“First, I have a cousin. Not as awkward a relative as my cook is, but a … careless young man. He has had good instruction and was a satisfactory pupil in most studies; he is a pleasant-faced youth, not destined to inherit much but not wholly without substance…” He took a sip of his wine and gave Olivia a sidelong look.
“What is the problem with this paragon?” Olivia asked with deliberate irony.
“He is becoming debauched. I have had letters from his family and from others. He is a young man, not yet fifteen, and until May, he was affianced well. Now the bride’s father has ended the betrothal because it is known that Gennaro spends most of his time in brothels. There may never be another opportunity to ally him so well, since it is feared he has taken the pox.” He took another draught of the wine, this one longer than usual. “I have been asked to write to him, and I have done this, admonishing him to reform and to consider how little time he has upon the earth.”
“And it was to no avail?” asked Olivia, already sure of the answer. What wayward youngster had ever listened to the cautions of others, especially one caught up in debauchery, she wondered.
“Sadly it was not,” said Mazarin. “I had a letter from his brother that told of greater excesses.” He put down the cup and sighed. “It is possible to get him a commission in a regiment, I suppose, but officers are often the worst example for boys like Gennaro. How am I to make such a suggestion when I suspect that he will only seek to emulate the most reprehensible of them?”
“What about a ship?” said Olivia, feeling a bit queasy at the thought. “It would be possible to—”
“Not where he is concerned,” said Mazarin. “The more influential members of the Colonnas do not want to be hindered by this boy, and they seek only to put an end to his behavior. If he were young enough, they might want to enroll him as a castrato—that way whatever he did, there would be little to offend anyone.” He did not smile, but there was a hard amusement around his brown eyes.
Olivia made a sign to Meres, and the lackey, interpreting it correctly, left the terrace to bring another pitcher of wine. “But his voice has changed, so there is no reason to clip him.”
“No acceptable reason,” said Mazarin. “There are many reasons I could offer that are sensible but they would not be regarded well.” He drank the last of his wine and stared out across the fields. “I have given my word to my family that I will not abandon the boy as long as there is a trace of virtue left in him. Though I fear my exhortations are useless in persuading him, I will not cease them.” He lifted his long, large hands in resignation. “I admit that I have used every means I can short of forcing the boy into Holy Orders. I have no other ideas of what I might do.”
How many thousand of these wild youths had Olivia seen over the centuries—she could not count them. There were always a few raging boys, hardly more than children, bent on rebellion and destruction. “What of the New World?” she suggested, knowing that Sanct’ Germain would disapprove.
“With the Spaniards?” Mazarin asked, looking up sharply as Meres approached across the terrace with a second pitcher of wine.
“Please serve the Abbe,” said Olivia smoothly. “Well, why not? It is far enough away that no one in your family can object to sending him there. For those who are adventurous, there are fortunes to be made; God knows there is debauchery everywhere, but perhaps if he had to fend for himself…?” She let the question hang between them, all but visible on the air.
Meres bowed to Olivia and Mazarin, then took up his place at the edge of the terrace.
“The New World…” began Mazarin as if to object, then let the words trail off. “It is a dangerous place.”
“And he might do you all a favor and die while he is gone,” said Olivia, laughing a little to show that she did not intend this as the purpose of sending the young man away. “Or he might become worse than he is and return like one of those Swiss mercenaries who murder children for amusement.” She lifted her hand to her face. “Or he might make a man of himself.”
“He might,” said Mazarin as he tasted his cup of wine. “A different vintage, a lighter one.”
“I hope you find it pleasing,” said Olivia, her mind on other things. She did not speak again until Mazarin set his cup aside and motioned for her to go on. “To be candid, Abbe, I can’t think of anything else to do with such a boy that would not offend some part of your family. I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “What is the other matter? And why do you discuss any of these things with me?”
“For your prudence, Madame,” said Mazarin, nodding in her direction as if bowing. “And there is no one else in my embassy who is as … disinterested as you are.”
“I see,” she said, and was about to say something more when Niklos came out onto the terrace and came toward her, his handsome face unreadable. “What is it?” she asked sharply, since Niklos rarely interrupted her when she was with Mazarin.
“There is someone here to see you,” he said after a formal bow to the Abbe. “I explained that you were not at liberty, but he has set himself up in the yellow salon and has stated—quite cheerfully, by the way—that he intends to remain there until you receive him.”
Mazarin permitted himself a crack of laughter before he poured himself a bit more of the wine.
Olivia was not as amused. “Who is this uninvited guest?”
“Someone you know,” said Niklos, his ruddy-brown eyes bright with amusement.
“Who?” Olivia demanded, somewhere between indignation and chuckles.
“You must greet him, of course,” said Mazarin. “Whoever he is.” He leaned back in the stone chair, the cushion flaring out behind him like short cherub’s wings.
“We have unfinished business, Abbe,” said Olivia with a trace of formality.
“It will wait a while longer. Go attend to your guest. I will wait for you in the library.” He motioned Olivia to be gone, the corners of his mouth turning up to match the gallant curl of his moustache.
Olivia rose and offered Mazarin a curtsy before falling in beside her major domo. “Well?” she demanded as she entered the house. “Are you going to tell me?”
Niklos relented. “He is a member of the King’s Guard—a Gascon by the name of Charles de Batz-Castelmore.”
Text of a letter from Gaetano Fosso, acting major domo at Senza Pari to Niklos Aulirios.
To the excellent major domo of the distinguished Roman gentlewoman, Atta Olivia Clemens, currently residing in the Kingdom of France, this report on the state of Senza Pari is respectfully submitted.
Your remarks of the summer are very useful and have been taken to heart by those who have been informed of them. If it is the wish of our mistress that there be a distribution of second-grinding flour to the poor, then it will be continued whether she is here or not, and we will continue this charity until we are told to desist. We have also permitted the poor of this locality to harvest all windfall fruit, as Bondama Clemens has requested.
The price for swine has fallen, and therefore the profits on the current stock are very disappointing. We have taken steps to improve the price we receive through restricted breeding and superior feed, so that the flesh is more savory, but the results of these actions will not be apparent for some little time, and for the next month or two, I fear that we will not show the return usually gained from the slaughter of pigs. We can delay the slaughter, of course, but then the animals will have to be tended and fed, so that even when the market is better, the profit will be less. If you have any suggestions regarding the pigs, we will welcome them.
The grapes are another matter: our vineyards are bounteous in yield this year, and the amount of wine yielded should be higher than it was for the last three years. We have already filled eight more barrels than last year and there are a few more vines to be picked, especially the small grapes our mistress brought from Hungary more than twenty years ago. I have ordered more barrels for next year, but it is possible that we will not have similar good fortune again for some ti
me.
Paolo Germoglio da Luccio has renewed his offer for the ridge land where his land joins this estate. It is more generous than his second offer, but he declares he will go no higher. He has asked that I include his letter to Bondama Clemens so that she can see for herself that he is willing to give her a reasonable sum for the area in question. He is determined to have the ridge and has said that he will not be stopped by the whim of a woman who has no notion of what use that land can be.
Uberto informs me that the new foals are doing well but for one filly with delicate hooves. The farrier has prepared several compounds, but the filly has had many cracks and injuries that do not bode well for the years ahead. Uberto has said he will take the filly for a year, and if she is not able to develop sound feet, he will tend to destroying her himself, since such a defect cannot be permitted in breeding stock.
Also, Uberto has been told by his sister that Nino has joined one of the regiments that passed through Roma not long ago. The regiment uses cannon and other such items of war, and apparently Nino is being taught to prepare cannon for firing and other similar things: grenada bombs and petards. He will not be able to ply his trade-in-arms if he continues to soak himself in wine all day, but that misfortune would not be overwhelming to anyone. The regiment has left Roma and is not supposed to return for some time. Nino gave a small sum of money to Uberto’s sister with the promise of more, but Uberto does not believe there will be any. He has said that it is blessing enough to be rid of Nino and he will be thankful to God for that; other recompence is not needed, he has said.
The sheep we have crossbred, as per the instructions of Bondama Clemens, have done well and the wool they have produced is plentiful and of superior quality. Since you have given me permission, I have entered into agreement with two mills, one in Italia, one in Genova, to supply them with the first shearing of the sheep we now breed. I must remark here that the young lambs are not particularly strong and they do not tend to fare well in winter. I have been at pains to be certain that as many survive as can, but we are still losing one lamb in twenty, which is not entirely satisfactory to me. If there is some precaution known to you or the Bondama, I pray you will inform me of it at once so that more of these lambs will flourish and breed more of their breed. I have, incidentally, taken the meat from the weakest lambs who are killed earliest and given it to the Church for distribution to the poor, as the Bondama has requested, and I have letters of acknowledgement of these gifts from the local priest and from Cardinal Bichi himself.
Uberto has sent a request in another dispatch asking for permission to employ the Hungarian coachmaker he met not long ago while in the north of Italy. The man is capable, trained in Kocz, and known to be a gifted artisan. It is true that we have carriages that are in need of refurbishing as well as a few that must be replaced. Pray inform Bondama Clemens that I second the request that the coachmaker be hired and set to work at once so that we will have all our carriages in fine working order for any occasion that may arise. If there are any doubts as to the man’s competence, he has letters to present attesting to his abilities.
We have been asked to increase our tithe this year, and with the good harvest, this is no imposition. But I believe that once a tithe is made larger it is difficult to make it smaller, and so I have asked that the tithe be reviewed, and that consideration be made that Bondama Clemens is already acting in the aid and interest of the Church and Abbe Mazarini. I will voluntarily give more from the estate if you authorize such a donation, but I fear the consequences of making such a gift a tithe.
In accordance with Bondama Clemens’ instructions, we are preparing for a reception feast at Advent, and have arranged a countrymen’s fair to be held on the estate, with tent shelters in case of bad weather. It has been announced in the district churches already and there is much excitement and anticipation. Many have offered prayers of gratitude on behalf of Bondama Clemens and all have said that it is sad she will not be here to join in the festivities. I am often asked how long Bondama Clemens will remain in Parigi, but I have no answer to give them. I pray that it will not be too long before we may welcome her return to Senza Pari.
It is my sad duty to inform you that six of the children of families working on Senza Pari have succumbed to fever since the end of summer. Also, the wife of Carlo da Termi has died giving birth to twins who did not long survive their mother. The aged father of Antonio Nuccio has died after taking a chill and a cough. The priests at San Andrea are warning that the Grey Cough is on the rise again and that we must guard against it, especially in children. The monks from Santissimo Redentore have said they will visit every family in the district once a week while the danger of the Grey Cough exists. I have followed Bondama Clemens’ orders and put the medicaments of Senza Pari at the disposal of the district churches. We all hope that they will not be needed.
With my personal regards and good wishes and prayers for your safety and the day of your return, and with gratitude for the trust you have reposed in me, I send to you and to the esteemed Bondama Clemens my salutations for the Nativity.
Gaetano Fosso
acting major domo of Senza Pari
by my own hand
On the 9th day of November, 1641.
Two bona fides copies are retained in the muniment room of Senza Pari.
5
With visible effort Richelieu rose from his knees. He kept one hand on the small, gorgeous altar to steady himself as he strove against the pain. In spite of everything, he was smiling. “God has given me one last Christmas gift,” he said softly, addressing the crucifix but heard by the three other people in his private chapel. “And I thank Him humbly and with a joyous heart.”
Anne of Austria looked at her son as she heard Richelieu’s words. “How is that, Eminence?” she said in a low voice. Now that their morning Mass was over, she was anxious to return to her apartments where she knew her boy would be protected.
“Rome has capitulated at last,” said Richelieu, turning to face her. “They have delayed and delayed and thrown every barrier and difficulty in my path, but finally—” He moved away from the altar, pausing to turn back, genuflect painfully, and cross himself.
“Finally?” Anne prompted as she rose from her bench and knelt to the altar. As she crossed herself, she motioned to her son with her left hand, urging him to join her.
The third person knelt at the rear of the chapel, his habit making him inconspicuous next to the finery of the others. He crossed himself and whispered a prayer for patience, as he had every morning for five years. As he rose, he went toward Richelieu to offer the Cardinal his arm. “What is the news, Eminence?”
Richelieu regarded the Abbe with speculation. “It is as much your news as mine,” said Richelieu at last. “Eminence.” He favored Mazarin with a slight but distinct bow. “You will be elevated; it is assured.”
Mazarin clasped his hands to his pectoral crucifix. “Truly?” he asked, feeling suddenly breathless.
“It is not a thing I would joke about,” said Richelieu with severe humor. He looked toward Anne and her son. “Majesty, you will not be left unprotected and without support when I am gone. God has shown His will at last.”
“Does the King know?” asked Anne, two deep lines appearing between her brows as happened so often when she spoke of her husband. “Have you spoken to him?”
“He requested the elevation just as I did,” Richelieu reminded her.
“Because of you,” said Anne grimly. “Had I asked it, he would have seen Mazarin banished to the most remote mission in the New World rather than have him set foot in France, and well you know it.” She drew her boy close to her side, ignoring his fidgiting. “It was done because of you.”
Mazarin moved closer to his mentor. “Her Majesty is correct, Eminence. I will give thanks to God, but well I know that you are the mover in this.”
Richelieu shook his head. “At best I am God’s most minor deputy. If it were not God’s Will, then you would not be elevated no
matter what I or the King or any temporal power in the entire world demanded.” He motioned to Mazarin. “Take my blessing for your perseverance and good-heartedness.”
“Eminence,” said Mazarin as he knelt for Richelieu’s blessing. “There is nothing I can say that will tell you what great emotions fill me.”
“Reveal them to God in your prayers,” Richelieu said, holding out his ring as he concluded his blessing. “Before the end of the year, the hat is yours.” He looked again at Anne. “I want you, Majesty, to give us a little more of your time and to favor us with your thoughts, for there are many things we must understand between us, now that our hands are no longer tied.”
Her long years at court had made Anne adept at interpreting these vague remarks, and she responded in the same manner, confident that Richelieu would know what she meant to convey. “I shall endeavor to avail myself of your good instruction, Eminence, and I am confident that I will profit from what you tell me.” She glanced at Mazarin. “Abbe, it is time that you knew my son better. I would deem it a favor if you would place some of your time at his disposal.”
Mazarin was quick to answer. “It is my honor and duty to be at your service, Majesty.” His bow included both Anne and her boy and showed a nice blend of respect and authority. “I place myself entirely at your service but for the obligation I have to God through my vows.”
Louis broke free of his mother’s grasp and began to skip around the chapel, singing to himself and grinning. He paid no heed to his mother’s warning call.
“Leave him be, Majesty,” said Mazarin. “He has so little chance to show his spirits. This boy will rule France one day, and that will drain the gaiety from him, no doubt.”
“As it has my husband?” suggested Anne uneasily.
“Perhaps,” said Mazarin, knowing that Louis XIII’s temperament was mirthless and it did not matter whether he was King of France or a swineherd or a luxurious Turk, he would be a man of extreme and morose moods. The boy was altogether different than his father, and it was easy to see why—even if Louis were not known to prefer the company of handsome young men to that of his Queen—there were rumors about the heir’s parentage. “Let him have his enjoyments.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 18