A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I am pleased to tell you that the winter has not been dreadful, though, naturally, it is more severe than what you are used to. The new canal linking the Loire to the Seine has proved most valuable and those who scoffed at its worth have seen this winter how useful such a waterway is. The previous objections are now silenced.

  The problems with Catalonia continue, and I fear they are not going to be ended easily or swiftly, though we are praying this might be so. Portugal has elected Joao da Braganza to be King and has declared that they are no longer under the rule of Spain. I fear that the Queen and I are in disagreement on this issue, and I have been reluctant to discuss it with her, for it sends her into such displeasure. Were it not for the revolt of Catalonia, it would be impossible for Portugal to defy Spanish rule in this way, and as France supports Catalonia, Her Majesty is in great distress.

  Yes, we understand that what you have heard about money in England is true: its value has been decreased and is now worth less than a half of what it was before. This is causing great hardship, because so many find that they cannot afford food and shelter. There are rumors that many merchants have reduced their inventories because no one is able to purchase what they have.

  It is not prudent for me to tell you anything about Richelieu’s health, for that could easily be misunderstood by others to the disadvantage of His Eminence and his work. I would not be worthy of the trust he has placed in me if I said anything to you. As to the health of the King, His Majesty continues to suffer from poor digestion and other minor complaints. He has recently lost flesh and has been prey to every little malady, which troubles his physicians. This is known in the world, and prayers are offered everywhere for his speedy return to health, which God grant for the betterment of France.

  The Heir is an active child, one who is cossetted and guarded with care. Whether this will prove to be a wise thing when he is older is uncertain, but I have given my word to His Majesty, Her Majesty, Richelieu, and God that I will be at pains to be sure that nothing harms the boy. His mother is devoted to her boy and shows him great affection. Because of the child, she, who for so long has lived in obscurity and neglect, has now some position in the court for the sake of the Heir, and she uses it well, for she has few illusions. The years she spent in virtual exile in her own apartments taught her not to trust the favor of the court, nor to rely on the promises of courtiers.

  While I was visiting Her Majesty two days after Christmas, I happened to hear one of the ladies-in-waiting telling a tale to the little boy, who surely did not understand it. But I thought it an interesting tale, similar to ones I have heard in my youth. It has, I believe, a lesson apropos to you, and so I will relate it to you.

  There was a poor man blessed in nothing but the number of children he and his wife brought into the world. He worked day and night to provide for them and to try to find a place for them, and protection of those who could provide more than they for their children. Imagine then his despair when his wife presented him with a thirteenth child. Not only was the boy another mouth to feed and provide for, but he was a thirteenth child, which was considered most unlucky. The poor man could find no one to be godmother or godfather to this last child; all the goodwill of their friends was exhausted, and none wanted to sponsor so ill-placed an infant. Then, when the poor man was walking from his fields to his home, a great black carriage came along the road and stopped by the poor man. The door opened and a woman dressed in a black cloak stepped out.

  She explained to the poor man that she was Death and that she would serve as the godmother to the thirteenth child, who was christened with the name Want, for his family was poor, and he had been in want of a sponsor until Death offered her services. Death promised to protect her godson and help him to prosper and advance in the world, and to that end, she took Want into her household when he was twelve.

  Want was a respectful and attentive boy, and proved himself of use to his godmother. She, in turn, provided Want with a secret he could use in the world, as she had told his parents she would. She said to him: “When you are called upon to treat those who are injured or ill, if you see me standing at the foot of the bed, you will know that person will recover. If you see me standing at the head of the bed, you know the person will presently die. Use this secret to make your fortune.”

  Soon the fame of Want spread, for everywhere it was known that he could cure all those he agreed to treat. He prospered even as his godmother promised, and he was soon so famous that when the King’s daughter grew ill, the King sent his own carriage for Want, to bring him to the palace to treat his daughter. Want was overjoyed at this opportunity and thought himself the most fortunate of men, until he arrived at the palace and discovered that his godmother was standing at the head of the Princess’ bed, and the beautiful girl was marked to die. He knew it was useless to plead with Death, for she heeds no prayers. Want had only his wits to guide him.

  The answer came to him in a flash. He told the King to bring four men-at-arms to turn the Princess’ bed around, so that the head was now where the foot had been, and Death was at the Princess’ feet.

  The Princess recovered at once and professed herself grateful to Want and thankful to God for sparing her. But Death was not pleased, and would not stay to speak with her godson.

  The King promised to ennoble Want and to make him his son-in-law, which filled the Princess with such happiness that she sang all day long and prayed half the night. The wedding was celebrated with pomp and grandeur, and Want decided that he was the most favored of all men.

  It was at the height of the festivities after the wedding that Want’s godmother suddenly appeared, arriving in her black carriage. She was dressed in her black cloak, and those who looked upon her were fascinated and afraid. She treated her godson with respect and did him honor, and then declared that she needed to have a last word with him, to present him with his wedding gift, and bade Want to follow her. Until that moment, Want had never feared his godmother, but now his entrails turned cold and his knees shook as he followed his protectress into a deep cavern in the earth where she had heaped up the treasures of her long life. “Here,” she said. “You may take what you may. But for everything you take, one of the candles lighting the cavern will be extinguished.”

  Want felt relief, thinking that his godmother was not distressed with him as he had feared she might be. He began at once to gather up gold and jewels and coffers filled with coins and all the while the candles, one after another, flickered and went out. “There is only one candle remaining,” Death told her godson when his arms were fully laden.

  “Then I will take that crystal chalice,” said Want, and reached for the glorious cup.

  In that instant, the cavern was completely dark; everything vanished, and Want heard Death say to him: “I am not tricked, godson, not by you or any man. For the candles are the years of your life, and once they are gone, this cavern becomes your grave.” Then there was a great darkness as Want met his fate.

  My cousin, when you long to be profligate again, remember Want and his cavern of candles, and do not waste your time in accumulating vain treasure, but seek to improve the state of your mind and your soul. Surely these are of greater importance and are more enduring than the amusements you have sought so heedlessly. If you fritter away your time, there will be nothing for you at the end of your life, and it will come all the sooner for your venality. You have been the hope, the flower of your family, and you now forsake them as easily as a man turns a cur from his door, which is to the shame of all. Return to the ways of piety and virtue and the treasures of Heaven will be yours.

  Throughout Lent I will say special prayers for you, and I will beseech Our Lord and the Virgin to bring you once again to Grace. It is the hope of your mother that you might one day enter my service, but that will not be possible if you continue as you have been behaving these last two years. Think of what I have told you and repent. There is great harmony to be achieved by those who free themselves of sin and place their h
earts humbly into the Hands of God.

  Let me hear from you before Easter, and let what I hear be more promising than what I have been told of late.

  Jules Mazarin, Abbe

  By the Grace and Mercy of God

  In Paris on the 10th day of January, 1641.

  Keep this with your journals.

  3

  April was unseasonably warm; the sails of the windmills hung listlessly in the sultry air as Olivia entered her coach and prepared to be driven into Paris. She carried a fan and used it occasionally, though there was no sign of sweat on her lip or her brow. As they neared the walls of Paris, the coachman reined his team into a walk, for the roadway was crowded.

  At the gate, Olivia’s coachman presented her invitation to visit Richelieu to the Guards and the carriage was let through at once. Entering the city, their progress was slow, for the narrow streets were crowded with every kind of vehicle and with vendors, some with carts or donkeys, some on foot, all crying their wares. The din was constant and incomprehensible.

  It might be faster, Olivia thought, if I simply got out and walked the rest of the way. She chuckled, thinking of the times she had done just that. How distant those times seemed to her now. Her mind drifted back through the centuries as she did her best to forget the noise, the smell, and the heat. There had been heat in Tyre and Alexandria, but it was different from this, less sodden, sharpened by desert winds. There had been heat in Gran after the Mongols came. Jajee was hot, a little more than a hundred years ago, when the Ottomites had come—no wonder she had gone north to London after a brief return to Roma. She was recalling that hideous sea voyage with some rueful amusement when the carriage stopped suddenly.

  “Bueve,” Olivia called out to her coachman. “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s something up ahead. Men are fighting. I can see them, but I don’t know who—” The coachman sounded hesitant, which was unlike him.

  “Then go around them,” said Olivia, starting to lean out one of the windows. In the next instant she ducked back inside as a rock thudded against the door panel. The sides of the coach rattled as more rocks struck it and she heard Bueve utter a sharp oath as one of the stones struck him. “What on earth!” she said, anger replacing confusion. “What is going on? Why are we under attack?” She rapped hard on the ceiling of the coach. “Bueve! How badly are you hurt?”

  “I’ll have a lump and a bruise,” he said, his voice weaker than usual. “The off-side wheeler’s taken blows to his legs from the rocks. I don’t know how—”

  Another rock struck and this time Bueve howled.

  “Bueve!” Olivia shouted, and when he gave her no answer, she moved with determination. Despite the angry shouts and the continuing rain of pebbles and rocks as well as other, less appetising, things, Olivia shoved open the coach door and set her foot on the steps to the coachman’s box. She could hear the team whinnying and one of the horses was kicking steadily at the body of the coach. Ignoring the shouts and missiles around her, Olivia pulled herself into the box and took the reins from Bueve’s nerveless fingers. She gave him a perfunctory examination, determining that he was only unconscious, though his color was not good. She then gathered up the reins and reached for the long coaching whip, swinging it expertly over her team’s heads to bring them back under control.

  When half a brick struck her shoulder, she turned abruptly and flicked the whip over the heads of the mob, then gave her attention once again to her horses.

  The fighting up ahead grew worse, and at last she could see that some of the combatants were in the mantle of the Cardinal’s Guards. The rest appeared to be poorly dressed citizens, a few of them with narrow green sashes tied around their waists. The Guards had been backed up against the side of an old church where they could not easily defend themselves, which leant fury to the people attacking them.

  Suddenly there was a change in the crowd: a troop of King’s Guards emerged from one of the nearby alleys, all with swords at the ready. The crowd, seeing them, faltered, and a few tried to push through their numbers to get away. Four men in blood-spattered clothes tried to climb into Olivia’s coach.

  Olivia had just slid Bueve onto the floor of the coachman’s box and was not yet in position to ward off these rioters. She pulled herself upright and tightened her hold on the whip. “Back!” Olivia shouted, and used her whip to fend them off. She drew in the reins as closely as she could, but even her enormous strength was put to the test by her four terrified horses.

  A woman with big arms and her hair tied up in a makeshift turban tried to grab the harness of the on-side leader, and Olivia struck out at her as well, flicking the lash off the woman’s back. She was so occupied keeping her horses under minimal control and preventing her coach from being taken or turned over that she was not aware of the alteration in the battle before her, though she could feel in the movement of her horses the shifting eddies of the force of the crowd, like a turn of tide and current.

  She had just stopped one scar-faced cheese vendor from climbing up onto the box by delivering him a sharp kick with her square-heeled shoe when she felt the coach list back and to the right, and realized that two men had climbed to the roof from behind. It was impossible to release the reins, for then the horses would bolt and the carriage would very probably be wrecked. Tearing the shoulders of her puffed brocaded sleeves, Olivia swung around as far as the confines of the box permitted, her arm drawing the whip back, sensing already that she was a heartbeat too late.

  Before she could strike, one of the men seized her arm and wrenched the whip out of her hand as the other lunged toward her, a dagger held low, aimed at her pearl-embroidered plastron. His grin was predatory, showing broken front teeth, and he began to curse her as he moved forward, signaling the other man to work around behind her. His eyes, red-rimmed, were full of hate and greedy lust.

  “No,” said Olivia as she struck out with the heel of her hand in a sharp, upward blow that caught the man with the knife under his jaw and snapped his head back. The man swore and clung precariously to the roof of the carriage, but did not fall.

  His accomplice, taking advantage of this, threw himself forward, trying to confine Olivia’s arms as he grasped her around her waist. Holding her was more difficult than he thought it would be, and it required all his concentration and strength to hang onto her, muttering obscenities as he did.

  Below in the street the crowd was milling, trying now to disperse. The King’s Guard and the Cardinal’s Guard, ordinarily the most bitter rivals, joined their ranks to move the rioters from the street. The rioters now were shouting more and fighting less as they looked for ways to escape.

  The first man had recovered enough from Olivia’s blow to be enraged. He shook his head once as if clearing water from his eyes, then started toward her, making tentative, threatening strikes with his knife. He growled as he neared her, raising the knife so that it now moved only a handbreadth from her face.

  Olivia tried to block this with her elbow, but between her hampering clothing and the man wrestling with her, she was not able to swing her arm far enough, and all that she accomplished was another long rent in her brocade sleeve. “You are scum, vermin,” she hissed at the two through her teeth, though she realized it was folly to provoke them more.

  The carriage rocked as three fighting men lumbered into it, and the horses almost broke from Olivia’s failing hold on the reins. The men atop the coach struggled to keep their purchase as the vehicle teetered, then righted itself. One of the horses squealed as a wild thrust from a long dagger wielded by a limping onion-seller bit into his shoulder, and Olivia strove to gain enough control of the reins to hold the injured animal in check.

  The man with the knife made a sudden swipe, and a thin line of blood appeared on Olivia’s forehead. “Look, she bleeds like a common trollop.” His laughter was more angry than his grumbled blasphemies had been.

  Olivia spat at him, then tried again to break free of the hold of the second man.

&
nbsp; “She’s a handful,” gasped the second man as Olivia almost succeeded in getting her foot free of her skirts to kick out again. “Be careful!”

  Again the first man laughed, a sound like steel scraping on stone. “That’s good, that’s good. Don’t want her to be too easy. Don’t want her laughing at us. No fun in that.” His knife swung toward Olivia, but this time she was ready for it, and avoided its blade. The man cursed vilely and thrust out for her throat.

  Then his arm faltered, the dagger dropped from his hand and he made an odd coughing sound before falling slowly off the roof of the coach.

  “Release her,” said a young man with a Gascon accent who appeared over the edge of the roof. He was wearing the mantle of the King’s Guard, his red-bladed sword aimed directly at the belly of the man who clung to Olivia. “Now. Unless you want to join your companion.”

  The man drew back, half-raising his hands to show that he had let go of Olivia. “No, no, Monsieur—”

  The Guardsman was on the roof of the coach now, and he reached out to Olivia. “Move nearer to me, Madame,” he said, and as soon as she complied, he struck out with the hilt of his sword, hitting the man on the shoulder and sending him sprawling backward into the dwindling crowd.

  Olivia turned to her rescuer to thank him, but the words caught in her throat as she saw the shocked expression on his face. In the next instant, she felt blood from the cut spread into her eye, and she brought her hand up.

  “No, Madame,” said the Guardsman, wiping his sword and sheathing it before taking her arm. “Do not touch it. We do not know how severe it is,” he said, the horror gone from his large brown eyes.

  “It isn’t severe,” said Olivia, her tone more uneven than she thought it would be. She wanted to smile to reassure him she was not seriously hurt, but her mouth began to tremble and she could not do it.

  “You do not want it to leave a scar,” said the Guardsman, coming to the edge of the coachman’s box.