“Windows are forever getting broken,” said Charles with a dismissing motion toward the Hotel de Ville. “The trouble is, it’s so much work to replace them, and then someone comes along and breaks them once more.”
De Portau thrust out his jaw and shook his head. “No; no that’s not it.” They had reached the river and had turned to walk along it. “This is more than an occasional misfortune, this is what happens when the windows are broken deliberately. You mark what I say to you, Charles: it’s this Parlement question, that’s what’s behind it.”
“And the nobility is behind the Parlement question,” said Charles, touching the brim of his hat to two veiled women going by. “It’s as bad as those Turkish puzzles, with boxes inside boxes inside boxes.” He raised his gloved hand to shade his eyes as he looked up into the afternoon sky. “When must you return to the barracks?”
“Before changing the Guard,” said de Portau, slapping his mantle with the back of his hand. “I wish we were Musqueteers together again, my friend. It does not suit me to continue with the King’s Guard until I am posted underground.”
Charles gave him a speculative glance. “Would you like to be one of the Cardinal’s couriers? With four of his messengers killed in the last year, he needs good fighting men to work for him. I could mention your name.”
De Portau shook his head, his little eyes bright as glazed raisins. “I’m not poor enough for that,” he said, went on quickly, “meaning no offence to you. I have seen Mazarin at work and I must ask myself: why would the Cardinal employ two unlike men as Montlezun de Besmaux and de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan? The first answer is obvious—both are Gascons. But they are such unalike Gascons. Montlezun de Besmaux is such a fawning, servile worm to Mazarin, and you are all bluntness and bravery. So it is not that you are Gascons. You have not married, Montlezun de Besmaux has. That’s not it. You have not fought in the same campaigns. Your battle records are markedly different. What then is your commonality? I ask myself. The answer appears! You are both poor. Neither of you has more than two sous.” He flung up his hands at the announcement. “While I am not a rich man, I am far from poor, Charles. Mazarin would not take me because he could not—” He stopped abruptly.
“Could not own you?” Charles asked without rancor. “You may say it; it’s true enough. My brother Paul cannot afford to maintain me as a soldier, and so I must depend on the Cardinal to do it.” He gave an eloquent shrug. “These days, that is not a certain thing.”
“The broken windows?” de Portau guessed shrewdly. “The Italian knows what they mean, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Charles. “But Queen Anne does not, and does not want to learn.”
“Foolish woman,” grumbled de Portau.
“A frightened one,” Charles corrected.
“Comes to the same thing. They’re obstinate as mules, frightened women. I’d rather face a line of Swiss pikemen backed by Dutch cannoneers than one woman stubborn with fear.” He opened his arms. “I’d comfort her, naturally, give her a little bravery. But that might not be enough to change her mind.” He sighed and added slyly, “Do you think that’s what the Italian does? gives her a little bravery the soldier’s way?”
To de Portau’s surprise, Charles gave his question serious consideration. “I’ve wondered,” said Charles as they made their way around a puppet show attracting its last crowd of the day. “And I have come to think not. I can’t say quite why.”
“They say Richelieu was her lover. She might have a taste for Princes of the Church.” He thumped Charles on the arm and pointed upward. “More broken windows. There’s going to be worse until this argument with Parlement is settled.”
Charles was momentarily taken by the grotesque little actors on the puppet stage: a figure in Cardinal’s robes with an enormously long head and huge black eyes was using a bishop’s crozier to bash an ermine-caped noble over the head; the noble was defending himself with a jeweled mace. The third figure, who was a gross parody of the King of Spain, capered with glee as he watched the fray. Most of the crowd watched closely and cheered. “That is what bothers me,” he said to de Portau. “This is not an isolated incident. There is evidence everywhere that the people are tired of plots and battles. This dispute between Mazarin and the nobles will not vanish, and I cannot see that either side will compromise.”
“Why not? It’s the way of statecraft to compromise.” De Portau removed his glove, reached into his wallet and drew out a small silver coin which he dropped into the hat of the puppeteer making his way through the crowd.
“But how can they? The Parlement will not pay for the supplies the army must have. Mazarin cannot compromise on that, not with victory within our grasp.”
“I’ve heard that before,” said de Portau.
“It is. The Parlement will not levy new taxes. And all the Parlements are angry about the intendants, who they claim are usurping their functions, and all in the name of Mazarin.” Charles turned so abruptly that he nearly collided with a hatter carrying his wares. He sketched a bow in the fellow’s direction, ignoring the curse that was flung at him.
“Well, aren’t they?” de Portau asked reasonably. “The intendants are acting for the Cardinal and the work they do supercedes the Parlements. What else are the Parlementaires to think?” He saw a seller of broiled chicken on a skewer standing by his small, portable stove nearby and signaled him to come closer. “Have one with me, d’Artagnan. On my purse.” He grinned impulsively, and had the coins out before Charles could object. “When you are wealthy, I expect a handsome reward for this service.”
“You shall have it—when I’m rich,” Charles promised lightly, but went on seriously at once. “What is the worst in all this,” said Charles as he pulled off his glove with his teeth and took the proffered skewer, “is that I am concerned for Olivia, because she is in danger. She is part of this whether she wishes to be or not, and she has encountered trouble because of Mazarin. It is easier to harass a widow living in the country than a Cardinal in the heart of Paris.” He blew on the fragrant meat and tested it with his tongue. “Hot.”
“It will cool,” said de Portau. “You told me about that secretary they apprehended—what? two months ago?—a bad business. You said that the fellow was one of Mazarin’s secretaries, gone over to the nobles, who knows how long ago. Good thing your widow winkled him.” He sniffed at the fragrant steam from their food. “Rosemary and garlic. Perfect.”
“It’s very good,” said Charles absently. “You are right, it was a bad business. She managed it cleverly, but she did not know that the man carried a pistol. Well, he was in Orders: who expects a cleric to be armed? It is incidents like that that give me nightmares. What if there is another spy in her household? What if the nobles send one? How is she to be defended? The worst of it is I cannot be much help. The Cardinal has been keeping me moving this last year: Germany, England, Rome. Now he wants the border garrisons reinforced so that none of our enemies will think to catch us napping while the peace negotiations are continuing. I will have dispatches to carry, and I will not be able to do my duty and guard Olivia the way I would want.”
“Ah,” said de Portau.
Charles took a first, tentative bite of the chicken. “It’s good,” he pronounced.
“Yes,” said de Portau, waiting.
It took two more bites for Charles to gather his resolve. “I wish to ask you to guard her in my stead,” he said in a rush, as though he would stop entirely if he slowed down at all.
“And how am I to do this?” de Portau asked, wholly unsurprised by the question. “I am in barracks here, she lives to the southwest of the city. She would take ill to having a stranger skulking about the place, and if she is as attentive as you tell me she is, she is not one to accept excuses.” He bit into his chicken. “Would you want another?”
Charles took a moment to realize that de Portau was asking about chicken. “No,” he answered distractedly. “What if I can persuade the Cardinal to post you to Chatillon t
o watch Eblouir? We know about Jumeau now, so there is reason to suspect that there may be others in that area working against the Cardinal. That is where the danger comes to Olivia, don’t you see?”
“Yes, I do,” said de Portau. “You don’t want your Roman widow in the middle of a crossfire.”
“That’s right,” Charles said, adding, “Isaac, would you do it? If Mazarin approved, would you do it?”
“That would depend,” said de Portau after a short silence. “It would, I think, require the consent of the lady. And it would be necessary for the Cardinal to arrange matters properly with des Essarts. I will have to be given formal leave to do this, Charles.” He bit off more of the chicken, and as he chewed he added, “I don’t want to jeopardize my place in the Musqueteers when they are reinstated.”
“Are you certain they will be?” Charles asked doubtfully.
“Yes; oh, yes, I’m certain they will be.” He wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now we are trying to end wars, and so we do not need our Musqueteers. But soon enough the wars will start up again, and then—poof!—they will want us to reappear like a magician’s poppet. They need Musqueteers to use against cavalry. Put us at the front of the lines and let us shoot the horses out from under the enemy. We can take the brunt of horse and foot soldiers, and there’s precious few troops that can do that and live to boast of it.”
Charles nodded, his mouth full of chicken. He swallowed twice, then was finally able to speak. “It’s a sin to pray for war, but I am a soldier and I want a soldier’s glory.”
“Well, encourage Mazarin to bring back the Musqueteers. And find a way to make the Parlements pay for it.” He tossed away a bit of bone to emphasize it, then watched as a stave-ribbed cat darted out of the shadows to claim it as prize. “I will say this to you, young Gascon—”
“Not so young anymore,” said Charles.
“You are six years my junior, and among soldiers, that is a lifetime,” said de Portau, unwilling to be put off. “I will say this,” he resumed. “I will watch over your widow, and I will respect that she is your widow if des Essarts will allow it. If he will not, then I will do what I can to help you make other arrangements with one you can trust.”
Charles grinned. “You are the best friend a man ever knew, I swear it on my mother’s grave.” He looked across the river toward the dark flank of Notre Dame. “No windows broken there yet. They’re intact.”
“For the time being,” said de Portau, suddenly very dark in his mood. “You don’t know how much I yearn for an honest fight, man against man, matched for strength and weapons, and the right prevail. I hate this game of subterfuge and deceit that we are made to play at.”
Charles nodded slowly, losing his taste for the chicken. “Yes. It is as bad as tainted meat.” He let his skewer drop. The cat appeared again, bristling defiance as it dragged its feast away.
De Portau shied his skewer toward the riverbank and did not watch where it fell, saying, “Let the rats have the rest.” He continued along in silence, and then confided, “There was a man from one of the Dues who came to the tavern, two, three weeks ago. He was careful not to say which Duc. But he offered many advantages—in veiled terms—to the men in the tavern if, when the time came, they would give their support to the nobles rather than the foreign Cardinal and Queen.” He drew out a large handkerchief and wiped his hand, staring down at his fingers in the fading light. “All he said was vague, but everyone knew what he wanted: if the nobles rise, or Parlement resists again, and the magistrates will not bow to Mazarin, we would be expected to look the other way, not to fight, or to fight with the nobles. He implied there were rewards for those who promised their aid now, before the day arrives. It disturbed me, Charles, to see how many of the men were listening to him.”
“Did any of them take his offer? Did they swear to give their allegiance to the nobles or the Parlement?” Charles asked, and held his breath for the answer.
“None that I saw,” de Portau said carefully. “But I listened to how they talked—including Montlezun de Besmaux.”
“He was there?” Charles asked, startled.
“He is everywhere,” said de Portau vehemently. “He is like a weasel, stealing chickens.” His tone lightened. “He looks like a weasel, too. Doesn’t he?”
Charles smiled. “Yes.” It was a relief to be able to say these things to de Portau, for there was no other soldier he knew who was trustworthy enough to keep such damning words to himself. “Why was he there?”
“He said it was for the Cardinal, but I suspect it was for the betterment of the Sieur de Besmaux. He is the sort who would gather information and sell it or his silence to the highest bidder.” He spat to show his contempt. “Poverty is not reason enough to employ that one, and so I would like to tell Mazarin. He has gold in you, and dross in Montlezun de Besmaux.”
“He is ambitious,” said Charles, “but so am I.”
“Yes—he for wealth and influence, and you for a Marshall’s baton.” De Portau pounded Charles on the back, signaling the end of his complaint. “If you arrange it, I will watch over this Roman widow of yours, and doubtless curse myself that I was born a man of honor.”
Charles cuffed him lightly in return. “I will warn Olivia that you are a dangerous rogue.” He laughed outright. “I would give a month’s pay to see what she would do to any man fool enough to try to seduce her.”
“A fire-eater, is she?” de Portau asked wickedly. “Now, that’s tempting.”
“No,” Charles answered, no longer joking. “She is not like that. She can handle a pistol and a sword and she rides better than half the men in mantles do.” He looked past the bulk of the cathedral toward the west. “You’ll understand once you meet her,” he said with certainty.
“You think I will get permission to do this?” de Portau inquired, having less faith in that eventuality than Charles did.
“I believe we must,” said Charles simply. He lapsed into silence, and de Portau accepted it, strolling through the darkening afternoon with his friend. They were almost to the old ferry where livestock were taken across when Charles spoke again. “The nobles will rebel. I am as sure of it as I am of life beyond death. The intendants are an excuse; they want to bring the Throne under their control while Louis is a child, so that he will be in their thrall. It is not only that Mazarin and the Queen are foreign, it is that they will not accept the old authority. They must fight if they are to regain their suzerainty. They must fight or accept the Cardinal as the leader of France, and they will not do that.”
“So more broken windows,” said de Portau philosophically.
“And broken heads, I expect,” said Charles. “Broken windows can be repaired, but broken heads—”
“Such as your widow’s head,” interjected de Portau.
“Among others. There is also the King.” He added the last drily. “There is reason to fear for him, as well.”
De Portau bowed his acknowledgment. “Very well, so it will be arranged and I will keep watch on the widow while you storm the countryside with alarms and warnings.” He snickered. “You didn’t think that you would spend so many hours on horseback when you became a Musqueteer, did you?”
“No,” said Charles, and could not resist adding, “but luckily Olivia provides me with excellent horses.” He ducked as de Portau took a playful punch at him, returning it in the same spirit, and grinning as their hands slapped together. “Be good to her, and she may give you one as well.”
“For your sake, no doubt,” said de Portau.
“No doubt,” Charles seconded, then turned as he heard the sound of breaking glass some way behind them. “Nom du Nom du Nom,” he muttered.
De Portau put his hands on his hips. “It will get worse, boy; I warn you. It will take a while, but the boldest are carrying slings now, and others will join them, some because it is the fashion, and some because they want advantage.” He rocked back on the thick heels of his boots. “I hate these skirmishes
in the streets. I hate barricades.”
“It will be settled before then,” said Charles confidently.
“No it won’t,” de Portau contradicted him emphatically.
“When the peace is made, all this will be forgotten,” said Charles, pointing at the newly broken window. “This is the last of the war, being fought here.” He thought over what he had said and decided he had done it neatly. “When we have peace again, the nobles will stop this constant wrangling.”
“You’re wrong,” said de Portau, holding up a single finger to punctuate his pronouncement. “It is when peace comes that the nobles will be more fractious than ever. There will be nothing for them to do but brood on the powers they have lost to the First Minister, and that will ferment like bad wine. You wait. Two weeks after the victory Te Deum every window on this quai will be broken.” He stopped as he once again heard the sound of breakage. “Now it is a single window here and there. Later it will be every window, everywhere.”
“You’ve turned into a cynic,” said Charles.
“I was born one,” de Portau corrected him. “But that is nothing. Soldiers are cynics by profession.” He winked at Charles and said softly, “Are you aware we are being followed?”
“I thought we were earlier,” said Charles in some alarm, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder or draw attention to them in any other way, “but I did not think that they were still with us. Three men, do you think?”
“Two men, in long cloaks, look like deckhands, both of them. They’re by that knife sharpener. Not the place I want them to be,” he added. “It might give them ideas I don’t want them to have. Knives are what that lot favor.”
“I have my sword,” Charles said indignantly. “And I don’t fear a fight.”
“Oh, Devil take your sword. You’re the Cardinal’s courier, and you do not honor your duty to Mazarin by brawling in the street. And des Essarts would have me flogged for it. This is not the place to stop them, in any case.”
“How do you mean?” Charles asked, feeling encouraged by this last. “You have a plan to catch them?”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 52
