not know which of you is—”
“I am d’Artagnan,” said Charles. “He is Montlezun de Besmaux.” He gave a slight bow to his fellow courier, then stepped into the hallway behind Pere Chape. “It is unusual for His Eminence to call both of us to him at the same time,” he observed in the hope that Pere Chape might help to prepare him for whatever was to come.
“It has been a strange day, and this evening is no different,” said pere Chape. He was not walking quickly or with any apparent purpose. “We have a short time to ourselves. The Cardinal will not be in his private study quite yet.”
“Then why escort me now?” Charles wondered aloud.
“He wishes not to have to wait for you,” said Pere Chape, his face showing mock dismay. “It is the fate of those of us who serve the great ones to be always at their beck and call.”
“Of course,” said Charles, curious enough to add, “Do you know what he wants of me?”
“No,” said Pere Chape. He led the way up a narrow staircase. “But there are many great ones who are not so capricious in their demands, aren’t there?”
Charles stopped at once, halfway up the flight of stairs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Pere Chape with care, “that the Cardinal is inclined to be unreasonable in his demands, and those who are in his employ often find—”
In three quick steps Charles was beside Pere Chape, one hand on his sword, the other at the priest’s throat. “Forgive my impertinence, mon Pere,” he said as he shoved the priest back against the wall. “You must not say such things to me, even in jest. I am the sworn courier of the First Minister of France and I find no humor in such remarks.”
Pere Chape was immobile with fear. “Monsieur,” he panted as Charles loosened his hold just enough to permit him to speak. “You … you mistook my meaning.”
“Then you must pardon me,” said Charles relentlessly. “It is my vow, you see. I have given my word to God and the King that I am the true servant of His Majesty and His Eminence. So you fail to amuse me with your wit, mon Pere.” His hand tightened again. “It was your wit, was it not? that made you speak as you did.”
Pere Chape managed to nod decisively twice, his face going pale as he saw the determination in Charles’ eyes. He wriggled under the pressure of Charles’ hand. “It … it is a bad … a bad joke. I never … never intended—” He stopped as Charles released him.
“Certainly you never intended any disrespect or disloyalty to the Cardinal, did you?” Charles held him now with the force of his eyes. “I misunderstood your purpose. Didn’t I?”
Pere Chape smoothed the front of his habit and tried to restore his dignity. “Most certainly,” he said huffily. “You cannot believe that I, a priest and a servant of His Eminence, would compromise the Cardinal?”
“Because,” said Charles in the same light, firm tone, “if I thought you had done so, I would be obliged to mention it to His Eminence. But,” he went on less harshly, “if I have your word that you—as priest and servant—intended nothing more than amusement, I will not have to speak of this to His Eminence.” He gave Pere Chape a speculative look. “Well? What am I to do, mon Pere?”
Pere Chape turned away from him. “It was a … jest. A poor one, I admit. But…” He put his hand to his throat as if to protect himself from further assault.
“But?” Charles prompted.
“I … suppose I had to make it. Your pardon, Monsieur.” He had almost regained his composure. With sudden decision he moved away up the stairs, leaving Charles to follow after, his brow creased with thought.
“Certainly,” Charles said distantly, distracted by the turmoil in his mind. Why had Mazarin tried to test him in this way? Did he suspect he was being betrayed? How could he believe that he, Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan, would be party to such dishonor? A little of these reflections showed in his eyes. Mazarin had chosen Charles as his courier and had accepted his oath to himself and the King. What had caused him to question that oath now?
“It is the second door,” said Pere Chape, indicating the narrow passage off the corridor. “There is a guard at the far end; no one may enter or leave unobserved.” He sketched a blessing in Charles’ direction. “May God guide you.”
“And you, mon Pere,” said Charles, going toward the indicated door with little more than a flick of his hand that could be taken as a salute. He stepped through the door to find Mazarin standing by the hearth, his face made ruddy by the fire. Charles dropped to his knee to kiss the Cardinal’s ring.
“Good evening, my courier,” Mazarin said as he motioned to Charles to rise. He selected one of three simple chairs and sat down, indicating that Charles was to sit as well. “I must speak to you. It is distressing.”
So I guessed right, Charles told himself. The exchange with Pere Chape had been a test. “What is it I am to have the honor of doing for you and France?”
Mazarin shook his head, his dark hair showing a few wisps of grey now. “No courtesy, d’Artagnan. Courtesy means nothing when there are so many dangers at hand.” He touched his long, large fingers to his forehead. “I understand from Bondame Clemens’ major domo that no one has yet discovered how her maid came to be poisoned?”
“No,” Charles said, all suggestion of levity or belligerence gone from him at once. “No.”
“It bodes ill,” Mazarin said, fingers still pressed to his head, his eyes closed. “I had hoped it was—” He stopped and looked at Charles as he lowered his hand. “It does not matter what I hoped.”
Charles was puzzled, but he said only, “Eminence,” to indicate that he was alert and listening closely.
Outside the door, Pere Chape lingered only a moment longer; he had no desire to have the guard report he had been listening to the private interview taking place within. He folded his hands piously and went quickly away from the room, back to the antechamber where Montlezun de Besmaux waited. As he entered the room, he saw that the servants had brought a plate of pastries and a loaf of bread.
“Back again?” Montlezun de Besmaux asked as he looked up from his wine. Without waiting for an answer he waved a hand toward the food. “This is very good. Have some.”
“Thank you,” said Pere Chape, “but no. I have had my evening meal, and now I fast until morning. But you,” he went on as if the pastries were his own generosity and not the courtesy
of Mazarin, “enjoy yourself. If you want more, you have only to tell me and I will send for some.”
“Excellent,” said Montlezun de Besmaux as he took a second meat pastry and bit it in half, sprinkling his collar and moustache with flakes from it. “The cooks here are very good,” he said through his chewing.
“Yes, the Cardinal insists on it, as did Richelieu before him.” He went and sat on the upholstered bench near the fire. “A miserable night to be out,” he observed as Montlezun de Besmaux refilled his glass.
He paused in his pouring, giving a one-sided shrug. “Well, it is the fate of servants to wait upon their masters, isn’t it? If His Eminence wished for us in the dead of night in a snowstorm d’Artagnan and I would be obliged to present ourselves.” He set down the bottle and lifted his glass. “Still, servants can find ways to spare themselves the worst of those demands.”
Pere Chape made himself appear uninterested. “I suppose it is possible,” he was able to say after a moment to collect his thoughts.
“Of course it is. You know it as well as I do. It’s only fools like d’Artagnan who cannot make their way in the world. If d’Artagnan wishes to stay a poor Gascon soldier, it’s all one to me, but I have my sights on higher prizes than he.” He took a long drink, finished off the pastry, and went on, warming to his subject. “Only an idiot seeks glory. A fighting man needs his reputation, certainly, but glory is for those who are blind martyrs. I do not intend to wear my mantle to the end of my days, and add nothing to the worth of my family. I will leave this world better-placed than I came into it; glory does not provide that, but good sense does.”
Now Pere Chape was hopeful. “How do you mean?” he asked, masking his satisfaction with curiosity. “I understood that a mantle, a commission, and a sword was the greatest attainment a Gascon desired.”
Montlezun de Besmaux’s laughter was jeering. “There are those who believe in the honor of Kings, as well, and the sanctity of the Church—your pardon, mon Pere,” he added as he remembered Chape was a priest.
“Oh, I do not disagree with you,” Pere Chape said, wanting to encourage Montlezun de Besmaux to continue. “I am forced to agree that the Church is often called upon to act in matters which have little to do with her sacred offices here on earth.” He crossed himself, taking care that Montlezun de Besmaux saw him do it. “And I have prayed many times for guidance when my position here demands…” He let his words die away.
“My point exactly.” Montlezun de Besmaux pounced on the silence. “Every man must make his way as best he can. All the rest is sham.” He bit another pastry in half.
Pere Chape sighed. “I am troubled, too, by what I have heard about the court, about the Queen Regent, and her sons.” He lowered his head. “I pray and I pray, but I cannot find the answer.”
“To what?” asked Montlezun de Besmaux.
“There are rumors,” said Pere Chape darkly. “They will not be stilled. They say that Louis XIII of revered memory was so taken with his own … lusts, that he never made a wife of his Queen. Never. And that the children she has are base-born.” He coughed delicately. “If that is so, then the disgrace to France must be expunged.”
Montlezun de Besmaux chuckled cynically. “Do you think this is the first time a bastard has worn a crown? Louis XIV is nothing more than a child. He is a pawn. His mother is a pawn. When the game is over, we’ll see which side of the board has won. It will make little difference except to those who chose the wrong King.” He tore off a section of bread and spread it with butter from the little crock provided.
“Do you truly believe that?” Pere Chape asked, uncertain about his next move: if Montlezun de Besmaux proved to be as adamant in his way as Charles d’Artagnan, he ran a great risk of being exposed.
Montlezun de Besmaux considered as he drank. “Some of what I think is the wine talking, but … yes, I am an ambitious man, and I am a realistic fellow. If the tide should turn, I will turn with it, as will any sensible man.” He set down his glass and finished buttering his bread. “It’s too soon to tell which way the tide is going.”
“Is it?” asked Pere Chape, adding quickly, “I have not yet learned to measure these things; being here at court, I am often caught off guard.” He thought the room was growing uncomfortably warm, but he said nothing, not wanting to break Montlezun de Besmaux’s train of thought.
“Who wouldn’t be?” said Montlezun de Besmaux. “Rather face cavalry than a courtier, that’s what I think.” His laughter was immoderate. “Not that I seek to face either. I’d prefer to serve the Cardinal as long as it is advisable.”
“And how long is that?” Pere Chape inquired as if asking after Montlezun de Besmaux’s health.
“As long as he is in a position to grant advancement and favor,” was the prompt answer. “All else is lunacy.” He began to chew his way through his slab of bread.
“I see,” said Pere Chape. He could not make up his mind about this man. “Suppose the tide does turn, what then?”
“The only priest I will tell that to is my confessor, who cannot repeat it,” said Montlezun de Besmaux. “I may be nothing more than a poor Gascon, but you will not trap me with so obvious a ploy.” He reached for the wine bottle and saw that it was empty. “Is there more to be had?”
“Of course,” said Pere Chape, rising and starting for the door. “Will the same do for you?”
“Anything will do for me, so long as it is not vinegar.” He gestured extravagantly with his bread. “But hurry. Eating is thirsty work.”
Pere Chape was annoyed at this change of interest. He was pleased at how well he had been able to draw Montlezun de Besmaux out, and was almost certain that he would be able to enlist him in his cause. But that had to wait on another bottle of wine. He hoped that Charles d’Artagnan would remain with Mazarin a little longer, so that he might learn more about Montlezun de Besmaux.
While Pere Chape went in search of the serving lackey, Mazarin was listening to Charles’ impassioned plea for permission to remain with Olivia. “It is for her protection. If I am there, you will always be kept fully informed of what has occurred.” He paced the length of the small room, slapping his gloves into the palm of his hand as he went. “I do not say that Niklos cannot be trusted—clearly he can, and he has proved that many times before—but he cannot be everywhere. Neither can I, but between us, it would be difficult for anyone to harm her, or any of your couriers and messengers who use her estates as meeting places.”
Mazarin watched him with reserved interest. “This has nothing to do with your being her lover, of course.”
Charles stopped pacing and faced the Cardinal directly. “It has almost everything to do with it, Eminence,” he said softly, then continued, “Oh, as your courier I am sworn to protect you and your embassy as well as the documents I carry for you. If any of those in your suite were in as great danger as I fear Olivia is, I would recommend the same thing, for that is my duty to you as your courier.”
“Very commendable,” said Mazarin without inflection.
“But it is Olivia,” Charles went on. “And she and I are lovers. I have my duty to you, as I have said; I have a duty to her as well.” He went back to pacing. “She does not seek my protection—in fact, she is convinced it would make matters worse if she were obviously guarded—but I cannot leave her so vulnerable.”
“And if I say you must,” suggested Mazarin, his voice gone cold. “What then, d’Artagnan?”
Charles stood very still, facing the closed door. “Then I must do as you order me, or be dishonored.”
“I am relieved to hear you say that,” said Mazarin. He shifted a little in his chair. “I hope it may not come to that, but I am not sanguine.”
“And if there are other attempts on her life, what then?” Charles demanded urgently. “Do not ask me to stand by and watch her be killed, Eminence.”
“I will endeavor not to,” said Mazarin, feeling exhausted. “The King is a little boy, more vulnerable than Olivia Clemens will eve
r be. He is the hope of France, and you are sworn to defend him with your life. Do no forget that oath.” His stare was thoughtful.
“I will not,” Charles promised him.
Mazarin accepted this. “Do not think too harshly of me; I will do what I can to guard Bondame Clemens; my word on it.” He held out his hand, indicating that the interview was at an end. “There are documents that must be carried into the Low Countries. You will receive my mandate tomorrow, and leave the day after. You will be gone a fortnight. During that time I will send one of my own Guard to Eblouir. Does that satisfy you?”
Charles bowed in acquiescence. “Eminence.”
“Send that other Gascon to me, d’Artagnan. I have tasks for him as well as for you.” He watched as Charles knelt and kissed his ring, and very briefly he felt a pang of grief for his courier for no reason he could fathom. “You are a brave man, d’Artagnan. Do not let that be your downfall.”
“Thank you, Eminence,” Charles said as he bowed his way out of Mazarin’s presence.
“So, are we in disgrace or is His Eminence seeking to impress us with his power over us?” Montlezun de Besmaux demanded with angry laughter as Charles returned to the antechamber.
“Neither,” said Charles, taking in the other courier’s state with a single sweeping glance. “But given your condition he might be persuaded to condemn us.” He folded his arms and shook his head. “He is waiting. Where’s the priest?”
“Gone to get more wine,” said Montlezun de Besmaux. “He told me that he would bring more. Have the pastries,” he offered grandly, indicating the last two on the plate. “They’re very good.”
“Not yet,” said Charles, regarding Montlezun de Besmaux. “You had better put some water on your face. You’ve got crumbs everywhere.” He did not want to show his disgust, but though he maintained his conduct, the tone of his voice gave him away.
“You are a fine one to hold yourself above me,” said Montlezun de Besmaux haughtily. “The clothes on your back were bought by a woman, a rich widow, they tell me.” He was never able to sneer for Charles launched himself across the room, striking Montlezun de Besmaux in the face with his gloves.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 45
