“Fine,” said Olivia, leaving her chair. “Tell me when the patrol starts, will you, Niklos?” She looked apprehensive. “I don’t know what to expect here. I used to think I did.”
“Do you still want us to go armed?” Niklos asked.
“You, most certainly. I am not certain about the others.” She put her hands to her hair and swept the limp tendril back from her face. “A pity one cannot rest in the cellar on a day like this. But that is too much like the tomb,” she added. “And I would not want to make the servants here suspicious about me. They are frightened already.”
“And that worries you, doesn’t it?” Niklos regarded her with sympathy. “You are afraid that they might, somehow, stumble upon the truth, and then you would be a fugitive again.” He saw her nod. “Rather be worried about what this destructive unknown is going to do next than what the staff might discover about you. Another bomb is more terrifying than a vampire, Olivia, even to these people.”
She went to the door, her face revealing nothing of her fears. “No doubt you are right, Niklos, and I am letting myself be ruled by dread, not by reason.” She pointed to the draperies secured at the corners of the windows. “Close those for me, will you? I hope it will help keep the room cooler. The view isn’t as nice, but…”
“It also keeps out prying eyes,” said Niklos as he went to do as she ordered. “A wise notion.”
Olivia was able to laugh once as she left the dining room.
Niklos made certain the draperies were completely closed, and so he did not see the shadow in the garden that did not move with the other shadows, but slid away from the flowering shrubs and spindly new trees toward the rear of the chateau and the storage sheds away from the stable.
Under his habit—which was worse than a suit of armor on such a day—he carried three small bombs, each with a long fuse. He ignored the sweat that poured off him except when it ran into his eyes and made it hard to see. In his various searches on the grounds of the stud farm, he had discovered an old abandoned root cellar that was connected to one of the tunnels leading out of the cellar of the chateau. He had dug his way into the root cellar over the last two months, and now he was ready to have his revenge. Three bombs, he told himself. Three of them, set at intervals along the tunnel, each with fuses that would go off at the same time: the chateau might easily be destroyed. At the least it would be damaged, for the foundation would be wrecked. Bondama Atta Olivia Clemens would not be able to keep her stud farm. With luck, he would see the house fall in on her. He hurried toward the hole he had dug and then concealed with brush.
In spite of the heat he worked quickly, his body feeling strong but for the ache in his hip. He pulled the brush aside and set it up to screen his activities, and then he plunged through the small opening into the darkness of the old root cellar. He sat for a short while, letting the earth cool him, smelling the soft pungency of turnips and onions and cabbages long since turned to earth. When he no longer felt scalded by the sun, he made his way to the tunnel door, tugging it open in a hurried, angry way. The ladder leading downward was old and rickety, but Nino set himself on it without hesitation, going down into the darkness swiftly, his wrath greater than his caution. Once a rung broke under him, but he held on, and then eased himself the rest of the way.
He could not quite stand upright in the tunnel, and he knew that the air was bad. It would not take long, with the fuses cut so that all three bombs would go off at once. He panted as he worked, feeling chilly for the first time in days as the cool of the earth replaced the swelter above him.
The first bomb, the one nearest the door into the chateau cellars, was the hardest to place, for it had to be in a location that would make the fuse burn evenly. Nino cut a groove in the earthen floor to make sure that the fuse would remain lit, and he built up a little nest of pebbles to contain the bomb. The second one was set in the wall of the tunnel, the better to bring down more of the structure. The third, only three strides from the ladder out, was placed high up the wall, so that the explosion would be more jarring when it occurred. He reached the foot of the ladder, then took flint and steel from under his habit. He faltered at the first strike, but not the second, and the fuses glowed as they set about their deadly purpose.
This time Nino did not climb as well, his fright making him clumsy, his very need for haste causing him to fumble his way into the root cellar. He was panting, the sweat on him now stinking of fear, not heat. He lugged the door back into position, then hurried to the hole he had made and scrambled through it. He could not linger there safely, though he was sobbing for breath and his flesh was raw where he had scraped himself coming up the ladder. He left the brush where it was and staggered away from the root cellar.
“Frere Nino!” called Frere Servie from some little distance away. “My poor Brother, what has happened to you?” He came puffing across the open field, his face ruddy with heat and effort.
“Away!” Nino shouted, waving his arms to keep the monk from coming any nearer. “Trouble!”
It was the wrong thing to say. Frere Servie only moved more quickly. “Then we must help. God and the Saints, look at you!” he burst out as he got nearer. “Have you been captured by outlaws? Frere Nino, what has happened to you.”
Nino shoved him, cursing as he did so. “Get away!” he insisted, trying to get out of range.
“But if there is trouble, we must give assistance,” said Frere Servie in confusion, standing uncertainly much too close to the old root cellar.
“No!” he shouted, grabbing Frere Servie by the elbow and hauling him away. “You buggering old turd, it’s going to explode!”
“Explode?” demanded Frere Servie, wrenching himself away from Nino. “What nonsense—”
The ground heaved up, then thudded back on itself. The noise, muffled at first, at once became an eruption. It was accompanied by shattering glass and then the groan and cracking of stone as the kitchen of the chateau shifted, then crumbled. Part of the west side of the chateau began to disintegrate, breaking away from the rest of the building like a section of cliff at last surrendering to the sea.
Frere Servie threw himself to the ground, his mouth open and distorted by a scream that no one heard, not even himself.
The roof of the chateau shed slates as if an enormous cat had clawed them loose. The kitchen was already lost under rubble, and partly sunk into the ground where a portion of the cellar had given way. The sound of hysterical whinnying and the thud of hooves was the first sound beyond the destruction of the house that Nino could hear. Only then did he realize he had crouched low as the building shattered. He got to his feet, paying no attention to Frere Servie, and started across the fields, toward the bridge that had been rebuilt just two months before. As he looked back, he saw a small herd of horses galloping away from the chateau in panic, a few of them headed for the place where Frere Servie lay in a helpless stupor.
How long would it be before he learned what happened to Bondama Clemens? Nino avoided the gates, though monks were permitted to use them, for he did not want to have to answer any questions. He had found a break in the fence over a year ago and from time to time he used it, assuming poachers had put it there. He did not want to have to answer any questions about his disheveled appearance until he arrived at Sacres Innocentes, where he would be able to tell of the terrible explosion he and Frere Servie had witnessed. It was an effort not to whistle, and he swung his lame leg with gusto as he made his way toward the road that led back to the monastery.
When he saw a figure on the road ahead of him, Nino slowed down, and changed his stance to one who was suffering from great shock. He almost staggered on the narrow path, and he stopped, apparently to steady himself against a tree, but in fact to try to discern who was blocking the way.
“Bon Frere,” said the man, taking off his enormous hat with the long plumes and bowing a little. “You seem to have come upon trouble.”
Nino pressed one hand over his heart. “There was an explosion,” he
said faintly, pointing back toward the break in the fence.
“We heard it,” said the man, and at a signal five more men stood behind him. “What occurred?”
“The chateau. There has been a bomb. Or”—belatedly he realized he had said too much—“some such thing,” he added carefully. “I was a soldier once. It sounded like a bomb.”
“Did it?” The man was not only tall, he was massive, a slab of a fellow with shoulders as wide as a horse. “Is that why you ran rather than give help?” He motioned to one of his companions. “Help the Brother to come closer, will you, Herve?”
One of the companions detached himself from the group. As he neared Nino, the long red scar on his cheek was revealed. “Come, Brother,” said Herve, taking Nino firmly by the arm. “Come. Lean on me.”
“I … I can walk for myself,” said Nino, trying to keep from shaking. “It was … very terrible. Part of the house fell in.”
The big man stood more straight, his eyes suddenly keen. “The chateau? Do you say it was damaged?”
Part of Nino was filled with pride of his accomplishment; it was all he could do not to boast of his bombs and what they had done. But something in the big man’s eyes silenced him, and he shook his head numbly. “Part of the house … fell in.”
“Blaise, Ignazet, Frasier, go see what has happened. Give what help you can. Go now. Hurry.” He made a blunt gesture with his arm, and three men rushed away to do his bidding. “You,” he went on, his baleful gaze now directed to Nino once again, “how does it happen that you are covered in dirt? How can it be, that you would run instead of giving aid?”
“I … I was filled with fear,” said Nino, and it was for once the truth, for this large man was more threatening to him than the officers who had ordered him out of the army. “I am a weak man, and I ran.” He hesitated. “I wanted to find help, to bring someone…”
“Bring someone?” asked the big man sarcastically when Nino fell silent. “Who would you find on this trail?”
“I wanted … to get back to the monastery,” he said, his voice rising in spite of his attempts to keep it under control. “I thought that the monks would come.” He looked around, as if expecting to see the Brothers emerge from the trees as he spoke.
“Truly,” said the other. “A gesture of … what?… compensation to those you left behind. A way to salvage a little virtue from this unmanly display?”
Nino longed to avenge the insults this man had given him. He wanted to set his clothes on fire, to fill his mouth with a bomb and watch it explode. He thought of the two bottles of wine he had hidden under the straw mattress in his cell at the monastery, and wished now he had brought one of them along. At last he was sure of himself. “I know I have been a coward, and I pray that God will forgive me. I entered His service to gain courage, and I have failed my God.”
“You have,” said the large man, one thick hand hooked under the bandolier slung across his chest. “You will have to answer to God for what you have done, but you will also have to answer to me.” He rocked back on his heels. “If I learn that anyone was killed because of you—” He smiled instead of going on, and the smile made Nino shrink.
“Please, I must get some assistance.” He looked at the scar-faced Herve who held him. “There are people hurt. I shouldn’t have run away. I’ve sinned, running like this. I should minister to those who need me. If you come with me, we might do more—”
“Come with you?” the big man challenged. “I will go with you to the chateau. I want to know what has happened there. But I am not a fool, me. I will not go to the monastery with you, on the road for all the world to stare at me. I do not go where I can be seen.” He came two rolling steps closer to Nino. “If I learn that anyone at the chateau was harmed, you will have to answer to me for it, and you will not enjoy it, I promise you.”
“But what have I to do with that?” Nino asked, dreading the answer he would get.
“That is what I am going to find out,” said the big man as he gestured to Herve. “Bring him along.”
Nino wanted to shriek his protest, to insist that this large barbarian had no right to detain him. But he could feel the way Herve held his arm, and knew that the scarred man liked giving pain. He permitted himself to be led along quietly, while he cursed and blasphemed in his thoughts.
As they approached the break in the fence, one of the three men dispatched to bring information came running up. “Octave,” he said to his leader, “we cannot find your brother, and a fire has broken out where the kitchen was.”
“A fire,” said Octave. “Continue the search, Ignazet; let me know who you find and what they tell you of this. The mistress is here—discover if she is well. If she is not, we must leave at once. They will blame us if they can.” He looked over his shoulder at Nino. “God must like His little coward. I will spare you until I learn of Perceval’s fate.”
Nino blessed himself, more for the benefit of those watching him than in any belief it was required. He lowered his head and sought for a word or a phrase that might save him from Octave’s wrath. “I have sinned, it is true, and I have sinned as a monk, which must enhance the offence to God.” He stared down at the ground and went on, “I deserve punishment for my sin, and I will try to accept it with a charitable heart, because I am the one who sinned, and the pains of the body on earth are minor compared to the pains of the soul in Hell. It is right that I answer for my sins, as we all must. But I ask you, because I am a monk, let me be punished by monks, my Brothers who will view my transgressions through their own vows.”
“Judged by monks, is it?” Octave turned and looked at Nino, a canny appreciation in his eyes. “All right, little poltroon, you can have your monks sit in judgment on you, providing they will permit me to testify—if my brother is alive. If Perceval is dead, I will roast you over a slow fire.” He was moving faster now, taking long, impatient strides toward the ruin of the chateau.
Nino, still held by Herve, trailed behind him, and for once in his life he offered up genuine prayers: he prayed fervently for the life of Octave’s brother Perceval.
Text of a letter from Le Fouet to Jacques Vidal Jumeau, written in code.
To that most worthy and farseeing cleric, Jacques Jumeau, Le Fouet sends his greeting and his admonitions to be more persevering in his work on the great work at hand.
It is not only the Parisian Parlement that suffers the diminishing of their time-honored rights, it is all the other Parlements as well. With the country staggering under the weight of the costs of a long war—necessary for the survival of the country, but burdensome nonetheless—additional taxes demanded at this time are not as easy a thing to come by as the Italian seems to think they are. Appointing intendants to oversee and overrule the decisions and policies of the Parlementaires is the most egregious error Mazarin has made yet, and it is one which will not go unredressed. This tyranny of intendants who are nothing more than lick-spittle servants to the Cardinal is loathsome to every Parlementaire in the land. For the sake of the kingdom and our established traditions, it must be abolished. Let the Parlements meet with a free hand once more; they will not refuse honorable and just taxes if they must be levied. But to continue to demand monies from those who have already given too much is absurd and cruel. You must be aware of this. You must understand the strength of my feelings on this matter. You must be willing to be more diligent so that we need not continue under the heel of these abominable intendants.
I will not insult you by asking you to listen at keyholes—that degrades our cause more than it aids it. I will not demand that you forget your vows of your station in life: those who ally themselves with Mazarin might require such things of you, having no respect or honor. We who wish to return to the traditional ways and values need to have more men of your character, of moral rectitude who are not content to be blown about by the wind of expediency. However, it is necessary that we learn more from you than we have. It is important that you take the time to note everyone who comes to Eblo
uir and everyone who leaves, even to coachmen and lackeys, for it is apparent that there have been changes made for which we were unprepared and we have had to act before we were ready. Had you been more attentive and relayed more information to us, we would have not had to undertake our countermeasures before they were fully developed.
Therefore, I beseech you to be vigilant, I order you to be staunch in your purpose. We must have copies or summaries of all documents that come through Bondame Clemens’ estate. We must know who carries messages, where they come from and where they go, even if it is only to another messenger at another relay point. From such information, we can learn much, including what it is that the Italian wishes us to believe. His couriers are especially interesting, for they cross the frontiers of other countries, and that can tell us with whom the Cardinal is treating. It will not do at this crucial time to give Mazarin and the Spanish whore the slightest advantage. We must take care to be ahead of them at all times, and better informed than they think we are. So long as we can gather knowledge in secret, we will not be caught napping when it becomes necessary to act.
How horrible to think that we might have lost all because we have not received needed intelligence. It could come to that. It has been perilously close to that before. If we surrender now, we will be forever in the clutches of that Italian Cardinal and the Spaniard. Consider, Jumeau: Spain is our enemy. Spain is allied with Rome. And we have an Italian First Minister and a Spanish Regent. It is clear to anyone with eyes to see that these two are not prepared to defend France with their lives, nor are they willing to forget their birth in order to serve France, just as we cannot forget ours. We are Frenchmen, and this is France. While there are some in the nobility who find it acceptable that France is no longer ruled by Frenchmen, we who are true to the kingdom cannot agree. Those of us who are of noble birth have an obligation to defend France, and to preserve it. It is necessary to be rid of the foreigners and their unacceptable ways so that we may once again restore the glory of the kingdom.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 49
