“His friend,” Olivia repeated. “De Portau?”
“Yes. They were Musqueteers together. De Portau is with the King’s Guard. His record is very good, and I doubt you need worry once he is present.”
“I already have Niklos,” Olivia pointed out. The idea of entrusting her safety to a stranger did not appeal to her at all.
“He has other things to do than guard you,” Mazarin said, dismissing Niklos. “I think you require someone who will have it as his duty to accompany you and be certain you are not harmed no matter where you go.”
“Is that truly needed?” Olivia asked, hating the plan already. She despised being watched and guarded and hampered and confined. “Can’t there be another way? It’s as bad as being in prison, Eminence, to be guarded in that way.”
Mazarin smiled. “You love to overstate your case,” he observed. “I am aware of your dislike of constraint, but in this instance, your good sense will prevail. You need a guard until the nobles and the Parlements have accepted the intendants and once more taken steps to supply the army in the field. All those in my service will be at hazard. Take this de Portau in as your guard, for d’Artagnan’s sake if not mine. He will be no earthly use to me if he is forever caught in worries about you.” He glanced out the window. “I used to love the windmills. Now they remind me of … enemy ships, I suppose.” He touched his hands together. “You’re a sensible woman, Olivia. I shouldn’t have to remind you what is wanted at this time. You have been through enough to know that you must protect yourself until this dispute I have with the nobles is resolved.”
“But you cannot send me back to Roma?” she persisted. “It isn’t something I could do overnight, Eminence. I will require two or three months to be fully prepared, and you know that a household moves slowly in travel. How could such preparations appear like the beginning of flight when they are so complex and slow?” She watched his face, trying to fathom his thoughts by his expression and the angle of his head.
The coach lurched, the two men on the box swore loudly, and for a moment the carriage canted alarmingly. Then it rocked back onto the road, the horses whinnying in distress, one of the lackeys riding behind yelling out that he had almost broken his arm and the next time he’d like a warning.
In the carriage both Mazarin and Olivia reached for the hand-loops by the door, but neither was quick enough. They were tossed onto the seats and the papers in the leather case went slithering across the seats and onto the floor. As soon as the coach was back on the road, Olivia knelt and began to gather up the papers, handing them silently to Mazarin.
“Take care you get them all,” he warned her, a little breathless from being flung around.
She made a careful check when she was through and found one small notecard lodged between the upholstered squabs. As she handed this to Mazarin, she said, “You might always tell the world that you disapprove of my affair with Charles, or that my uncles want me to marry again.”
“What uncles?” His challenge received no answer, nor did he expect one. Mazarin did not press the matter. “When your house was destroyed in Tours, I supposed that it was done by the brigands in the area, and that the tertiary Brother they captured was only a scapegoat to permit the brigands to escape unscathed from their own nefarious act. But when you told me that the chief of the brigands is the brother of your major domo there, and had once been major domo himself, I was less certain about the brigands. That is one of the reasons Abbe Gottard has kept me informed on this tertiary Brother, and why we are all distressed that he escaped and has not been recaptured.” He gave Olivia a short time to respond; when she did not, he continued, “You do not believe that this man was anything more than a misled or angry peasant, do you?”
“Peasants have enrolled in the army,” said Olivia, curious though she did not want to be. “From what you have learned, I can think of no reason to assume that this man was anything more than a cashiered peasant soldier who was angry that he could not find work at the stud farm. You are flinching at shadows, Eminence, and there are too many real dangers around you for you to waste time with this.” She adjusted the fall of her skirts. “Eminence, listen to me,” she went on persuasively, “who can you think of who would bother to come all the way to Tours—Tours, Saints save us!—establish himself at a monastery just for the pleasure of blowing up my house?”
Mazarin took a long breath. “I do not want to find out you are mistaken, Olivia,” he warned her affectionately. “I have reason enough to know that there are the most adamant foes who will lie in wait for you for years. I do not want you plagued by one such because of me.”
“But I am neither Cardinal nor First Minister of France,” she said reasonably. “I am a widow in your embassy, and it makes sense to me that it is your embassy that is being threatened, not Atta Olivia Clemens of Roma.” Her hazel eyes grew brighter. “And if it turns out that someone is attempting to disgrace you through me, then we will have to deal with that trouble as it arises.” She reached across the narrow space between the seats and patted the dispatch case. “There are more pressing concerns in these sheets, Eminence, and you would do well to review them. It is not fitting that your position should be compromised because of gossip about me. That priest who takes your messages to the Vatican from time to time—Pere Chape—he might be called upon to help us if we have more trouble.”
Mazarin listened to her attentively, and was almost convinced she was correct. “I have to review our agreements with Sweden. Now that this endless war is almost concluded, we have certain concessions each of us must make for the benefit of the other. They are valiant fighters, the Swedes, but I do not comprehend their temperament.”
“They were not always as they are now,” said Olivia, remembering the iron-helmeted Norsemen who had come a-viking up the rivers of France and England, drunk with mead and the thrill of battle.
“War has taken a toll of us all,” said Mazarin, not understanding her. They were approaching Chatillon now, and Mazarin began to relax. “Away from Paris, I am less troubled than when I can see broken windows. In Paris I fully expect a Parlementaire to challenge me to defend my honor.”
“Challenge a Cardinal?” Olivia asked, knowing that to do so was to be excommunicated, which not even the boldest of Parlementaires would risk. “Who is foolish enough to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Mazarin admitted with a shame-faced smile. “But that does not rid me of the sense that it will happen. And in a way,” he went on thoughtfully, “I would not mind, for it would end this uncertainty and suspicion that has been my daily fare for so long.”
“If you wish it ended, why not demand it, rather than waiting for one of the others to act? Insist that the nobles or the Parlementaires state their case at once or cease their protests.” She knew it was not as simply done as she proposed, but she did not like to see Mazarin so harried.
“How?” asked Mazarin, his dark brown eyes on hers. “And how can I do it without exposing the Queen and the King to the machinations of the nobles? You know how that would be—the King would end up in the hands of a different regent and the Queen would be returned to Spain in disgrace. I have an oath to defend, Olivia.” He glanced out the window again. “The turn to Eblouir,” he said as the coach rounded a curve a bit too sharply.
Olivia righted herself on the seat. “You will have a change of horses from my stable, and I will arrange for your escort to be fed,” she said, repeating the offer she had made earlier. “If you decide that you would rather, there is room to house you for the night, and it would honor me to—” She had been looking out the window toward her chateau, and as it came into view, she fell silent, her face frozen.
“What is it?” asked Mazarin when she did not go on. “Olivia? Is something the matter?”
Her voice did not sound like her own. “All the windows are broken,” she said.
Mazarin looked stricken as she spoke. “What?”
“All the windows are broken,” she repeated, lifting the
shutter on the window to get a better look at the chateau as the coach came up the drive and through the arch of the gate.
“God and the Angels,” whispered Mazarin as he raised his window’s shutter.
“Niklos,” said Olivia, unable to keep from staring at the ruined windows, blind as empty eye sockets. “Where are the servants?” Impulsively she reached out as if to open the door of the carriage, but Mazarin restrained her.
“In a short while, cara mia,” he told her gently. “Let the driver bring the coach to the stable and stop before you try to get out.” He crossed himself, then reached out to take her hand. “I never intended any of this to touch you.”
“But it has. First at Tours and now here,” she said, wanting to scream at him for the satisfaction of screaming.
“If I could apologize, Madama, I would do it, on my knees.” He folded his hands and murmured a prayer before looking at her directly and saying, “You will have to come back to Paris with me. We will arrange it now. Your staff will send along the things you need—clothes, horses, whatever you designate—but you will come back with me. Tonight.” Now that he was aware of the danger near her, he was without the doubts that had so tormented him earlier.
“You said yourself that Paris is not safe,” Olivia reminded him, a bit nonplused at his change of demeanor.
“No, but safer than this,” he said, indicating Eblouir as the coach drew up in the stable courtyard. “Let my men—” he warned, but before he could finish, Olivia had opened the door and got out.
“Niklos!” she shouted as she started toward the pantry door. “Niklos Aulirios!” It was hard not to call for Meres as well, though Meres was dead. “Niklos!”
With the aid of his lackey, Mazarin descended from the carriage and came to her side. “My men will search the house.”
“I’ll do it,” said Olivia as she gathered up her skirts, cursing their cumbersome abundance, and began to run toward the pantry door.
“Madama!” Mazarin called after her, but she would not stop.
As she reached the door, she discovered it was bolted from the inside. She cried out in frustration, then started around toward the rear entrance to the house, between the creamery and her bath. She did not bother to check her speed, but let her enormous vampire strength take her. Behind her she heard one of Mazarin’s escort exclaim in astonishment, but she ran on.
Around the back of the house, the heavy walls that framed the open hearth of the kitchen and the backing of the huge ovens. Then past the shed containing cut wood, and at last to the little door that led to the dressing room adjoining her bath. As her hands closed on the ring latch, she felt the door open to her.
“Olivia,” said Niklos, hugging her as she rushed into his arms. “I was afraid you would come back while they were still here.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at his face. “You’re not hurt?”
“Not I. There are a few in the household who are bruised, and two are cut a little. As soon as that group that said they were a hunting party came through the garden, I ordered all the doors bolted and windows barred. We didn’t have time to put up the shutters. Well, you know that, don’t you?” He patted her back and looked away, slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t want you to see the house like this.”
“Did you think you could repair it in an hour or two?” Olivia asked, her voice shaking just a little. “Magna Mater! is there any window that isn’t broken?”
“Less than a dozen.” Niklos released her. “But I could have had one of the grooms meet you on the road, to tell you that the place was … under siege.” He took her hand and led her down the narrow hall back toward the kitchen. “Most of the servants are in their dining room. The windows there are high, and protected. The lackeys did a good job, Olivia. And the grooms helped, after they secured the stables. There was only one horse injured, and he was out in his paddock. We didn’t have long enough to bring him in.” They had almost reached the kitchen; he stopped her and said in a low voice, “Most of the staff are upset. Some of them are angry.”
“I am not surprised. I am upset and angry, myself,” said Olivia with asperity, then softened her tone. “You mean that they may blame me.”
“Yes,” said Niklos bluntly. “The men in the hunting party shouted your name.”
“That probably wasn’t all they shouted,” she said sardonically, then remarked, “You’d better let in Mazarin and his escort. They’re waiting outside, trampling the broken glass into the courtyard, no doubt.” She looked at Niklos with a direct, intent stare. “We have dealt with worse, you and I.”
“That we have,” said Niklos, his attitude at its most stalwart, with doubt showing only in his ruddy-brown eyes. “I will tend to the Cardinal and his men.” He looked toward the alcove of the pantry door. “Will they deign to come in through the kitchen?”
“They’d better; they’re not coming in any other way,” Olivia said, and started toward the servants’ dining room. She looked back at Niklos once. “We will manage, old friend.”
He answered with a gesture of affirmation.
In the servants’ dining room, discussion was carried on in irate, hushed voices. The two cooks bickered about the ruined garden, the scullions listening with distress in their young faces. Four of the lackeys were trying to explain to the others and one another why the hunting party had dared to attack the house. The other three lackeys were too disgusted to join them, but kept to haughty silence. The grooms were restless, just like the horses in the stable, though only one of them actually made any complaint. Of the five maids, one was sitting with a wet cloth on her forehead, another was applying ointment to a bruise on the senior lackey’s arm, and the other three were sitting apart from the rest, their heads together.
Olivia opened the door and stepped inside, waiting for her servants to give their attention before she closed the door. “I am pleased that there were no serious injuries to any of you,” she said, schooling herself to speak calmly. “I am also chagrined that you should have to endure this while in my employ.” She looked from one servant to the next, making an effort to meet the eyes of each in turn. “What has happened here is inexcusable, for you as well as for me, and it is intolerable for you to remain here as long as risks such as this remain.”
One of the maids put a shaking hand to her mouth too late to stop the sob of worry. A lackey looked away in disgust.
Olivia ignored these things. “I cannot require any servant in my employ to face danger in my name. It is not honorable for me to do this; I will not demand it of you.” She moved a few steps into the room. “I will arrange for each of you to be given a full year’s pay, as well as the salary for all of May. If you have family depending on your earnings, inform Aulirios and I will make provision for you and for them so that no one need suffer privation because of what these arrogant noblemen have done.” She looked at one of her grooms. “Is the stable all right?”
“They wanted to break windows; most of the horses didn’t interest them. They took after Jeudi because he was loose, and he liked to jump.” He looked away from Olivia to some place on the floor near the table leg. “One of them shot him. It was the only time they fired a pistol. For the windows it was slings and stones. They rode around the house, shouting and breaking windows. Jeudi was so excited…” His voice trailed off, and guiltily he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“They wanted to shame you, Madame,” said one of the new lackeys. “They called you many names that nobles should not use to well-born women.” His stare was insolent. “But you are a foreigner and in the suite of Mazarin. There may be some truth in their accusations.”
Three of the others were nodding in agreement when the door opened behind Olivia and Mazarin swept into the room, his hand with his episcopal ring extended.
Though most of Olivia’s staff had seen Mazarin from time to time when he visited Eblouir, they had never been subjected to one of his full state entrances. All but two of them dropped to their
knees at once; the maid with the cloth on her forehead slid from her chair to the floor in a swoon.
“Someone attend to her,” said Mazarin, indicating the unfortunate woman. “You,” he went on, selecting the youngest lackey. “See that she is decorously seated at once.” He gave the gathering his blessing, then, as they arranged themselves once more, he said, “Your mistress has been ill-used by those whose birth should render such abuse impossible. If you think otherwise, you do her and me a disservice.” He walked past Olivia to the modest hearth and used that as his pulpit. “For her good service and loyal aid, I am taking Bondame Clemens to Paris, where she will not be subjected to insults of this sort again. I will dispatch workers to repair this chateau. And when it is repaired and ready, it will be hers to use again, if she will be gracious and forgiving enough to accept it.” He made an eloquent and courteous gesture to Olivia, then continued to her servants, “You can offer thanks for such a mistress in your prayers, as you will pray for the redemption of those who have done this disgraceful act. Not many households in France can boast of a more just mistress than Bondame Clemens, and none has one more kind.” Again he offered his blessing in his grandest manner, then moved impressively to the door. “If I hear that any of you were party to what happened here, it will go hard for you.” He nodded gravely once, and left the room.
Olivia stood still, aware that her servants were staring at her with stronger and more mixed emotions than before. She gathered her thoughts with an effort. “For the time that the Cardinal has been magnanimous enough to order Eblouir repaired, your salaries will continue unless you would rather seek employment elsewhere, in which case Aulirios will provide you with a recommendation. Those who wish to remain will be paid as I have stated already.” She looked around, feeling as if she stood on shifting sands. “I must inspect the damage,” she added, and left the room, knowing that nothing would be said among the servants until she was gone.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 54
