A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He would have that use no matter where I lived,” said Olivia in her most pragmatic manner. “I would be worse than a fool if I were not willing to provide such a trifle for the Abbe and his couriers.” She turned toward the window again, watching men in the distant field bent over to harvest vegetables. How pleasant they looked, graceful as dancers, and how grueling the work was for the men doing it.

  Avisa tried not to look out the window. It was apparent that she did not enjoy watching the world go by. She clutched her sachet more tightly and struggled to find a more comfortable position to sit. “I fear my foot has gone to sleep,” she said a short while later.

  “If you stand on it, it will be better,” Olivia said distantly.

  “Stand on it?” Avisa protested. “It will be full of pins then. Besides, how can I stand in a moving carriage?”

  “If you bend at the waist you will manage it.” Olivia leaned forward to indicate what she meant. “It will feel like pins no matter when or where you stand on it.”

  Avisa shook her head, her frown deepening. “I’d be sick, Madama, if I did that.”

  “Then by all means stay sitting,” Olivia said at once. She turned to the place on the seat beside her where a leather case rested. “I have some willow bark tea—it’s cold, of course—and that might help you.”

  “Madama, it isn’t proper for me to take your stores,” said Avisa, her manner that of a guilty child.

  “Come to that, it isn’t proper for you to be sick in my carriage, either,” said Olivia with asperity. “Have the tea and be done with it.” She took a sealed jar from the case and held it out to Avisa.

  “Madama…” she faltered, wanting the willow bark tea and at the same time knowing it was improper to accept it.

  “Magna Mater, what is the problem? Drink the tea and you will be better. Where is the difficulty with that? I have no use for the tea myself, and this evening I will prepare more of it for tomorrow.” Her exasperation made her speak crisply but there was a softening in her face. “I know what it is to feel ill, Avisa. There is no reason for you to suffer on my account.”

  Avisa nodded and against her better judgment accepted the jar. “The seal?”

  “Use your knife to pry it off,” Olivia recommended. She watched as Avisa struggled with the jar. “Don’t drink it too quickly; it works better if you take many small sips instead of a few large ones.”

  “Why is that, Madama?” Avisa asked as she pried the seal off and lifted the jar to her lips.

  “It is the nature of the willow bark. Some herbs are better taken quickly, some are better taken slowly. Willow bark is one of the slow ones, along with pansy. Ginger teas are better taken quickly.” She frowned as the coach slowed. “We are walking again.”

  Avisa, trying to drink the tea in many small sips, could only nod for a comment.

  “I know we cannot trot forever, especially the rear wagons with such heavy loads, but when we walk, I believe we will never arrive.” Her eyes clouded as she thought of the many times she had left Roma and how she had gone. The last time she had lived away she had gone to London, curious to see the country governed by a woman. For nineteen years she had remained there, after the death of Elizabeth and into the curious reign of James. She had kept a horse farm a day’s ride from London, living quietly there, keeping away from the court. She had had two lovers during that time, one she still remembered with great fondness, the other with grief. It had been pleasant, but it was not Roma and in time the pull of her native earth was all but unbearable.

  “Madama? What is it?” Avisa was holding out the empty jar. “I have finished, Madama.”

  Olivia shook herself. “Thank you, Avisa,” she said as she took the jar and put it back in the leather case. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Do not worry about Senza Pari,” said Avisa, mistaking Olivia’s meaning. “Uberto will do his duty as soon as he returns and Gaetano is a capable steward.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Olivia. “That was not what troubled me.”

  “And you must not be afraid of Nino. Men like that only make threats. He will do nothing more than bluster,” Avisa said with great confidence. “Nino is a sot. Sots are only interested in wine; their vengeance is lost with the next full cup.”

  “I hope you are right,” Olivia said.

  “Of course I am right,” Avisa insisted. “Men of that stamp make threats and promises with equal ease, but all that moves them is wine.” She wagged her finger at Olivia. “You are not to be concerned about the likes of him, not with the Abbe Mazarini needing your aid. It is not fitting for you to be distracted from his requests by the likes of Nino.”

  Olivia nodded. “As you say, it is foolish to worry. I am going into Francia. He is … wherever he has gone.” The admission that she did not know Nino’s whereabouts was more bothersome to Olivia than she wanted to admit; there was something about Nino that worried her more than appeared necessary.

  “Which is not Francia,” Avisa declared, as if that had been a possibility. “It is too far for a man like that to go when there is wine aplenty to be had here or in Roma. He will forget what he has said by the next full moon.” Her scorn was so complete that Olivia decided there was no point in challenging her conviction.

  “Firenze to Pisa to Genova to Torino to Chambery to Lyon. Then Paris,” Olivia said the last in French dreamily, reciting the rest of their route in an emotionless tone. “They tell me it will be at least thirty days before we reach our destination.”

  Avisa sighed and her face blanched. “Thirty days in a coach. I wish we could be there in half the time. I do not like the motion; it upsets me.”

  “Would you prefer to walk?” Olivia suggested with a slight smile. She had covered far greater distances on foot herself but had never come to enjoy it.

  “It is a long way, Madama.” She was looking down at the sachet in her hand again, afraid of the answer her question might receive. “Would you prefer I ride with the other servants part of the way?”

  “I may,” said Olivia and, seeing the shock in Avisa’s face, went on soothingly, “but only if either of us becomes ill.” She stared down at the floor, as if seeing through the boards to the lining of earth. “Or if I am too tired and need to rest.”

  “You never rest. You do not sleep at night.” Avisa brought her head up sharply. “I know; I have seen you go to your library after midnight.”

  This alarmed Olivia; having her servants aware of her long solitary hours meant that she would have to be even more circumspect than she already was. She made a dismissing gesture as she strove to keep her composure. “Well, many another has trouble sleeping. If I cannot sleep, I might as well improve my mind with reading as lie in bed and fret.” It was in the deepest part of the night that she visited various men as a dream. It was the only contact she had permitted herself for several decades.

  “If you believe that is wise,” said Avisa. “I was warned that too much reading leads to brain fever.”

  “Brain fever,” Olivia repeated, thinking of all the other caveats against reading and learning she had heard over the centuries. “Yet, as you see, I have not taken brain fever.”

  “Not yet, no,” Avisa agreed darkly.

  “Why would reading bring on such a malady?” Olivia could not resist asking, repelled and amused at once.

  “It excites the brain,” said Avisa somberly. “It is more dangerous in females than in males.”

  “Because we are less capable of learning?” Olivia suggested sarcastically, but was not surprised when Avisa gave her a serious answer.

  “Yes, in large part. I beg you, Madama, do not read overmuch. If you impair your health, you will not be able to assist the Abbe.”

  “Of course,” said Olivia, realizing—as she had suspected from the first—that Avisa would place Mazarini’s importance above her own. In spite of her understanding, Olivia was annoyed to discover her own servant more devoted to Mazarini than to her, and it took considerable will to keep from falli
ng into an argument with Avisa.

  “The honor the Abbe has shown you—” Avisa began.

  “Yes, yes, I am aware of it,” Olivia interrupted. “And I know what is expected of me. That was made clear enough, and I have agreed to the requirements. Never fear, I will not shame Giulio Mazarini, even when he is Jules Mazarin.” She leaned back against the squabs and tried to keep her temper under control. She had little to say after that until they stopped for the night at the Fiori d’Oro, and then she confined herself to a few requests and instructions before retiring to the best room in the hostelry.

  In Firenze Olivia took half a day to wander amid the treasures of the Medicis, remembering the heartbreaking letters she had had from Sanct’ Germain when he lived here, almost a hundred fifty years ago. The statuary and paintings took her breath away; the Battistero doors awed her; the Laurentian library astonished her. At another time she might have been content to remain there for a while, but she was not at liberty to be idle, and secretly she feared that her melancholy might become greater if she permitted herself to think of the wonderful things that were lost in the Bonfires of Vanities when Savonarola had ruled the city. Reluctantly she got back into her coach and the train and outriders went on to Pisa and the Universita where students gathered to discuss law and astronomy in the shadow of the famous leaning tower.

  Turning north up the coast, the five carriages were slowed by brisk winds off the sea. A number of squalls, early for that time of year, disrupted traffic on the coast roads and endangered shipping from Sicilia to the south coast of Francia.

  “I am sorry, Madama,” said Uberto as they pulled into an inn-yard at mid-afternoon. “They say the road ahead has been washed out, and we will have to wait here until it is safe.”

  “When will that be?” Olivia asked, trying to be civil.

  “They say day after tomorrow. I beg you, Madama, take rooms here and wait for the repairs to be made. It would mean a far greater delay if we were to be caught in a slide. We could lose one of the carriages or wagons. We might have injuries. The horses might be hurt. Or the outriders could be lost.” His smile was nervous and ingratiating.

  “Yes,” said Olivia quietly. “Yes, I do understand your concern. Very well. Speak to the landlord. I will want my own parlor. I will pay for however many of this train he can house. Since the horses worry you, you might as well make sure the teams get good feed while they’re resting, as well.” She dropped to the ground without recourse to the steps. “At least I am not moving anymore. That is something favorable.”

  “Madama,” said Uberto, “I am very sorry we must wait here. I trust it will not disrupt the Abbe’s plans.”

  “It is disrupting my plans,” Olivia said abruptly, then relented. “Pay no heed to me, Uberto. My legs ache and my head is splitting. I don’t blame you for the weather and the roads.”

  He bowed, removing his battered hat as he did. “You are gracious, Madama.”

  Olivia did her best to laugh but was not wholly successful. She noticed that the innkeeper was asking a higher price of those going north, confident that it would be met. That sort of minor venality irritated her, and at another time she would have been tempted to argue with him, but not now. With a sigh she laid out the gold coins that would purchase bed and board for herself, her servants, coachmen and outriders, and stalls and feed for her horses.

  The landlord cast a furtive eye over his elegant guest. “What’s a fine lady doing traveling without husband?” he asked as he took a ring of keys from the wall.

  “That is an impertinent question,” said Olivia.

  Shrugging, the landlord gave a single snort of laughter. “There’s many a fancy woman who sets herself up as quality. It’s the lack of husband that gives them away.” His expression had altered and now his sagging features were lascivious.

  “My husband is dead. I am a widow.” She gave him a direct, unflinching stare. “I am traveling at the behest of His Holiness and have documents to prove it.”

  The landlord was torn between doubt and dread. “What has His Holiness to do with pretty young widows, then?”

  Olivia took the ring of keys. “His Holiness has requested that I lend my assistance to the Abbe Mazarini in Francia. Now you have enough for a month of gossip. If you detain me one moment longer or make any more insolent remarks, I will send word to the Abbe. Which room is mine?”

  “Ah…” the landlord faltered. “My serving wench will lead you up, and your lady’s maid.” He did not quite bow, but he lowered his head a bit and was no longer willing to meet her bright hazel eyes.

  For the next three days Olivia remained at the inn, spending most of the time indoors with Avisa for company. At the end of the second day, Olivia would have preferred being in her coach on a bumpy road to the continuing irritation of delay.

  “The word is good,” Uberto said on the morning of the fourth day. “There was no rain for all of last night, and this morning they have sent word that the road will be open by mid-day.”

  “Then we had better be ready to travel shortly, or there will be a line of wagons and carriages and donkeys going all the way to Livorno,” said Olivia as she shook out her skirts. The fabric, still creased from being folded in a trunk, refused to hang properly.

  “We’re not so pressed for time,” Uberto said, beaming at Avisa. “There is no reason to hurry.”

  Olivia sighed impatiently. “Indulge me, Uberto. Have the wagons and coaches loaded and the horses put to. If we have to wait to use the road, so be it, but I would rather that than fall to the end of the line. And there will be a line.”

  Uberto looked flustered. “Madama, there is no need—”

  “If I say there is a need, then there is one,” she reminded him politely. “I ask you to be ready to depart within an hour. Will you do this for me?”

  This time Uberto bowed. “Si, Madama. Volentieri.”

  “I doubt it,” Olivia said, almost smiling. “I think you suppose I am being demanding and fussy. Perhaps you are right and if you are, you will have every opportunity to remind me of it when we reach the place where the road has been repaired. But Uberto, consider this: if the repairs are not strong enough, the more carriages that go over it, the greater the chance of another slide.” She did not give the warning lightly; two hundred years ago she had been caught in just such an accident on Corsica.

  “An unnecessary precaution, Madama,” said Uberto, his tone becoming indulgent. “But we will do as you ask, since you are so worried.”

  At another time Olivia might have argued with him, but not now, while she longed to enlist his help and speed. She knew it was useless to remind him that she employed him, for Uberto was still puzzled by this. “The sooner you begin the task, the sooner it is done.”

  “Certainly, Madama.” He was able to wink at Avisa before he left the parlor.

  “Well!” Avisa burst out as soon as the door was closed. “He has no right to address you in that way! How could you let him do it?”

  “Because I would rather have the wagons and coaches made ready than sit here and wrangle,” said Olivia, a warning to Avisa in her words. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be away from here within the hour. I will be satisfied if we are gone in less than two, but I won’t tell Uberto that, or we might not be on the road until tomorrow.”

  Avisa’s expression changed. “That was very clever,” she said in a different tone, one that was filled with discovery and surprise, as if she had stumbled upon an unexpected truth. “You are a clever woman, Madama.”

  “You get that way,” said Olivia, her words light and faintly bitter, “when you’ve lived as long as I have.”

  Text of a letter from Niklos Aulirios to Gaetano Fosso, acting major domo of Senza Pari.

  To my most excellent deputy, I, Niklos Aulirios, send greetings and news.

  A messenger of Cardinal Richelieu informed His Eminence that he met our mistress in the town of Chambery on his return from Milano. He, being mounted and remounted on couriers�
� horses, has made far faster time than Bondama Clemens and her train have. The messenger informed His Eminence that all was well with our mistress, though one of the wagons carrying goods had needed a new wheel, which in turn required them to wait in Chambery for two days. From what I know of our mistress, she must not have been pleased.

  One of the coachmen driving the wagons has suffered a broken arm, the result of trying to fix the wheel himself. Olivia has tended to the injury—she is very capable in such matters—and the man was said to be improving. He will remain at Chambery and will return to Senza Pari with Uberto when he comes back from Parigi.

  While it is true that Olivia is now six days behind her proposed schedule, there is no reason to fear that she has been inconvenienced by the slower travel. Often in the past delays have boded ill for her, and it is not unusual for her now to believe that if she is made to wait it is because her situation is becoming more dangerous. I mention that so you will understand why she puts such store by prompt reports, and why she will be more apt to aid you if you send your reports as she has requested.

  The house here is almost ready to receive her. We lack carpets and some draperies, but those are to be delivered within the week, and it is not likely that Olivia will be here before that time. I have commissioned one of the court artists to complete a set of murals in the two main salons, and three of these are under way, though there are another seven to go. I doubt they will be finished by the time Olivia gets here, but it is not crucial, for she may occupy the house and even entertain while the murals are being done.

  We will need four matched carriage horses by late spring. Uberto has already been informed of this, but I believe it is necessary for you to be prepared before Uberto returns. I would recommend that the Neopolitans be considered. They are heavy enough for light carriage work, especially a team of four. In this case, the showier they are, the better. Olivia has said that she does not want to use horses from her Tours stud farm because those horses are reserved for the use of Abbe Mazarini. So it must be from Senza Pari, and the Neopolitans are the showiest of the lot.