A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “What’s troubling you?” She had taken a seat on her chaise and was unfastening the bodice and corsage of her dress. “Let me have the chamise.”

  “Haven’t you heard anything I have said?” Avisa demanded, her eyes rolled heavenward as if imploring reinforcements from the angels. “Are you wholly immune to sense?”

  “Of course not,” said Olivia as she tossed the velvet bodice across the room onto her bed. She started to work on the lacings holding her skirts and panniers. “You must recall that I have an obligation, a sworn duty to the Cardinal. The weather and the current mode does not excuse me from that duty.”

  “Then send Niklos,” begged Avisa.

  “It is not Niklos’ responsibility,” said Olivia as she started to fasten the front of her chamise. “I hate corsets,” she remarked to the air.

  “Then why wear them?” Avisa demanded sarcastically. “You care little enough for other conventions. You don breeches like a man, you ride in a soldier’s saddle, Dio mio, why stop at corsets?” She gathered up the clothes Olivia had tossed aside and began to fold them. “There’s a tear in the arm of this,” she pointed out, holding up the bodice-and-corsage, indicating a little rip at the top of the sleeve.

  “Repair it,” said Olivia, paying very little attention.

  “But it is velvet; it will show,” warned Avisa.

  “Well, embroider something on it. Put several bits of embroidery on both sleeves, so it won’t look like you’re hiding a tear. Have you seen my waistcoat?”

  Without a single word, Avisa went to the smaller of two chests-of-drawers and all but threw the waistcoat at her. Then she folded her arms defiantly, waiting.

  Olivia was adjusting the garters above her knees, flexing her toes to make sure the garters would not loosen while she was in the saddle. “While I’m gone, I’ll want you to help Niklos determine how much damage was done by the storm. I need to know who in the household has livery or bedding that has to be replaced, and if there has been anything destroyed, such as crockery or napery or similar goods, I want you to make note of it, so that we can review it when I return.”

  “You think the Cardinal will permit you to return? Once he sees how you comport yourself, he will probably return you to Roma in a curtained coach.” She crossed herself at the thought of such an event.

  “Wouldn’t that please you?” Olivia asked as she pulled her waistcoat over her head. “Get my habit, please.”

  As Avisa took the heavy woolen habit out of the armoire, she made one last attempt to dissuade Olivia. “Madama, please. I beg you to reconsider. This is very, very ill-advised, and it could lead to offending the First Minister. You cannot want to do that, Madama. You must not do this.”

  If Olivia had paid any heed to what Avisa said, she gave no indication of it. “My habit, if you will. And my boots.” She did not ask Avisa to get her breeches, but went to the press at the foot of her bed and got them for herself. As she drew them on and fastened them to the rosettes of her waistcoat, she gave Avisa one more chance. “I’ll need a heavy jabot, something in wool or silk. Something dark.”

  Avisa closed her eyes as if in silent prayer, then said in a flat tone, “What about the Hungarian silk? It is grey.”

  “Fine,” said Olivia, “Bring it.” She took the long jabot and began to wrap and knot it expertly around her neck. When she was satisfied, she reached out for the voluminous skirt of her riding habit, stepped into it, and dragged it over her leggings and breeches. As she adjusted its fastenings at her waist, she nodded toward the coat. “Open the lacings,” she said as she bounced on her toes to be sure the skirt would not shift while she rode.

  “Madama, how can you do this?” Her protest was feeble this time, and she spoke it while she was unfastening the lacings of the habit coat.

  “How can I not, when it is so clearly my duty?” She reached out for the coat. “Thank you. Now bring the brushes; I have to do something about my hair.”

  Avisa gave a kind of whimper and hastened to do as she was told, her back stiff with disapproval and worry.

  By the time Olivia walked into the stable a short while later, Niklos had carried out her orders and had a rangy bay mare waiting for her, the cavalry saddle already in place, the bridle being held by a groom while the farrier made a last check of the bay’s shoes.

  “She’s twelve, so she’s sensible,” said Niklos, indicating the horse. “Just be a little careful of her mouth.”

  “Have you ridden her?” asked Olivia with some surprise.

  “No, but I’ve asked those who have.” He patted the horse’s neck, scratching a little at her fuzzy winter coat. “She’s got enough hair on her to keep her warm, I think.”

  “Good,” said Olivia, not paying much attention as she watched the farrier. “Is there a problem?”

  The farrier shook his head in doubt. “If the road is clear, I don’t think so. If you have to cross rough ground, I can’t be sure.” He indicated the off-side front hoof he had resting against his knees. “The shoes are new enough, and she’s a steady goer, but…”

  “No one can anticipate everything,” Olivia said, eager to be gone. “Niklos, give me a leg up, will you?”

  Obediently, Niklos bent with his hands joined. “The girths ought to be checked frequently,” he reminded her as she put her foot into his hands.

  “I’m not completely a novice at this,” she reminded him as he lifted her into the saddle. She spread her skirts as best she could to conceal the saddle and provide a little warmth and protection for herself and the mare. As she drew in the reins, she glanced down at Niklos. “Is that all?”

  “They say it will rain again before nightfall,” Niklos told her in his steadiest way. “If that happens, find shelter.”

  “If I can,” she said, not permitting him to try to change her mind. “I will be back tomorrow, and if I am not, I will have a messenger come from the Cardinal.”

  “If it can be arranged,” Niklos reminded her.

  “I will arrange it,” Olivia said with greater purpose than before. “If it must be arranged.”

  “Remember what you promised,” Niklos said as he went to the mare’s head.

  “I gave you my word,” said Olivia, adjusting her seat to the mare’s long stride. “What is her name?”

  “Mite,” said the nearest groom. “She’s a little shy about the ears.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” said Olivia as she checked her hat. “How is she in rain?”

  “She’ll do,” said the groom, his approval of the horse apparent.

  As she rode into the courtyard, Olivia glanced up at the sky, studying the clouds scudding overhead. “How does she go in the dark?” Olivia called back over her shoulder.

  The oldest groom, standing in the open stable door, answered after he considered a moment. “Well enough, if you do not press her.”

  “All right,” said Olivia, taking the crop that Niklos held out to her. “Don’t worry, Niklos. I have managed far worse than this, and well you know it.”

  Niklos nodded once, his face grim in the muted light. “Yes, I know it. And you know that every time you have taken such risks, I have worried about you, so do not tell me I ought not to; by now it’s a habit with me.”

  Olivia’s hazel eyes softened. “I know. But take heart, old friend. All your worrying has been for naught.” She used the crop to salute, then started Mite off at a walk, peering ahead toward the distant walls of Paris.

  Most of the road was axle-deep in mud as several mired wagons at the edge of Chatillon revealed. Olivia skirted them, then decided to cut across the fields, using the country lanes. It might be a longer journey, she thought, but her chance of arriving without mishap was greater. Belatedly she also thought that if Eblouir was being watched, the watchers might not think it significant for her to ride away from her house if she did not take the main road to Paris.

  It was windy, though no longer storming. Now there were playful gusts instead of great howling bludgeons, and while the
branches of the cypress at the side of the lane bent and moaned, they no longer thrashed.

  “It’s not too bad, girl,” she said to Mite, patting her neck with a gloved hand. “We’ll make good time.” She glanced toward a windmill with torn sails, shaking her head at the damage she saw around her. “Don’t let the flapping cloth bother you,” she advised the mare as the horse brought her head up, ears pricked at the sight of the tattered sails.

  A farmer stood at the edge of a nearby field, hands on his hips, surveying the damage where the roof of a shed had fallen in. He glanced at Olivia as she rode by, giving her a truculent nod of his head and calling a greeting that could not be heard.

  Olivia waved back and continued on, watching for the next turn that would take her to Vanves. She had decided that her best route from there would go to Issy-les-Molineaux. It was not as direct as Montrouge. “You are being overly cautious,” she said to herself and the mare. “You have no reason to be so careful.” But, she argued inwardly, what if the main road was as impassable at Montrouge as it was at Chatillon? What if there were guards out? What if she was being observed, her progress marked? “That’s foolish,” she said, all the while thinking that if the Cardinal’s courier had come to grief, she might have reason to be afraid. “The poor fellow is probably at an inn, nursing a dislocated shoulder or some similar mishap.” She heard the doubt in her voice and saw Mite’s ears twitch as if the mare were as unconvinced as she was.

  The road forked ahead, and Olivia chose the eastern branch, taking care to avoid the deep puddle in the center of the crossroad where deep ruts disappeared in slick-looking mud. She peered down the road and saw only an oxcart being led by two half-grown children. Relieved, she set Mite into a slow trot, liking the athletic way the mare moved.

  One of the youngsters made a rude gesture as Olivia rode by him, and the other whistled through his teeth, laughing as Mite skittered sideways at the sound.

  Olivia held the mare together and mentally cursed the two youngsters. She could feel the wind increasing; her thick woolen habit no longer seemed able to hold out the cold slice of the air; her hat flapped like a captive bird. With a quick, impatient swipe, Olivia pulled the two pins securing it free from her hair and watched as the tricorn sailed away, then she pulled the mare in and continued toward Paris.

  Torches burned in the gateway when Olivia arrived at the Porte Notre Dame. The portcullis had been lowered more than an hour before, and the two guards on duty huddled together against the driving rain.

  Olivia, bedraggled and exhausted, had to pull on the bellrope four times to get one of the guards to bestir himself. “It is too late,” he said as he came to the edge of the gateway. “The gate will open tomorrow morning at first light.”

  “I have an urgent message for Cardinal Mazarin,” Olivia announced in her most commanding manner.

  “And I am the Due de Lorraine,” said the guard, turning away.

  “I have authorization,” Olivia called after him. She was glad now that she had insisted that Mazarin provide her with a safe conduct when she had first come to France. “Inspect it, if you like.”

  “You?” The guard gave a sweeping and condemning look at her, at her muddy horse and cavalry saddle. “How could the likes of you know the Cardinal?” He guffawed with listless malice. “In the morning we’ll let you through.”

  Olivia swung out of the saddle and pulled Mite after her as she walked up to the gate. The rain which had been falling since day’s end glistened and ran over her, shining where the light of the torches struck. “You will let me through at once, guardsman, or in the morning you can present your excuses to His Eminence and pray that he is feeling beneficent.” She fumbled with the lacing holding her coat closed. Her hands were almost numb with cold and strain. “I have the Cardinal’s letter here; you had better read it.”

  The guard looked at Olivia again, as if noticing her at last; this time there was a randy light in his eyes. “Favor for favor?” He leered at her, revealing discolored teeth.

  The smile that Olivia offered him was ferocious. “You set one hand on me, you worm, and you will regret it.” She was able to draw the letter from her inside pocket; she thrust it through the bars toward the guard. “You know Mazarin’s seal?”

  The guardsman took the parchment from her and gave it a cursory inspection. “Not bad,” he said as he went to open the gate. “I’ll have to have verification.”

  “This isn’t sufficient?” Olivia asked in disbelief as she led Mite through the gate. Her skirts were sodden and their damp had long since penetrated Olivia’s disgraceful breeches. She wanted nothing so much as a warm bath and an opportunity to dry off once the mud and grime of travel were washed away.

  The guardsman signaled her to wait while he went into the one-room customshouse built into the wall of the gate. As he passed through the door, he wadded up the parchment and tossed it aside, making a tuneless, anticipatory whistle.

  Olivia watched in disbelief. She wanted to accuse the guardsman of insubordination, but she could not frame the words, for she was suddenly sharply afraid. With tremendous effort, she said very calmly, “Who will go to the Cardinal’s palace? you, or your fellow guardsman?”

  The guardsman laughed, a sound like metal scraping brick. “In time one of us will, I’m sure. When it’s proper.”

  It was difficult to pretend she did not understand him, but Olivia strove to appear only irritated; if the guardsman thought she was unaware of his intentions, she would have a slight advantage with him. She made her Italian accent stronger. “Listen, fellow,” she said querulously, “I have not ridden through this infernal rain and, I think, damaged my mare’s foot so that you can idle away the night waiting to send word to His Eminence. I require to be taken to his palace at once.” Her back was straight and her head up.

  “All in good time,” said the guardsman with more insinuation in his tone.

  Olivia tossed her head, feeling the wet strands of hair against her face and neck. “Well, while you prepare to go, or whatever it is you are doing, I will see to my mare’s hoof.” And before the guardsman could stop her, Olivia turned and was out the door.

  “What?” The guardsman swung around just in time to see Olivia pull herself into the saddle. As he started toward her, she raised her riding crop and brought it down smartly across his cheek as she backed the mare out of the narrow passageway and into the street. The guardsman swore eloquently and shouted for his partner. “Stop her! Stop her!”

  It was hard not to look back, to see whether the guardsmen were coming after her, and it was harder not to try to kick the exhausted horse into a canter, but neither of those things would be wise, Olivia told herself with all the force she could muster. She kept Mite to a trot, watching every doorway and alley for footpads and more sinister folk, knowing that there was more danger in being unescorted in the streets of Paris after dark than there was on the road from Chatillon. She wished now that she had taken the time to charge a pistol, or tuck a dagger into her boot. “A sword would be better,” she whispered to the mare as she ducked to avoid a shop sign hanging over the way, hanging onto the reins to keep the mare from falling when she slipped on the muddy paving.

  At last she saw the bulk of the Cardinal’s palace ahead, and she all but shrieked with the consolation the building gave simply by its existence. She drew Mite down to a walk and went to the central gate, once again looking for the bellrope.

  An officer of the Cardinal’s Guard answered her summons, and listened to her tale in patent disbelief. “Where did you say your safe conduct is?” he asked her when she had finished telling him who she was and why she had come.

  “If you had been paying attention to what I have been saying,” she pointed out with exasperation, “you would know that the guard at the Porte Notre Dame has it.”

  “Convenient,” said the officer in polite disbelief.

  “Actually,” Olivia said sharply, “it is exceedingly inconvenient. If I could produce it, this door wo
uld be open by now.” She sighed. “Send for Fontaine de Rochard, the Cardinal’s lackey, and ask him to identify me. If Pere Chape is here, he will vouch for me.” She hoped that these names might influence the officer, for she was perilously close to being angry with him. “Magna Mater, I am part of His Eminence’s suite!”

  The officer hid a yawn behind his hand. “All right,” he said, making up his mind. “I will send for de Rochard, but if he does not approve you, then you will be sent away from here with ten blows from a stout cudgel for your impertinence.”

  “Fine,” said Olivia, meaning it. As she wiped the rain from her face, she hoped that her efforts would prove worthwhile. She patted Mite’s side before she unbuckled the saddle girths. “Well, girl,” she said to the mare, watching her drooping head, “you’ve earned your oats and a long rest for this ride.” Then, as she tugged the wet saddle off the mare’s back, she saw Fontaine de Rochard coming across the courtyard inside the gate, an anxious expression on his youthful face.

  “Madame Clemens,” he called out, signaling to the officer of the Cardinal’s Guard to open the gate. “At once,” he insisted. “God save you! what has happened?”

  Olivia slung the saddle over her arm and waited while the gates were opened for her.

  Text of a letter from Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles to Cardinal Jules Mazarin.

  Eminence,

  It is no secret that you and I have been at odds for some time, and in spite of the generous offers various of your henchmen have made to me over the last two years, I wish to make it clear to you once and for all that I have no interest in accepting a more favorable position at court than the one I now occupy. I have no ambition beyond continuing to serve the King and France as the commander of the King’s Musqueteers. I have risen to my current position through my service to the Crown and I intend to do so until I die.

  I understand that you wish to bestow my regiment on your very young nephew Philippe Mancini, le Due de Nevers, who has no skill as a commander of armed men. You show great respect to your family, which is laudable in any man, but you have no regard for the Musqueteers, who will risk their lives in the defence of the King at the order from their leader. It is necessary, if their lives are not to be wasted, that men of experience and judgment give the orders, not untried and well-born youths with no idea of the reality of battle.