A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The horse did not even stagger. His legs buckled and he collapsed, falling to his side, his neck flopping once as his head came down.

  Thumaz bent to take off the bridle, his face stoney.

  “Never mind that now,” said Olivia distantly. “I want to see the feed locker.”

  “Yes, Madame,” said Thumaz, stepping back from the colt. He hesitated, turning toward her. “What do you want done with him?”

  Olivia blinked, as if the question were unanticipated. “The monks at Sacres Innocentes can make use of the meat, I suppose. Let them have it.” She rubbed thoughtfully at her hands, getting the spatters of blood off them. “In which case, we’d better have someone from the kitchen tend to him at once. Fetch one of the cooks while I see about the feed locker.” Her features were unreadable. “Go, Thumaz.” She reached out for the inlaid box and put the wheel-lock pistol back into it, noting to herself that it would need cleaning later.

  “Madame,” he said, and hastened to carry out her order.

  As Olivia left the arena she did not look back. Going down the long ranks of box stalls, she saw that the horses were nervous, a few of them pacing in their confines, others on the alert, ears pricked and heads up. At the sight of Evraud, she said, “Go and turn out the stalled horses. They need to be out.”

  “But there is no one to guard—”

  “I intend to give this place a thorough going-over. You may return to help me as soon as you have the horses in their paddocks.” She entered the narrow room and sneezed. “What an infernal mess it is.”

  “The dust is the worst,” said Evraud as he bowed. “I will be back shortly.” He walked away briskly, whistling the signal he always used with the horses; a few whickered in response.

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “See that you are.” She fanned the air with her hand, looking around in the half-light. There was a window on the far side of the locker, and she made her way toward it, the gloom no hazard to her night-seeing eyes. The air felt thick as porridge.

  As she pulled back the shutters, the locker brightened, and the extent of the damage was apparent at once: two barrels of crushed oats had been blown apart and their contents turned to grit and dust. A barrel of rough-ground maize had been damaged as well, and flecks of the yellow grain were mixed everywhere with the oats. Three other barrels had been knocked over by the blasts, and their contents were spread over the floor, the millet making walking especially risky.

  Olivia stood surveying the damage, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well,” she remarked to the chaos around her, “if there is a device of some kind, it will be here somewhere.” She turned on her heel once, twice, assessing the severity of the damage. Finally she knelt down in the debris from one of the barrels of oats and began to feel her way through the pulverized grain. It took her some little while, but eventually she found something, a scrap of dark metal. She lifted it up and perused it. “A pomegranate,” she said after a short silence. “Who knows how to make pomegranates?” The small, hand-held bombs were most often used against infantry, she recalled. The King’s Musqueteers were infantry, she reminded herself inconsequentially as Charles’ face filled her thoughts, blotting out the little shard of a bomb in her hand. Then she made herself think more clearly. There had been two reports, one after the other. That meant there was a second bomb. And perhaps a third, or a fourth.

  Olivia stood up very slowly. This would take more care than she had anticipated. Holding the bit of metal she had discovered, she retreated from the locker, going more carefully than she had before. Once she was in the wide corridor of her stable, she took care to close the stout door and put the brace into its brackets.

  Shortly after that, Evraud returned, this time carrying a shovel. “The horses are out, Madame, and I thought this would be useful.”

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed, her manner a little distracted. “Evraud, how many people in this area know about Octave’s ventures?”

  Evraud looked startled, and he answered hesitantly. “What do you mean, Madame? Perceval has sworn that…” He made a gesture to ward off the Evil Eye. “This is not his doing?”

  “Who else would want to put a bomb on this estate?” Olivia asked. She held out the metal fragment for him to see. “There were two bombs. There may be more. That’s why I’ve closed the locker for the time being.”

  “More?” Evraud asked, dazed. “I was guarding…” His words faded.

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed. “Had I been aware of the risks, you would not have been left here, exposed to such danger. What sort of madman puts explosives in a stable?”

  “It would have to be a madman, or … you have enemies, Madame.” He made the suggestion gingerly, as if he were afraid that his mistress might number him among those enemies for mentioning the possibility.

  “I?” she asked, startled. “Who? There are those in Paris who would be glad to be rid of me, but here, who is there?” She answered her own question. “Other than Octave, of course.”

  “Octave would not … not here, Madame,” said Evraud, then added, “I have no dealings with them, not directly. But those around here, they understand.”

  “Convenient,” Olivia whispered. At that moment she wished fervently that Niklos was not in Roma at Senza Pari, that she could raise her voice and have him appear at her side to aid her and chide her for her perplexity. With determination she set such useless reflections aside. Niklos would be back in a month, and by then this trouble would be long past, a thing she could joke about when she told him of it. “And is Octave so considerate, or only those he deals with?” Her eyes were on the piece of a bomb. “Perhaps not everyone is familiar with his rules.”

  “Perhaps,” said Evraud with a degree of wariness that had not been present before.

  “And I may be jumping at shadows, mayn’t I?” She said it lightly enough but there was nothing in her eyes that made Evraud suppose that she intended to amuse him. “Still, two bombs; it is something to think about.” Or Charles, she thought. Charles knew about bombs, as all infantrymen did. He would be able to advise her. In the next instant she was deriding herself for thinking of so young and inexperienced a man as her lover was.

  Evraud stared at his feet. “Two bombs.”

  “Possibly more,” Olivia reminded him. “Which is why I want to know who has been across my land today. If Octave has had a hand in this, he will answer to me and to the King’s Magistrate.”

  It was a vow that Evraud had heard before, but never had he believed it; hearing Olivia speak the words, he was convinced that she would do what she promised. “Octave does not carry his battles here.”

  “For which I must be grateful. But perhaps his battles have come to him,” Olivia said, in that same light, brittle tone she had used before. “I will not allow it. I want you to be certain of that, Evraud; you and Perceval and all the rest of you who work here. I will not tolerate injury to my stock or risk to my workers, is that clear?”

  “Why do you say this to me?” Evraud asked her, opening his hands to show his innocence. “Do you think I would defy your orders? Why do you doubt me?”

  “Because you are Perceval’s cousin, which means you are Octave’s cousin as well, and unless the world is a very different place today than it was yesterday, blood has a bond.” She gave him a quick, critical look. “I want word passed to Octave tonight. If there is any repetition of this, it will be on his head as well as any rival of his. Be sure he comprehends.”

  “I will try, Madame,” said Evraud, not knowing what else to say. “Word will reach him. By nightfall.”

  “Excellent,” said Olivia, lifting her head as she caught the sound of approaching steps. “That will be Thumaz and the cooks.” Her tone changed, becoming more distant and impersonal. “Have a donkey cart hitched up, so that we can carry the meat to Sacres Innocentes when it is ready.”

  Evraud bowed twice, glad for the chance to get away from Bondame Clemens. “At once,” he promised.

  Her eyes clouded. “There’s no need to
hurry,” she said in a soft voice. “It will take them a while.” She looked down, as if for the first time noticing the blood that dappled her chamise and breeches. “I had better change.” Avisa would have her bath waiting, and she could wash away the grime and the blood—everything but the memory. Her eyes fixed on a spot far away. “Put the saddle in the tack room, Evraud.”

  “Yes, Madame,” he said, following her back toward the arena, and hoping he would not see anything of the work the cooks were doing. Never in his life had he become used to the sight of butchery.

  As she reached the arena, she picked up the inlaid box containing her pistol. “Remember what I have told you, Evraud,” she said. She did not wait for an answer, but walked quickly away toward the main house.

  Text of a letter from Pere Pascal Chape to a man identified only as Le Fouet, written in code.

  To my great and patriotic friend, my greetings. Once again I have the opportunity to aid you and your cause and to bring you news of the adulterous Queen and her bastard offspring.

  As you have undoubtedly learned before now, the Queen is much taken with the notion that there are those plotting to kill her children and herself. We have known for a long time that she is prone to fancies and suspicions that were the product of her dreams and woman’s weaknesses. Given the way she comported herself while her husband lived, it is not surprising to any of us that she would feel herself in such danger, for she continues to foist off her by-blows on the people of France as if they had the Right instead of being the living proofs of her lusts.

  It is true that her Italian lover has been diligent, and in his Cardinal’s robes he presents a very attractive picture of virtue, which masks all the more his great sins with the perfidious Queen. They are constantly in each other’s company and she has made it apparent that she depends upon him for every kindness and aid, as if his position as First Minister gave him privilege with her. But no one is fooled. They rut like animals and their stench rises to God and fills all France.

  You have said that you are with us, that you seek to aid our cause in bringing down this despicable pair and the two brats of her lascivious couplings with the loathed Richelieu. Your position and nobility are beyond any dispute and this shows to those who doubt that we are not malcontents seeking to rise in the world while France is in the hands of a weak and capricious woman, but that we have justice and righteousness in our cause, and we proceed from the most elevated of principles for the most worthy gains.

  As I have said, the Queen dreads poison, and she has spent hours with the physician appointed to treat her sons, pestering him with her fancies about this mania of hers, requiring that the boy be purged often, in the hope that any poison that might have escaped detection before might be driven from his body before it can do its work.

  While I seek no evil whatsoever to come to the Royal House, I am constrained to pray for the downfall of this Spanish whore and her two whelps so that France may once again be free of this intolerable taint. The Hapsburgs have no place in France, and the children of a Hapsburg woman must not be allowed to sully the Royal House of France for one day longer than is absolutely necessary for our purposes and the success of our cause.

  You have said many times that you are sworn to the cause of the righteousness of the Throne. I and those who think like me applaud your stance and beg that you will consider joining them in their efforts to end the shame that has been brought on France by the terrible conduct of the woman who was chosen as wife and consort to our King Louis XIII of glorious memory. In remembrance of him, I ask you to weigh what I have said, and if you find in yourself some sympathy for our goals, you will meet with us at Advent in the city of Lyon for the purposes of learning more of our actions and our purpose. There are many who are eager to welcome you to our number and to join their might to yours for the purpose of ending the rule of the Spanish trollop who calls herself our Queen Regent, and who flaunts her children and her lover in front of all the world as if there were no shame in anything she has done. Should you decide to attend, send me word and I will supply you with further instructions and such material as passwords and identifications. If you, upon reflection, find that you cannot aid us, then I end with the supplication that you will not betray those who act in honor and for the honor of France and the Royal House.

  With my prayers and the assurance that this brings you the good faith of those who, like you, have reason to abhor the disgrace of France which besmirches us all, I sign myself

  Pere Pascal Chape

  Canons Regular of St. Augustine

  On the 2nd day of November, 1644.

  Destroy this.

  3

  De Portau ordered the third pot of wine for both of them, his ruddy cheeks glowing with the fire of the grape. “Keeps out the cold,” he explained owlishly as he took a generous swig of the drink. He wiped his mouth with his lace-edged cuff and grinned his approval. “Keeps in the warm. Good wine stokes the fires, Charles, that’s certain.”

  Charles reached over the rough-hewn table and patted de Portau on the shoulder. “You’re a great fellow, Isaac. No man finer in all the Musqueteers.” At that he chuckled. “And now that includes me.”

  Both de Portau and Charles laughed loudly, and de Portau raised his tankard in another toast. “To the newest Musqueteer,” he declared roundly, his words slurring a bit now that the impact of the wine was reaching him. “Welcome to the ranks, boy, though you are a Gascon and not a Bearnais; see that you comport yourself well.”

  “Of course,” said Charles, taking umbrage at the suggestion that he would do anything else. “On my honor.”

  “Of course, of course,” de Portau soothed. “Didn’t mean anything else.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “You are the sort of man we seek. You have courage, mon brave. You have mettle. Just see that you keep out of duels. Word to the wise: Peyrer de Troisvilles doesn’t like duels. Says it’s a waste of good men.” He held up his hand to keep Charles from a new outburst. “You should have heard him this time last year. Arnaud d’Athos was found dead in la halle du Pre aux Clercs: dueling for sure. Killed with a sword in Clercs. There was no proof, but what else do you do there? De Troisvilles won’t have it.”

  Charles nodded four times. “Yes. I understand,” he said, but his eyes grew dark. “I will refrain except when honor is traduced.”

  De Portau slammed his fist onto the table, all but upsetting the winepots. “Damnation! what have I been saying to you. No dueling, honor or no honor.” Suddenly he winked. “At least not where it will be found out. You’re only just admitted to the Musqueteers; there’s no reason for you to ruin all your chances over a misunderstanding, is there?” He leaned back, at pains now to be as calm as he had been excited. “Keep your head, Charles, that’s what matters.”

  “I will try,” said Charles, meaning it but having no notion how to go about it.

  At the adjoining table a group of six Musqueteers had just sat down, and the oldest of them was bellowing for service.

  “Don’t be too eager with the others,” de Portau added, seeing the enthusiasm in Charles’ eyes. “Until they know your worth, they will treat you like a puppy. If you don’t want that, then you must restrain yourself. Once they see you under fire, they will have the measure of you, and you will earn their respect.” He lifted his hand to a long-faced newcomer. “Henri, over here. Never mind de Beusseret, have a drink with us.”

  The new arrival wore the blue mantle of the King’s Musqueteers and carried himself well, with pride and a bit of a swagger but nothing too flamboyant. He came over to the small table where de Portau and Charles sat, casting about for a stool for himself. “God give you good evening,” he said rather formally, nodding to Charles. “I have been looking for you, Isaac,” he said to de Portau.

  “To you as well,” Charles responded automatically, doing his best to gather his wits in the presence of the stranger.

  De Portau grinned again. “We’re celebrating,” he sai
d unnecessarily.

  “So I assumed,” said the other Musqueteer. “What is the occasion? Why are you drinking with one of the King’s Guards?” The jibe was delivered with a broad smile so that no insult would be construed.

  “Because,” said de Portau portentously, “he is no longer a King’s Guard, he is one of us. He’ll be given the mantle at the New Year, at the fete.”

  “Ah,” said the other, his manner at once becoming more cordial. “Well, then I must drink your welcome, too.” He hooked a stool with the toe of his boot and dragged it toward the little table. “We’ll have a round on my purse, boy,” he said to Charles.

  “I do not like to be called boy,” Charles said, his attitude growing defiant.

  De Portau wagged a rebuking finger at him. “Until you stand in battle, you might as well get used to it. We all are called boy at first. I was. Henri was. Weren’t you?” He addressed their new companion directly.

  “Often,” Henri assured them as he sat down.

  “And he’s some kind of cousin to de Troisvilles—if he is not spared, none of us can hope to be.” De Portau finished up the wine in his tankard. “Five days until Christmas. I don’t want to be sober until the Mass of the Nativity.” He looked at Charles with an inquisitive air. “And you?”

  “Ah,” said Charles. “My purse won’t stretch that far. And,” he added more seriously, “I have obligations for tomorrow, and I had best be sober for them.”

  “How unfortunate,” said Henri. “Is it for your family?”

  “No, for my mistress,” said Charles, unable to resist the urge to preen. “I am pledged to visit her then, for three days.” He was delighted to see that he had made an impression on the other two Musqueteers.

  A ragged cheer went up from the patrons of the tavern as two of the cooks, red-faced and panting, emerged from the kitchen with a roasted pig on a spit. As it was deposited with ceremony on the stand in front of the hearth, there was applause and whistles. The cooks took large knives from their belts and began to cut up the pig, accompanied by rhythmic stamping of the patrons nearest the hearth.