We have instigated changes and repairs at the stud farm near Tours. A few of our mistress’ staff have been dispatched there for the purpose of seeing that her commands are carried out; it appears that there have been those who are willing to take the funds for upkeep and to do nothing more than pocket them. I need not tell you how ill this sits with Olivia Clemens. She abhors waste and mistreatment, of men, of animals, and of land, and all those things have occurred at Tours.
Your report on the yearling sale is encouraging. I would recommend continuing to use Napoliano, if his other colts show the same merits as Verga. Our mistress has expressed great satisfaction in how well the breeding has gone and she has requested that I thank you for your role in this success. She has remarked that she wishes her stud farm in this country could produce half the number of foals as Senza Pari and that they be of half the quality.
By the end of summer I will return to Senza Pari for a meeting with you and the tenants. Our mistress wishes me to evaluate the land and buildings so that improvements may be put in motion. I am eager to see Roma again, but I am also concerned that I will leave Bondama Clemens alone for at least six weeks. If only I knew the secret of being in two places at once! Then I might discharge my duties to her without leaving her side. Still, while I am gone I have the Cardinal’s assurance that our mistress will be properly guarded, but this does not entirely end by apprehension. I have also the word of a young officer of the King’s Guard who has vowed to care for Olivia no matter what may happen. I have more trust in Signor’ d’Artagnan than I do in the Cardinal, because it is the Cardinal who places our mistress in danger in the first place.
When I have made my plans I will send you word, via the Cardinal’s personal couriers, which will bring letters to you in the fewest number of days. In the meantime, I ask that you will send me monthly dispatches so that I will be prepared for our meeting, and you will have all your information ready. If any difficulties have arisen that you have not mentioned, I ask you to apprise me of them now, so that we may commence to resolve them as soon as I arrive.
You may depend on my gratitude; I pray for the well-being of all those who live at Senza Pari.
Niklos Aulirios
major domo of Eblouir at Chatillon
On the 30th of May, 1644.
Retain for household records.
1
“It was poison!” Anne of Austria declared more emphatically, holding out the little flowered plate. “Why else did the King turn pale and cast up his meal?”
Mazarin shook his head, preparing for a long afternoon with the Queen Regent. “Majesty, there are a hundred reasons. The King is a child, and children are taken by strange humors all the time. Think of last week, when your younger boy had that terrible rash, and no one knew the cause. He was swollen and his skin was red and itching. And then, poof! it was over and the boy was smiling again. Children are like that. They fall ill, they have fevers—who can say from what cause?—and then they are as sunny as a May afternoon, and all in a matter of hours.” He indicated a chair, and bowed her toward it. “Please, gentle lady, you are a little overwrought. Quiet yourself and we will discuss this more carefully.” He chose one of the plainest chairs in the room and brought it near to her, waiting for her nod of permission before he took his seat. “Please,” he repeated.
Anne shook her head several times. “They want him dead, as they wanted me dead,” she whispered. Her face, ordinarily pale, was chalky and her eyes seemed too bright. “They will find a way and then they will make one of their own King in my son’s place, though he has the Right.”
“For love of Our Lord, Majesty,” said Mazarin, trying to still her passionate outburst. “Consider what you are saying.”
“I have considered it,” she said emphatically. “Why should I not?” Her face was set and there was a line about her mouth making her lips white. “I know this court of old. I have known it since I was little more than a child, and I know that it is filled with treason and a thousand terrible plots. The courtiers have banded against me before, and they will do so again. When it was my husband who ruled, there was nothing I could do, for he was the one who wanted most to be rid of me. Anything I did that might be construed as against his interests were used to isolate and degrade me.” There were tears in her eyes, born of anger instead of grief. “I hated him for that, and I prayed to God to forgive me every night on my knees. But Louis hated me and he never asked for forgiveness, not from me and not from God.” She looked away from Mazarin; her hand moving quickly to smear her tears away.
“It was a most unfortunate situation,” said Mazarin at his most soothing. “The match was ill-advised and ill-considered.”
“It was his mother’s doing,” said Anne, her anger unabated. “She was the one who thought I would be the one to change his tastes. She had it all planned.”
“She was that sort of woman,” said Mazarin, hoping that this outburst would not last long. “And she paid dearly for her folly.”
“Exile!” scoffed Anne. “I was in exile for more than twelve years. I was ordered not to leave my apartments here for any reason.” The little flowered dish she had been holding was suddenly flung across the room to break on the edge of the marble hearth. “I suppose if the Louvre had burned Louis would have ordered me to stay in the flames.”
“Majesty—” Mazarin persisted.
“He made me the joke of the court, he encouraged them all to abuse and despise me, and it is no different now he is dead. They are too used to thinking of me as nothing, and they call me the same names they have always used, and they say my son has no Right, for Louis would never give me a child. He did not for so very long, that it could not be his. They say he is his brother’s boy.” She stopped, her voice dropping. “Or Richelieu’s.”
“Yes,” Mazarin said in his most reasonable way. “I have heard that. I have heard even more ridiculous assertions. But you must remember that for so long the King made no attempt to hide his tastes, and he was so flagrant with those who were his favorites that it is not surprising that the courtiers now voice their suspicions.” For the last year he had been saying much the same thing to her, trying to ease her fury whenever she was taken with sudden dreads, as she was now.
“It would not be allowed in Spain,” Anne said, her hands locked in mortal combat in her lap. “It would not be tolerated.”
“But this is France, Majesty, and both of us are suspect because we are foreigners.” He was fully and formally dressed in red biretta, mozzetta, cassock, and lace-edge surplice. There was a diplomatic reception in two hours, and he knew that the Queen Regent could not appear in public in so distraught a state. He regarded her, one hand raised to invoke silence. “I will arrange for a friend to examine Louis,” he said in his most even manner. “I will see that some effort is made to determine if what ailed him was natural to childhood or if it was the cause of something in his food. It may well be…” he said, tantalizing her with his speculation, “that some of the food was improperly prepared. It is worth considering, Majesty.”
Anne was not prepared to relent. “I will want to hear everything this friend says. And I want to know who this friend is.” She pulled her hands apart with effort.
“But if I told you that, we might inadvertently expose my friend to danger, and what then? In future, when other services are needed, my friend might not be there.” He paused to let Anne consider what he had said. “I think it is wisest to protect those who protect us, Majesty: don’t you agree?”
She fastened her hands on the arms of her chair. “Perhaps. If the friend is truly a friend. If not—”
“If not we will know it soon enough,” said Mazarin.
“At the cost of my son!” Anne burst out, and once again began to weep.
“No, no, no, Majesty,” Mazarin protested. “Never would I risk the King’s welfare. I have sworn that to you and on the altar of God. The boy is my primary concern and I will do nothing that I believe might bring him into danger.”
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“He’s just a child,” she whispered. “To be so little and subjected to this!”
Mazarin sighed inwardly. He had been doing well, and then he had inadvertently triggered this new outburst. “Majesty, Majesty, calm yourself. You know that there are burdens that come with greatness, and your little boy will have to learn of them soon enough if he is to be a worthy King when he comes to rule. You are his mentor as well as his mother, and if he sees you so much alarmed, he may assume that he has many reasons to fear and will not strive as he must. It is not wise to make a King fearful, Majesty.”
Her breath shuddered through her. “No.”
“And so you must be more brave than he,” he went on, warming to his subject and hoping that this time Anne would be able to control her outburst. If word got back to Austria that this Spanish Hapsburg was not as capable as her Austrian cousins, she would find herself with far more to contend with than restless courtiers. “He will take courage from you, Majesty, if you will offer it to him.”
Anne pinched the bridge of her nose between her two forefingers. “How can I prevail?”
Mazarin gave her his most charming smile. “Ah, no, Majesty; how can we prevail. This is not a decade ago, when your husband flaunted his favorites to all the world, this is a new time for you. You are Regent, not any of those favorites. And Louis XIV is your son. It would be wise to remember that, for it gives you great strength, no matter how the fops whisper behind their hands, no matter how many lies are told: the Church and the Kingdom of France accept you.”
“Outwardly,” she agreed.
“It is all we may believe,” said Mazarin, anxious to keep her from more dire speculations. “We know that there are those in the country who are displeased that your husband is dead, just as there are those who are displeased that I am First Minister. But until God raises up your husband, or you dismiss me from my position, then they must accept this or be called traitors and pay the price of their treason.”
Anne had stopped crying, but her face was mottled and her eyes were rimmed in red. “Oh, God; how am I to manage?”
“As you have in the past, but with help and with the might of France to enforce your word,” said Mazarin, apparently endlessly patient. “You have a son who is depending upon you to guide his steps and his Kingdom until he is capable of acting for himself. Consider what that will mean to the boy.”
She made a vague gesture. “How am I to protect him?”
For a moment Mazarin had an urge to reach out, take the Queen Regent by the shoulders and shake her. None of this showed in his unruffled demeanor. “Let me act for you, Majesty. I have an oath to fulfill even as you do, and it would please me to know you have allowed me to pursue your interests. I will continue to keep you apprised of all I do, and I will notify you if anything untoward occurs. That will spare you this constant anguish which has brought you such great burdens.”
“How can you act for me?” She was looking at him curiously and not quite as trustingly as before.
“In whatever way you choose. You have only to tell me how you would wish me to aid you, and you may be sure it will be done.” He went down on his knee at her side. “Majesty, I am your servant as much as any lackey or scullion in the Louvre. You have only to command me and I will hasten to do your bidding.”
Anne smiled a little, though her mouth was hard. “I will give it some thought. Speak to me of this again, in a fortnight, when I have had time to pray and contemplate.” She held out her hand to be kissed, indicating that their private discussion was ended for the time being. “I must prepare for the reception,” she said distantly, though she did not rise from her chair. “I have so many things to prepare for.”
“Certainly,” said Mazarin, getting to his feet and executing a proper bow.
“I thank you for your good counsel,” Anne said formally, using the proper phrase for dismissal. She rose in order to curtsy and kiss his ring, then stood straight, her eyes bright but focused at some distant point as Mazarin withdrew from her presence.
Knowing that it was irresponsible to show anxiety of any kind when leaving an audience with the Queen Regent, Mazarin adjusted his features to reflect mild curiosity. He walked down the wide hall, one of his lackeys following three steps behind, taking care not to hurry. He acknowledged the greeting of courtiers with grave courtesy but with no gestures of distinction; he was not reckless enough to play visible favorites with the future of the little King so uncertain. Only once did he deliver a direct cut to a greeting, and that was from Monsieur du Peyrer de Troisvilles; Mazarin had clashed with the Commander of the King’s Musqueteers from the first and was not willing to accept apologies from the fellow now. If he saw the answering scowl on de Troisvilles’ face, he ignored it as he swept on to his private apartments in the Louvre.
Jacques Vidal Jumeau, the youngest of Mazarin’s secretaries, was waiting for him, his new cassock looking out of place on this rugged youth from Provence. He ducked his head as he had been taught to do, then knelt to kiss the Cardinal’s ring. “There are two messages brought this afternoon,” he reported dutifully.
“And they are?” Mazarin displayed a brusqueness with his secretaries he would not have shown to the world at large. He held out his big, elegant hand. “Give them here.”
“At once, Eminence,” he said, and went to the locked desk where all such documents were kept. “One was brought by a page, the other by a lackey from a courier.”
“Um,” was all the response Mazarin ventured. “The first is an invitation for a fete to honor our Austrian guests. Pray inform le Duc that I shall be delighted to attend. You know the form; say that I will be accompanied by … three guests. That should be sufficient for the occasion.” He dropped the first note. “You need not destroy that.” Now his attention was on the other message, this one more lengthy than the first, and written in a hasty scrawl, the page crossed so that it was difficult to decipher as if it had been a code. He frowned as he read it. “Jumeau,” he said suddenly. “Who was the messenger for this note?”
“The lackey did not tell me.” Jumeau hesitated. “I … I did not think to ask.”
“Yes,” said Mazarin. The message was from Pere Chape and it was profoundly troubling, as much for the vagueness of the language which hinted more than explained, as for the implication that there was a great deal more at stake than he had first suspected. “I will need a courier, at once.” He tapped the page against the base of his thumb, as if that might shake some more information out of the sheet. “Two couriers.”
Jumeau bowed, but then stood in confusion. “Mounted or on foot?” he finally brought himself to ask.
“One on foot, one mounted.” He started to pace, his elaborate surplice and cassock swinging with the vigor of his stride. “They are up to something, those plotters who desire to bring down Louis XIV before he ever mounts the throne. They are working against the Queen Regent, which is treason, and against the monarchy, which is contrary to God.” He rounded on Jumeau. “I despise them all, these cravens who do not fight in the open, as men, but creep about in the dark, like rats.” He flung down the paper. “Get that Guardsman, the one who’s devoted to Bondame Clemens. Have him carry my message to her.”
“D’Artagnan?” suggested Jumeau.
“That one.” He took another turn around the room. “The Queen Regent is concerned about poison in the boy’s food. Little does she realize how much more she has to fear. He is a child. It means little when he vomits if there is no blood and he does not take a fever. I will order new cooks be found for Louis—that is a minor thing. But there are measures we must take at once if we are to protect the monarchy.” He stopped abruptly. “Where are the couriers? Why are you standing there? Stolto! E perche indugia—” With a visible effort he mastered himself and returned to his impeccable French. “Why do you linger?”
Jumeau had gone quite red in the face, though whether from embarrassment or contained anger even he could not tell. “I do not know which … to do first, an
d how.”
Mazarin gave the young man a long, serious look. “Very well,” he said, sounding more self-contained. “I wish you to summon one courier for delivery of a message in Paris. That young man, the one who was such help to Richelieu—what is the name?”
“Fontaine de Rochard?” suggested Jumeau, eager to get something right for a change. “He is a lackey.”
“Yes; he was a page not so long ago: he. Find him and bring him to me. And then get that Guardsman. I want to see them before the reception for the Austrians.” He stopped and rocked back on his heels. “I don’t like the Austrians coming now. I don’t like the way they are pressing the Queen Regent.”
“Eminence?”
“Go do it. Send word to the barracks of the Guards and ask the major domo to find de Rochard.” He folded his arms, his large brown eyes no longer warm. “I will have the conspirators if I must upset every noble household in France; that I swear before God.”
“Yes, Eminence,” said Jumeau before he bowed himself out of the door, leaving Mazarin alone to write and seal two messages. By the time Jumeau returned, Mazarin was his usual urbane self, watching his secretary with tolerance if not approval while the young man did his best to report.
“De Rochard will be here shortly,” he said as he rose from kissing Mazarin’s ring. “He is … pleased that you remember the service he performed for Richelieu. He asked that I render his thanks for this opportunity to serve you.”
Mazarin nodded. “And the Guardsman—what of him?”
“I have sent word to the barracks, as you ask, informing Monsieur des Essarts that you wish to see d’Artagnan at once.” He did not look directly at Mazarin as he spoke, but set his gaze at some unknown spot slightly above the Cardinal’s left shoulder.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 27