Your cousin,
Jules Mazarin
Cardinal and First Minister of France
On the 8th day of July, 1645.
6
Pere Chape wished he could leave; he had never liked cemeteries, and this one, at night, was more distressing than he had anticipated. He stood in the shadow of an enormous and ancient tomb, staring at a new statue of a warrior Saint. He shivered, though the autumn night was not chill. He sniffed, convinced that he was in danger from the miasma of the place, but in fact feeling sorry for himself.
There was the crunch of a boot on gravel and dry leaves, and then the soft footfalls were muffled by moss growing beside the path. There was the scent of brandy and perfume, and a shadow next to that of the armored, angelic statue. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes,” Pere Chape said, adding, “there is a white eagle in the sky.”
His unknown visitor sighed and answered with the rest of the recognition code. “There is a red mouse on the ground.” He moved a little nearer so that the shadow of the tomb covered him as well as Pere Chape. “What is the trouble? You know that it is hazardous for us to meet.”
“Certainly,” said Pere Chape with the assumption of dignity. “But since that messenger was killed, the Cardinal has been so much on his guard that I am not certain it is any less hazardous sending you messages.”
“Mazarin is in Amiens now, with the Queen Regent and that child we must call King instead of bastard.” The tone was more condemning than the words. “I hope that Richelieu, wherever he is in Hell, knows that we will not tolerate his brat ruling the Kingdom of France.”
“If God is just,” said Pere Chape, a little apprehensive at the soft-voiced wrath he heard in his visitor’s words, “He will favor our cause.”
There was no response for a short while, then the other man said, “So.”
“Monsieur…” Pere Chape began, then could think of nothing more to say.
“What was so urgent that you had to speak with me? And why now?” The voice was still low, courteous, almost seductive. Pere Chape was afraid of the man.
“It’s the courier,” he blurted out. “The one that was killed? You know—bound to tree limbs?” Even saying it made him writhe. He had never approved of killing the courier; he had said so when the plan was first considered. He had been absolutely against torturing the courier. He had kept to the position that if it had to be done, then let it be swift and painless. This soft-voiced fellow had given the order.
“I am aware,” said the other man, his tone a degree less accommodating.
“Well,” Pere Chape said, trying to remain calm, “it has been decided by the Cardinal that the couriers will now ride not to Eblouir but to the Roman widow’s stud farm in Tours, and from there the letters will be carried by one of his Guards. He made up his mind just this afternoon.”
“How can you know that? Mazarin is at Amiens with the Queen Regent and Richelieu’s spawn.”
“But he sent word, with one of the Queen’s messengers. It was delivered to his secretary this afternoon. Had I not been at the Cardinal’s palace, I would have known nothing of it. I thought that … that it was important to tell you. As soon as possible.” He was finding it difficult to breathe and his tone had become rough with apprehension.
“And that was why you summoned me instead of sending a coded message?” The softness was now dangerous, a steel blade wrapped in fine satin. “What reason do you have?”
“I … I knew you wanted to keep track of the couriers, to be able to follow them. You know that Mazarin wants to use military men as couriers, and so far, des Essarts and de Troisvilles have opposed the request. But their days are limited—in another year, who knows who will head the Musqueteers and the King’s Guard?”
There was a rustling in the hedge behind the tomb, and both men fell silent, Pere Chape prepared to bolt on the instant. Neither man moved until a large, dark, battle-scarred tomcat burst from the undergrowth, head up, a dying rat dangling out both sides of his mouth. He trotted away, giving the human intruders no notice.
The stranger did not speak at once. “Are there couriers on the road now?” he asked when the cat was gone from sight.
“I believe so. A courier from the Vatican is expected in the next three days. And someone has come from the young Due de Nevers.
“Philippe Mancini!” said the other as if the name were the most vile obscenity. “Another Italian adventurer!” He took an impetuous step away, gravel rasping under his heel, then he turned back, his rage once again under control. “That boy will be his final error,” the stranger declared in his low-voiced fury. “By le Bon Dieu and my right hand, I swear it.”
“May God hear and aid you,” Pere Chape said quickly, trying to keep from sounding as terrified as he felt. “An end to the Italian, I say.”
“And to Richelieu’s get.” The man fell silent once more, needing time to regain his self-control. He tapped the hilt of his sword in a steady tattoo as he strove to keep himself from bellowing his ire. “They will fall,” he said at last. “Mazarin, and all those with him. We will bring them down, and send that Spanish woman back to her brother, if he’ll take her and those disgraced children of—” He stopped. “The watchman.”
Pere Chape clasped his hands, and prayed that his bowels would not give way. “What if it’s worse than the watchman?” he made himself whisper, his throat cracked with terror.
“You mean les Plumets or les Freres de la Sarnaritaine?” the other asked, so quietly that Pere Chape had to strain to hear him. “Les Plumets do not enter cemeteries. And les Freres only prey on those near the Pont-Neuf.” He paused. “Besides, this is les Grisons territory.” He held up his gloved hand. “Step into the doorway of the next tomb on the shadow side. It’s safe there.”
“And you?” Pere Chape squeaked, torn between dread and relief.
“I will draw the fellow off a little and return,” said the other man, his face obscured still, but a hard smile in his voice. “I’ll whistle like an owl when I come back.”
Pere Chape saw the swing of the other man’s coat, worn cape-like over his shoulders—easily shrugged off in a fight—and heard the quiet fall of his feet on the gravel of the path, and then only the night breeze. He all but tumbled into the shadowed door of the next tomb, and he remained there as much from his overwhelming fear as from prudence.
It was not long before the watchman, using his tall staff for a cane, stumped by, his lanthom giving off a a small, golden puddle of light at his feet. He was humming without actually making a tune, and his threadbare soldier’s cloak from thirty years before was gathered around him to ward off the night chill. Near Pere Chape’s hiding place he paused for two voluptuous sneezes, then continued on his way while he wiped his face with the cuff of his chamise.
Pere Chape recoiled from the sneezes as if he had been shot, and then crossed himself, letting the cold granite walls of the tomb hold him up.
Some little time later there was the brief sound of a scuffle, and a low cry of dismay. Then once again the only sound was from the wind.
When the stranger came back, Pere Chape saw that he was wiping the blade of his sword on the lining of his coat. He came near to the door where Pere Chape cowered, and said quietly, “He will tell nothing.”
“You mean he is dead?” Pere Chape muttered, knowing that he ought to go to the watchman and give him his last rites; he could not bring himself to act. “Was it … necessary?”
The stranger paused in returning his sword to its scabbard. “Would I have done it otherwise?” He drove his sword down.
Pere Chape had no answer for that question, at least not one he cared to think about. He gave a gesture compounded of fatalism and dismissal. “God will summon him on the Last Day, when He will call every one of us to Judgment.”
“Amen,” said the other as he crossed himself. “All of that.” He found himself a place in the shadows. “Very well, I begin to believe you were sensible in summoning
me. I fear that our Italian has been more subtle than we thought. It is too easy to underestimate the man, with his constant tales and parables and chatter. He is clever.” His hand closed on the hilt of his sword once more. “But he cannot out-talk cold steel.”
“No,” Pere Chape breathed, staring at the line of the sword beneath the man’s gloved hand.
The stranger laughed, very, very softly. “Do not doubt I will use it, mon Pere. I have lived for the day I could end the reign of this foreign Cardinal since the damned Richelieu summoned him to France.” He looked away, his face completely lost in the shadow of the tomb and his plumed hat. “I did all that I could to stop him coming, and now that he is here, I will do all that I can to send him away once more, to Italy or Hell, it makes no difference to me.”
Pere Chape had the impression that the man had given a bleak smile, but he was not entirely certain. “You will succeed,” he said, with more conviction than before, knowing that if his highborn sponsor did not achieve his goals, then they would share the same ignominious fate. “In the meantime, how would you want me to deal with these couriers?”
The stranger thought. “The Roman widow, that’s the weak link. If we could introduce someone into her household, someone with an excellent reason to be there, someone that Mazarin trusts and who could be your tool, then it might be possible…” He sighed. “It would have to come from Mazarin, that’s the trouble.”
“Is it?” Pere Chape asked, suddenly feeling very bold. “I cannot be certain,” he went on, keeping his voice low with an effort, for now his terror was replaced with a heady rush of confidence that gave him the impetus to continue. “One of Mazarin’s secretaries—he’s a prelate, not a bad man, but thwarted—has said that he needs more activity. He has mentioned as much to Mazarin himself. If I could promote his interests with Mazarin, he would be grateful; in future he might be very useful.”
“Do you trust him?” asked the stranger, and Pere Chape had the impression of blue eyes like the heart of a swordsmith’s flame. “Well?”
“No,” said Pere Chape directly. “But I trust what I do not trust.” He folded his arms, rejoicing in the attention he was being given. “If I could suggest to Mazarin that for the sake of all his couriers using the holdings of Bondame Clemens, the presence of one of his own staff might be useful, I am certain that he could be persuaded to appoint Jumeau to the position. Then it would not matter whether the courier comes through the gates of Paris; we will know who has come and gone.”
“And the widow?” asked the stranger in a sharp tone, for once without the smooth grace that marked his speech.
“She is more interested in her horses than the state of the Kingdom of France. It is said that she despises politics.” He recalled his two brief conversations with Olivia, when she had responded minimally to Pere Chape’s questions.
“Well, and so do most women,” allowed the other. “They are not made for such contests.” He spat. “Which is another reason we cannot tolerate that Spanish woman. No woman is capable of leading a kingdom, of guiding the state through the tribulations of diplomacy and war.”
“She depends on the Cardinal for that,” said Pere Chape with the greatest condemnation.
“That’s the only sensible thing I’ve heard about her,” said the other man. “But her judgment is what you would expect of her—her dead lover said for her to trust Mazarin, and she does, with no consideration for his background or family.” He folded his arms. “Very well. Approach this Jeau—”
“Jumeau,” Pere Chape corrected. “Jean Vidal Jumeau. His family comes from Provence.”
“How long has he served the Cardinal?” He turned away. “No, never mind. Years mean little.” He gave Pere Chape a slight bow. “I am pleased you sent for me, after all. But do not do it again. Next time send a deputy, someone who has never done this before.”
“But why?” Pere Chape demanded, growing afraid once more.
“Because if you or I or both of us are being followed, there will be no pattern for the watchers to report.” He took a few steps away, then turned back. “Send me reports at the start of every month. Use the new code we gave you, the one on the farmers’ poems.” This time when he moved off again, he did not turn back.
Pere Chape stood very still, trying to penetrate the night to discover if there was anyone watching. If there had been, surely they must raise the cry soon, for the death of the watchman. That, more than any other apprehension, goaded him into action. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, he made his way down the gravel paths, through the avenues of tombs and graves, toward the side gate that was never closed. With every step he took, he stared and listened, hoping to detect the presence of someone else, someone sent to watch him. A grue, like a single shard of ice, went down his spine as he stepped through the gate and out onto the dark, cobbled street.
And now a new fear possessed him, that of dread for the street gangs who made the avenues of the city unsafe for any but themselves at night. The stranger had joked about les Plumets and les Freres de la Samaritaine, and les Grisons. But there were also les Manteaux rouges, and their most bitter rivals les Rougets, every one of them a dangerous criminal with no regard for the law, or God, or His priests. Pere Chape crossed himself and chose the side of the street with the fewest doorways, where one of these young monsters might be lurking.
During the day, it was a brisk walk of about half an hour—as timed by the clock on the tower of the Pont-Neuf—from the Cardinal’s palace to the cemetery. On his return that night, Pere Chape took slightly less than two hours; he had hidden in alcoves and doorways, in the shadow of carts and bales; once he had all but tripped over a sleeping beggar he had mistaken for a pile of stinking rags. By the time he entered the servants’ door of Mazarin’s palace, the earliest lackeys and scullions were at work, and the first tasks of the day had been started.
“Mon Pere!” exclaimed one sleepy cook as he saw Pere Chape in the bright glow of the hearth. “Has there been an accident?”
Pere Chape, knowing that he was disheveled and filthy, conjured up an explanation as best he could. “I … I was summoned to an … acquaintance. Someone quite ill.”
“How … unfortunate,” said the cook, casting jaundiced eyes over Pere Chape’s cassock. “What ails your friend?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Pere Chape said hastily, his thoughts now racing ahead of his words. “But you know how it is when someone is gravely ill. You do not like to leave them. He wanted to hear Scriptures, to comfort him. I … stayed too late, and was waylaid in the street.”
“Footpads! Attacking a priest!” The cook crossed himself, his massive chest heaving with emotion. “Where was the Guard?”
“Oh, the Guard.” Pere Chape shrugged, thinking that the cook meant the Paris Guard.
“No, no. Did you not take an officer of the Cardinal’s Guard for escort?” The cook stared at Pere Chape in astonishment. “Mon Pere!” This time the words were a shocked admonition.
“I had no … idea that I would need them. As I have said, I stayed later than I had thought I would. Now I think it might have been better to wait until morning, but—” He crossed himself. “Only with the aid of God did I escape the rascals.”
“I should think so,” said the cook. “Gracious!” He stared around the kitchen at the scullions, and pointed to one of them, a husky boy of about fifteen. “You there! Attile! Set water going for a bath for Pere Chape. Now. Use the big kettles. We don’t want our priest to freeze before he’s washed.”
Pere Chape began to protest, thinking that he needed to find Jumeau as soon as possible. “Later in the day,” he pleaded.
“Mon Pere,” the cook rebuked him kindly, “God will forgive you if you do not attend first Mass this morning. And the congregation will thank you for it. You do not notice it, perhaps, but there is ordure on your clothes, and in your hair.”
It was all Pere Chape could do not to reach up to find out. “Oh,” he said, chastened. “I see. Perhaps you’re r
ight. I was not aware … I cannot visit the Cardinal in such a state, that’s certain.” No, he added to himself, that privilege was left to hoyden widows who rode with shameless breeches under her skirts. He allowed the cook to persuade him. “I thank you, Valerot.” It was good he was able to recall the cook’s name. “No doubt you are correct. I will attend Mass when I am in proper attire.”
“Excellent. There will be hot water for you in the bath house shortly. Attile will see to it.” This last was directed far more at the stocky young man than at Pere Chape. “It will not take too long to do the task.”
Pere Chape put a hand to his face. “I will find my razor before I bathe, so that I will not have stubble on my chin, either.” He gave Valerot a sketchy blessing, then started for the stairs leading to the less magnificent part of the palace, which was far from complete.
In his quarters—noticeably better than the upper-servants’ quarters, but nowhere near as lavish as the apartments for the Cardinal’s suite and guests—Pere Chape took off his cassock and examined it, shaking his head at the state of it. He would not be able to wear it again, that was certain, unless he was intending to plough a furrow with his own hands, or to load the dung carts back of the stable. He would have it cleaned, at least. He might have need for just such a ruin sometime.
The trouble was, he thought as he looked into the simple armoire that stood opposite his bed, he had only two other ordinary cassocks, and one of them was starting to show wear at the cuffs and the neck. He would have to ask the Cardinal for an allowance to replace it. He sighed. That would be the greatest humiliation, to accept such a favor from Mazarin when he wanted nothing more than to exile the impertinent fellow forever. Reluctantly he took the older cassock from its peg, and found a clean chamise in the bottom drawer of the armoire. His shoes were simple, with none of the extravagances of rosettes and raised heels that were being worn at court these days. It was frowned upon in the clergy to ape the fashion of the court; most of the time, Pere Chape was pleased to obey the strictures on dress. But once in a while, he would hunger for silks and satins, with lace collars as wide as a mozzetta, leggings that showed the curve of his calf below ornate garters, and a coat with dozens of brass buttons. He made himself promise himself that he would do penance for such sinful thoughts, and with that for company, he trudged down to the bath house.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 36