“Alessandro, Cardinal Bichi,” said Niklos, one dark brow raised. “Very interesting.”
“That it is. First Bagni and now Bichi. How curious.” She made sure the door was closed. “Niklos, for my sake, I want you to listen to what the courier tells me.”
“That may be nothing,” said Niklos without much feeling. “For that matter, he may know nothing.”
“True enough,” said Olivia, now doing her best to shake off the oppression of spirit that had taken hold of her. “I wonder if we’ll hear from Barberini next—that would cover the French faction at the Vatican, wouldn’t it? Bagni’s note was covert. I will wager three gold angels that this messenger is unofficial as well.”
Niklos shrugged. “And what is the official excuse for his being here?”
“Doubtless he is bringing greetings of the season for the holidays. I am wealthy enough that it isn’t strange.” The fatigue was back in her face once more. “It’s foolish of me, to miss so much.”
“And you do not mean all that has vanished, do you,” said Niklos gently, very softly.
“No,” whispered Olivia. Then she took hold of herself again. “Well, I had better see to this messenger before he decides that I am avoiding him.”
“Wise enough,” said Niklos. “I will need a little time to conceal myself.” He indicated the room, nodding toward the small inner door that led to Olivia’s private apartments. “Are you going to change shoes?”
She looked down at the tips of her toes emerging from beneath her skirt. “Probably not. Though I wish these were not so treacherous to balance on.”
“You always say that about your shoes.” He made a gesture of mock helplessness. “Except when you say that they are less than slippers and are good for nothing.”
Finally Olivia laughed, and though the sound was tinged with a kind of grief, it was better than the wildness that had been in her voice earlier that evening. “You’re right, and I am clearly being impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Niklos corrected gently. “Just unhappy.”
She could not answer at once. “You know me too well, old friend.” With that she gave a tug to her skirt so that it would hang properly, and started resolutely toward the door.
“What are you going to tell him?” Niklos asked.
“I don’t know what he has to say to me.” She opened the door and looked out into the hallway. “By the way, we will need new lanthorns at the door by tomorrow.”
“I will attend to it myself,” said Niklos, and watched her close the door. He tapped his fingers together, trying to assess her mood, feeling greater concern for her than he had been willing to reveal to her. Now, there was a strong line between his black brows and his ruddy-brown eyes were deep and troubled. He gave a short, hard sigh and crossed the room, cursing his shoes as he went.
By the time he slipped into the concealed room beside the salon, Niklos had resigned himself to his distress. He adjusted the old-fashioned oil lamp that hung in the little chamber and slid back the panel behind the largest painting in the salon. Now he could observe most of the chamber without being seen.
The Cardinal’s personal courier was a young man, dressed in elaborately Spanish style—the preferred mode at the Papal Court—that was the worse for being rained on.
“You wished to see me?” Olivia said as she entered the salon unannounced. Her expression was carefully neutral and her words, though polite enough, did not encourage elaborate courtesy.
“Bondama Clemens?” said the courier, starting to bow and then hesitating.
“Yes.” She indicated one of the two upholstered benches that faced the windows, dark and rain-spangled now. “Please. Be comfortable.”
This time he did bow properly. “How good of you to receive me while you are entertaining guests.”
“All the more reason to come to the point,” said Olivia with asperity. “You have something to say, pray do so.”
The courier sat down and shook out his bedraggled, shoulder-length curls. “I have been asked to arrange a meeting, if you are willing.”
“That depends on who the other parties are,” said Olivia with a slight, firm smile.
“Cardinal Bichi is eager for you to meet with Giulio Mazarini.” He did not look at her. “They have certain things they would like to discuss with you.”
“The same sort of thing that Cardinal Bagni might have mentioned to me?” Olivia suggested. “Or are you not at liberty to say.”
“Well,” the courier responded warily, “I have no knowledge of what the Cardinal might have said to you—”
Olivia shook her head in exasperation. “You have a very good idea, though you might not know the precise words. It has to do with Mazarini’s going to France. I assume this is more of the same.”
“It is … related,” said the courier. He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “There are many who oppose this cause, and there are risks. You are a widow, and the Cardinals would understand if you were not willing to—”
“As a widow,” Olivia interrupted, “I am especially useful to the Cardinals, and I would appreciate it if none of us denied that. I have no family to hold me here, and no family to demand difficult explanations from any Eminence who might be involved.”
This time the courier made no attempt to answer. “I would like to tell my master that you will agree to a meeting.”
Olivia held up her hand. “Why—other than my widowhood—am I so sought-after?” Before the courier could answer, she provided the reason herself. “It is my stud farm near Tours, isn’t it? I have an excuse to be there, and there need be no explanation for my inclusion in Mazarini’s suite.”
“It … it is a factor.” The courier was staring at her now, partly in fascination, partly in repulsion. “The Cardinals might not … feel the same…” His gesture was intended to be an answer, but it was not successful.
“I suppose I have no reason to be surprised.” She went to the window and stared out past the glistening raindrops to the darkness. “And if not now, then they will try another time, won’t they? Your master can be most insistent.”
“Madama?” the courier asked, pretending not to understand.
“I know the Cardinals of old.” She looked toward the vast allegorical canvas showing Susannah and the Elders, ironically amused to know that her gaze met Niklos’. “Once they are determined on a course, it is an accomplished thing.”
“They are the lieutenants of the Pope,” said the courier dutifully.
“When it suits their purposes.” Olivia shook her head once, making up her mind. “All right. Tell your Cardinal Bichi that I will meet with him and with Mazarini—though he and I have encountered each other once or twice before—and any of the rest of them.”
The courier regarded her directly. “You would journey to Francia if it were necessary?”
This time Olivia took a little time to answer, and regarded the painting of Susannah fixedly as she did. “Certainly. If it is necessary.” Her smile was the more enchanting for its sadness.
Text of a letter from Giulio Mazarini to Cardinal Richelieu, written in Latin and carried by Richelieu’s personal courier.
To the man who is most surely the hero of France and the model of all men of principle and purpose, at Paris; under seal and under the rose.
Rest assured that I have continued with the plans we have agreed upon, and that although there has not been as rapid an accommodation made as either of us would like to have, I remain confident and tranquil in the sureness that God could not have brought me to you only to have me fail in our great purpose.
The Cardinals who join in our cause have continued with their aid and assistance, both openly and privately; I am confident that there will be a satisfactory resolution to our venture in the very near future. So certain am I of this happy outcome that I have already begun to arrange for my companions in anticipation of my coming again to France. As you recommend, I have selected my suite from among Romans who have some interest in
either my family or in France. My nieces are full of schemes; in their delight they indulge in every joyous whimsey in their plans for their arrival in Paris.
I have offered prayers for your returning health every morning and evening. I am convinced that God will not require you to abandon your goal with it so nearly accomplished, and you will be restored once more to your full strength. Without doubt you will be spared—and with God’s Grace you will once again flourish as you have before. Be staunch and cheerful, for France has become great while you guided her in the Name of God and the King; such greatness cannot be swept away by a single misfortune.
Extend my greetings and my prayers to His Gracious Majesty, to Her Majesty the Queen, and beg that I may be permitted to assist them again in years to come.
How much wisdom you have given me, my master and my friend! And how much more I have to learn of you to have the smallest part of your knowledge. I thank God for His Goodness in allowing me to serve you. You are the peace of Europe and the center of the greatest Kingdom on earth, for which God be praised again and again.
With my prayer, my endless gratitude, and the hope that God will shower limitless blessings on you for your excellence,
Giulio Mazarini, Abbe
On the 19th day of February, 1638.
Caveat: to be destroyed.
2
Outside the walls of Roma, most of the roads were mired and rutted; Olivia’s carriage lurched and lumbered through them, her driver cursing the horses and the mud as they went.
“Where are the good Roman roads?” Olivia asked, addressing her personal maid. She hung onto the passenger strap as the coach swayed dangerously, then righted itself and continued on into another deep trough.
“I do not know,” whispered the maid, who held her scent-soaked handkerchief to her face, as if the perfume would prevent the dizziness she felt.
Olivia peered toward the window. “How much longer?” She did not expect an answer and got none. “If I’ve been called out on a fool’s errand, they will regret it.”
“Of course, Madama,” said the maid, her face taking on a greenish tinge. She blotted the cold sweat from her brow and crossed herself.
At that Olivia relented. “I don’t mean to trouble you, Avisa. You have nothing to do with the state of the roads.” She bounced against the back cushions as the carriage shifted to the side; from the box the coachman’s curses grew louder. Olivia saw her maid blush at the string of obscenities he uttered.
Avisa avoided Olivia’s steady gaze. “It is not fit for us to hear such words.”
“Words cannot hurt you, Avisa,” Olivia said gently and ironically. “Fear the things that can, not words.”
“God is offended by such words,” Avisa insisted, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears, but only because it meant giving up her secure hold on the passenger strap.
“Then let God rebuke the coachman, if He’s of a mind to,” Olivia said, adding with a sigh, “It would be easier to unhitch the horses and ride.”
“We are unescorted,” Avisa said, shocked at the notion.
“Lamentably we are,” came Olivia’s response at once. “And you would probably not want me to ride straddle, either.”
“No gentlewoman rides in that manner,” Avisa said firmly, her indignation lessening the nausea she felt.
“This gentlewoman does,” Olivia reminded her. “But not to visit His Holiness,” she went on resignedly. “When do we reach the Via Flaminia? It can’t be that far.”
Avisa did not approve of her mistress calling the roads and towns by their ancient and un-Christian names, but she held her tongue, saying instead, “It’s leagues and leagues.”
“Yes, that is painfully clear.” Olivia tapped on the ceiling of the carriage with her long-handled cane. “Uberto, try not to tip us over, if you please.”
Once again there was a long and colorful string of blasphemies from the coachman’s box, which ended abruptly with a sheepish apology. “Your pardon, Bondama Clemens; it is the road and the Devil that angers me.”
“As well they might,” said Olivia, as much to herself as to Uberto. “I don’t suppose there is another road we could use?”
“There is one, but it is just as bad,” answered Uberto after a slight hesitation. “Possibly worse—it goes by a pig farmers’ village.”
“Spare us the pigs,” said Olivia with a rueful shake of her head. She wanted to say something encouraging, but was not able to find honest expression beyond remarking to Avisa, “Once we reach the Via Flaminia, it will be easier. The old roads are never this muddy, and there are a few milestones, too.” She remembered how diligently the roadbuilders had set up their markers at every thousand standard paces; the markers that remained always stirred her recollection. “The Romans built their roads to last.”
“The old roads are the best,” Avisa agreed, her handkerchief to her mouth once more. “Why does the Pope have to summon you at such a time?” she wondered aloud, then crossed herself. “It is always an honor to be summoned to the Pope, and doubtless His Holiness has excellent—”
“I think it’s a nuisance, too,” said Olivia, to help Avisa from becoming more embroiled in her denial. “But it is the Abbe, you see.”
“Why is he so important? Why does the French Cardinal want him? Hasn’t he Cardinals enough in France?” Avisa turned her bewildered eyes on Olivia.
“Oh, there are French Cardinals, and they are from noble families, most of them, and France is a kingdom at war and internally divided.” She sighed. “They do not want France to be another Germany, with Catholics and Protestants killing each other year on year on year.” She tapped the arm of the coach. “So they are looking for a man with dependable loyalties, who will not be suborned as some of the others have been.”
When they had gone a little farther the left rear wheel bogged down a second time. Olivia thought of Niklos, riding on ahead of them to Pope Urbano’s retreat to set up her apartments there. She wished now she had ridden with him; in another time she would have. In another time: such little words, she thought, and innocent-sounding. Who would believe what they meant to her? Quickly she reminded herself that in those long-vanished days she would have required an armed guard as well, and would not have been assured of her welcome or comfort once she arrived, not after the Empire failed.
At last the carriage came free of the mud. Uberto blessed and cursed the vehicle and his team of four blood-bays indiscriminately, then scrambled back onto the coachman’s box, bellowing over his shoulder to the two footmen hurrying to take their places once again on the rear of the coach. “We are moving, Madama!” he announced loudly.
Olivia restrained the urge to give a sharp answer, and said only, “Thank God.”
“And the horses and the footmen; they got us out. If God wants to give us real help, He’ll get rid of the mud.” Uberto whistled and the team moved a little faster. “Never fear, Madama. We will arrive safely.”
“You reassure me,” said Olivia drily, looking at Avisa whose pallor was more marked than before. She leaned forward and touched her maid’s hand. “Do you need anything of me?”
Avisa shook her head several times. “I need to stop moving. It disturbs me to move so much.” She put one hand over her mouth. “I am ashamed.”
“You have no reason to be,” said Olivia. “Carriages do not upset me, but put me on any boat, and I suffer as you do now.” She sighed once. “If it helps you, consider that.”
Uberto shouted something; the coach stopped, shuddering as the horses tried to drag it free of a deep rut.
“Not again,” muttered Avisa.
“I have an idea,” Olivia declared, her patience all but exhausted. “There is a footpath beside the road here. Let us get out and walk awhile. It isn’t raining enough to matter, and with the coach lighter, it will be out of the mud faster.”
“Our clothes…” Avisa said uncertainly.
“They can be brushed later, or disgarded, if that is necessary. But you
would be the better for fresh air and I would be more pleased if I did not have to sit in this cramped box.” She reached for the doorlatch.
“But if our clothes are ruined, and we must attend upon the Papal court…” Avisa stopped, her hands trembling in her lap. “Madama, we must not.”
“The Pope will not be concerned about our clothes, Avisa. We have our reception garments in the trunks, in any case. Come. Put your zoccoli on.” She indicated the wooden shoes tucked under the seat. “And lift your skirts when we get out. It doesn’t matter if Uberto sees your sottane—for he has undoubtedly seen such before.”
Avisa looked even more shocked. “Tell him and the others to look away,” she insisted as she untied her soft kid shoes and pulled on the clumsy, utilitarian zoccoli.
“Of course, if you wish,” said Olivia, changing her shoes as well. “But do not fear that Uberto will pay much attention to us. He has his team to consider.” She listened to the sounds the horses made, frowning as she realized how fretful the team was. “Be quick.”
“I am ready, Madama,” said Avisa as he pulled her cloak around her shoulders and raised the soft hood. “Take your muff.”
“I don’t need a muff,” said Olivia as she fastened her long, fur-trimmed chatelaine over her clothes. “Take mine if your hands are cold,” she added as she saw Avisa shiver.
“It isn’t fitting that I should,” the maid protested halfheartedly. “But I am cold.”
“Then take it,” said Olivia, pulling her muff from under the seat and shoving it at Avisa. She rapped on the carriage wall again, this time sharply. “Uberto! Avisa and I are getting out while you free the carriage.”
“But—” the coachman began to protest.
“We will walk along the path with one of the footmen; you may choose which.” She opened the carriage door. “Will one of you lend us a hand?”
Uberto hesitated an instant longer, then shouted, “Guido! Tend to our Bondama!”
The slighter of the two footmen scrambled off the back of the coach, clutching his heavy woolen cape around him. His face was set with cold. As he brought down the passenger steps, he gave a little bow to Olivia, holding out his arm to her, too scared to speak.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 2