A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Perceval rubbed his hands together as if trying to get something sticky off them. “It is … a temporary difficulty, one that we—”

  Olivia interrupted him. “Those vines over the window are not temporary. They have been neglected for years, by the look of them.” She rose from the bench and came toward Perceval, and though she was almost a head shorter than he, he gave ground at her approach. “The walls here have not been waxed. The floor is chipped and sagging and there are slates missing. By the look of the villa, it is ready to fall into ruin.”

  “Hardly ruin,” protested Perceval with bravado, but his heart was not in it. “Madame, you must understand that—”

  “Yes,” said Charles, stepping forward for the first time. “What must Madame understand?”

  Perceval yelped at the sight of the mantle of the King’s Guard. “Madame! Monsieur!” He backed toward the open door. “It is not my doing. I had no part in it. It was Octave who let it decay. None of it is my doing.”

  “You throw your brother to the wolves and let him take the brunt of your mistress’ displeasure?” Charles demanded. “Such courage.”

  “Madame!” Perceval objected, his voice a yelp. “Please!”

  Olivia relented. “Never mind, Charles; we’ll get no answers today” She turned back toward the window. “Do you think someone could lay a fire in the hearth or will the chimney go up in flames? And I want a bath. I trust that my bath is not totally destroyed?” She saw Perceval nod, his features sagging with relief. “Good. I want Monsieur de Batz-Castelmore given a decent supper, with some of the best wine, if there is any left.” She watched Perceval blanch. “All gone, is it? Tomorrow you will explain how that came about, if you please. I want rooms prepared for me and my companion. The bedding is to be fresh. I want someone to wait upon Monsieur de Batz-Castelmore and someone to tend to me. And after morning Mass tomorrow, I want a complete explanation and accounting of what has happened here. Then I will conduct a full inspection of the property. Oh,” she added. “My major domo, with two coaches and outriders, will arrive tomorrow by mid-afternoon. They are to have rooms ready and supper laid for them. Engage extra servants if you need them to complete the tasks. Is that understood?” She waited, her hazel eyes unflinching. “Is it?”

  Perceval bowed deeply. “Yes. Certainly.” He looked once at Charles. “I will … attend to it.” He backed himself out of the room with alacrity.

  Olivia stood in silence as Perceval’s footsteps retreated down the corridor. “I suppose,” she said when the salon was quiet, “that I had better go find out what has happened to the bath.”

  “Do you really intend to bathe?” Charles asked.

  “Naturally,” said Olivia. “Would you like to?”

  Charles turned his palms up, to show that he had no opinion. “Best see if they can do it first, Olivia. Then … why not?” He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry you’ve found this.”

  She tried to break free and did not succeed, though she was well aware that if she had wanted to get away from him, he could not have held her. “What have you to do with this? You have no part in what has happened here.”

  “I am sorry because you are vexed; your trust has been abused, that much is certain.” He leaned forward suddenly and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. “I am not sorry about that, Olivia.”

  “No,” she said, not knowing how she meant it.

  He looked down into her face. “I adore you; I wish you believed that.”

  “I am no goddess,” said Olivia, then caught her lower lip in her teeth.

  “Olivia.” He shook her twice, very gently.

  “Charles,” she whispered.

  He released her. “Go. See about your bath. Take care how you walk, though. I don’t trust the floors, they’re so uneven.”

  She shrugged and started toward the door. “Thank you.”

  He looked startled. “Why?”

  “Because you are with me. It would be more difficult if you were not with me.” She was puzzled when he laughed.

  “If I were not with you, you would be back in your coach and would arrive tomorrow with servants and your major domo and everyone in this villa would jump out of their skins,” he said. “One Guardsman isn’t much compared to all that.”

  “One Guardsman,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, “when that Guardsman is you, is sufficient.”

  He sighed extravagantly. “Would it were so,” he said, and waved her out of the room.

  Olivia’s suite of rooms, including her bath, were at the south end of the L-shaped villa. Built over a thick foundation of her native Roman earth, the apartments were restorative to her in the way nothing else could be, and she was more eager for that comfort than she wanted to admit. The door that separated the south wing from the rest of the villa squalked in protest as Olivia opened it. The smell of the air beyond was musty; spiderwebs and dust covered the chairs and tables in her sitting room; the brocade hangings over the windows—once a rich forest green—were faded to a non-color, and in several places were torn with age. Her bedroom was much the same except that the mattress stuffing littered the bed where mice had got at it. Olivia took off her hat but continued to carry it, having no place she wanted to put it. Finally, with apprehension, she entered the large, Roman-style bath with its deep, sunken tub, which was dry. At least, she thought as she examined the tiles, nothing is cracked—it could be cleaned and filled safely.

  Disheartened, Olivia wandered back to the main part of the villa, her face set in hard lines. She stopped the first servant she saw—a lackey bent with age—and asked that Perceval be sent to her at once. She repeated the message twice, loudly, when she realized that the man was quite deaf. Then she returned to the salon, and found Charles sipping a cup of warm wine.

  “More difficulties?” he asked as he caught sight of her. The room glowed in the light from the candles and the newly kindled fire.

  “There used to be a carpet in this room,” said Olivia, speaking to herself more than to him. “It had a pattern of wildflowers on it. I wonder what happened to it?”

  “Mice.” Charles cocked his head to the side. “Decay. Theft.” He lifted his cup to her.

  Olivia dropped her hat on the upholstered bench. “I feel I should apologize to you; this cannot be what you expected.”

  “No,” Charles agreed. “But I think it is more upsetting to you than to me. This is not my land, nor my house. And in Gascony we have poorer places than this, I promise you.”

  “Still.” She sat down beside her hat. “I was told that all was well here. That displeases me.” Her flesh tugged at her bones, her fatigue gathering in her with an intensity that was disturbing. It had been so long since she had permitted herself to be drawn to a man. Why, of all the males in France, did it have to be this rambunctious Gascon with the tilted eyebrows?

  Charles put his wine aside and came to her, standing before her in anticipation. “Here,” he said, taking both her hands in his and pulling her to her feet. “We may not have another time together.” He wrapped his arms around her.

  “My rooms are a disgrace,” said Olivia, hearing her excuse for what it was. She leaned her head against his shoulder and did her best not to listen to his pulse racing, and all the while his light, nibbling kisses fell on her cheeks, her brow, her eyelids, her lips like rain on parched soil. Slowly she felt herself succumb to him, to his ardor.

  “The servants might come,” he said roughly some little time later. He was breathing unevenly and his face was flushed. “It would injure your reputation, and disgrace your husband’s memory. Oh, God, Olivia!” He moved her away from him, holding her at arm’s length.

  It had been so long since she had let herself know desire that she was dizzy with it. “My husband’s memory?” she repeated, choosing the first words that came to her. “How could we disgrace my husband’s memory?”

  He tossed his hat aside and ran his hands through his chestnut hair. “You … you
revere his memory. To permit your servants to see you compromised would—”

  “I detest my husband’s memory,” Olivia said quietly. “I despised him. And I don’t care what the servants think of what I do. They have made it plain enough they have no regard for me.” She indicated the room.

  Charles stared at her. “Surely … the Cardinal…” He was almost master of himself again, and he stood straighter.

  “Oh, they would rather I appear chaste. It serves their purposes, both Richelieu’s and Mazarin’s.” She yearned for him, but could not bring herself to act. “It is the appearance that matters to them.”

  “But a poor Gascon, a Guardsman, how could they permit you to … to be my mistress”—this last was almost defiant—“when I have no fortune, no position.”

  “I have fortune enough for both of us, if that troubles you,” said Olivia, grateful that they were speaking of such practical things.

  “It does, come to that,” said Charles, then looked up as Perceval bowed his way into the room, his face stretched into something that he intended as his most ingratiating smile but was more like a grimace of pain.

  It was nearing midnight when the house had been put in enough order for Olivia to retire to her quarters, and for Charles to be provided a bed in the most acceptable guest chamber.

  Olivia had at last bathed in an ornate tub of painted zinc, which brought her none of the relief that her Roman-earth-lined sunken tub would have, but at least the grime of the road was gone and the back of her neck no longer felt gritty. Little as she wanted to admit it, she missed Avisa, who would have scolded her and the servants, and tended to her clothes and the sheets on her bed. There were things Avisa could say to the servants that would gain their cooperation more quickly than anything Olivia herself could do; servants trusted other servants far more than their employers, no matter how reasonable or fair. Usually Olivia relied on Avisa to gain the confidence of her domestic servants, aiding Niklos and her in many ways. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow Avisa would arrive and Olivia could leave such matters in her capable hands.

  She had not expected to sleep—being on her native earth once more did more to restore her than any rest could—but she lay down on the improvised bed that had replaced the disaster in her bedroom, a branch of candles lit and a copy of Tassoni’s La Secchia Rapita to amuse her.

  But the candles burned down and the heroic satire could not hold her attention as it had before; the humor was stale, she thought. Her mind was drawn inexorably back to Charles, now sleeping three rooms away. And in spite of all her hard lessons from the past, she wanted to go to him, to visit him in his dreams, to have at least the echo of his passion with the taste of his blood.

  “You’re taking too great a risk,” she whispered, though her voice sounded like a shout in the darkness to her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered herself. It had been so many years since she had indulged in the sweetness of love, of touching, of joining, of knowing, that she felt the lack of it as she would miss her native earth were it not in the foundation of her room, the lining of her mattress, the soles of her shoes. She stared at the improvised canopy of her bed, her vision little hampered by the dark, and she did her best to put Charles from her mind. As she memorized the way that the ancient, sagging velvet hung, her mind continued to work. You are getting sentimental in your old age, she told herself forcefully. You are letting yourself get carried away, indulging yourself in foolish, vain hopes, imagining he will not mind when he learns the truth about you. Drosos was not the only one to call you a monster, nor Vasili, nor Rainaut, nor Mauricco. Do you remember how that Englishman felt, only a century ago? Have you forgot what he said to you, the threats he made? Do you remember that Spanish painter with eyes dark as charcoal? He told the Inquisition about you—if it were not for Niklos, you would never have left Spain alive, for the fire is as deadly to you as it is to any heretic, and the Inquisition was searching for her. She pulled on her sheets and wished she knew what time it was.

  A little while later, still upbraiding herself in her thoughts, she rose from her bed, left her chamber and made her way through the dark, sleeping villa to the room where Charles lay. As she opened the door—so carefully, so quietly—she promised herself that she would only lull him into deep sleep, as Sanct’ Germain taught her to do, gratify her hunger if not her longing, and be content with the frenzy of his dreams.

  As she came to the side of the bed, she thought, Magna Mater, how young he was! She looked down at him, at his sleep-softened features, at the muslin chamisade with the lace-edged collar he wore to bed. Carefully she moved onto the bed, sitting beside him, nearly touching him, bending over him. Her hands trembled and she pressed them together to stop it. In a voice that was less than a whisper, she began to speak. “You are sleeping, Charles, my Charles, sleeping more peacefully, more sweetly, more comfortably than ever before. You welcome your sleep and take delight that it has come so pleasantly and so deeply. It is a joy to be asleep. Sleep fills your being, bringing wonderful rest, sweet rest that takes away all fear, all distress. Nothing painful or unpleasant reaches you now; there is only satisfaction and delight to your sleep. You are happy to sleep so full of peace and pleasure. You are sleeping deeply because it is so pleasant to sleep, to have joyous dreams that come with your wonderful sleep.”

  Charles sighed and stirred, a faint smile turning his lips up. His right arm slid out from under the covers and Olivia noticed that the cuffs were lace-edged, too, and wondered if his mother, his sister, or his promised bride had made the lace.

  “It is so delightful to sleep that you do not want to do anything else. You take pleasure in your sleep and your wonderful dreams. You are so happy to sleep that you are content to sleep through the night until the morning bells ring for Mass. You are deep in your sleeping, and your dreams are filled with all the things you love. Your dreams are so beautiful that you do not want to waken, but you would rather sleep deeply, to enjoy them more fully. You can experience all the passion, all the delights of love in your dreams. Everything you have sought in love, have longed for, is within your grasp. Your dreams are as real to you as anything in life, more real; they reach into your soul and satisfy you, bring you love.” She felt a tweaking envy that he would be gratified more completely than she, if he believed in his dream. She leaned nearer, her hands slipping beneath the covers. Delicately she worked the tie that held his chamisade closed at the neck. “You know your deepest desires, your most cherished joys, and they are accessible to you.”

  “Yes,” whispered Charles, not in the murmur of sleep, but with full and immediate passion. His arms closed around her and he kissed her mouth, opening her lips with his.

  Olivia froze, unable to move, barely able to think. Never in all the centuries since she left her tomb had anything like this happened to her; no man, even those who had pursued her, had used such tactics. Belatedly she tried to push away from him, and found that short of an actual fight and a strong rebuff, he would not release her.

  He pulled back from her enough to look into her eyes. “I have prayed for this,” he said softly, happily. “God heard me.”

  “Charles—” she began, not knowing what more she would say to him.

  He put two fingers to her lips to silence her. “Don’t speak.”

  “You were asleep,” she said.

  “I was in ambush,” he corrected her with unconcealed satisfaction. “A good soldier knows how to lie still and wait for the game or enemy to come to him. Or his lover, for that matter.” His eyes brimmed with mischief that could not hide his ardor. “You are mine, Olivia, and I will have you, though the Devil come and roar for you, you are mine.”

  Olivia’s smile was sad with memories. “And if the Devil does roar, what then?” It was all well and good to have this impetuous young man infatuated with her: once he learned what she wanted of him, she was suddenly terrified that his desire would vanish and he would believe that she and the Devil were one in the same. �
�Charles—”

  “What Gascon fears the Devil?” He kissed her again, more slowly and thoroughly, and he tugged at the closure of her night rail.

  “You’ll tear it,” said Olivia when she could speak.

  “Good.” He pulled one last time, and the embroidered ties broke free of the fine white lawn. “I have wanted to do that since I saw you on your coach. I have wanted to see you naked.”

  Olivia flinched. “Why?” After all this time, could she have been mistaken, and come upon a man who wished her harm instead of fulfillment.

  “Because you are so lovely,” he said, his words a soft caress. “You were the most magnificent woman I have ever seen; I could not bear to think that anyone else might try to aid you.”

  Her laughter was not as knowing as she had intended it to be. “Oh, yes. With a cut face and a ruined dress, I must have been irresistible.”

  “Oh, yes,” he echoed her, very seriously. “You were.” He kicked at the covers suddenly, and pulled her closer to him. “Here. Come here.”

  She slipped out of his embrace—there was shock and pain in his face as she did—but only to remove her night rail. “I am not what you think me, Charles,” she warned him, because it was unthinkable not to.

  He stopped in the act of tugging himself out of his chamisade. “That’s impossible. I think you are Olivia.” Then he dragged the garment over his head and flung it across the room. He knelt on the bed, arms out to her.

  With a quiet cry made up of surrender and victory, Olivia went into his arms, feeling his skin burning against hers, his hands trembling as his touch changed from awe to adoration. She abandoned herself to his kisses and the sweet plundering of his hands, his desire, and his occasional clumsiness. She had known men more practiced, more experienced with women, but only one other so honest in his passion, and so generous. Once she laughed as his moustache tickled her; he chuckled and grew more audacious, surprising even himself in the pleasures they exchanged with increasing fervor. At last he went into her in a tender frenzy that possessed them both so wholly, so completely, that when culmination overcame them, their rapture seemed miraculously endless.