A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  On behalf of Bondama Clemens I have sent proper gifts and remembrances to Paolo Germoglio da Luccio, who in the last three months has endured the loss of his wife and three of his seven children, and one remains ill. The physicians have not been able to save any of them, and though there have been prayers said at Santissimo Redentore, these children, and many others in the district, continue to die. The cause of the disease is not known, but it has been established that all children have run a very high fever after two or three days of flux and all its discomforts. During this time no food or water would be accepted by the body, and no remedy yet attempted has been successful. While there have been only two deaths among the tenants of Senza Pari, and we pray that there will be no more, we also are aware that we are more fortunate than many another family where all the children have succumbed, as has happened to four different households on this side of Roma.

  We have now three new coaches of the finest design and construction. Every one of us is eager to have the Bondama back here, so that she may enjoy these carriages for herself. No one in the area has even one coach of so excellent quality, let alone three. These, as you instructed, are maintained in readiness against the day that Bondama Clemens will return to Senza Pari. It will be a great venture, moving her from France back to her estate. She cannot anticipate how much planning and how much labor will be required in order to bring her and her goods and servants home. I am told it will take at least three days for us to prepare these coaches for nothing more rigorous than their journey north when they will be all but empty. It is difficult to imagine what they will be like when they are fully laden and Bondama Clemens herself has given the order to carry her goods. I am reminded of the great work in taking her to Paris, and I have been told that the return is likely to be more difficult, for not only are there goods, but as she is identified as part of the Cardinal’s suite, there is every reason to suspect being the interest of robbers, who are likely to follow the coaches. It will be necessary for her to retain an armed guard to bring her home without mishap.

  But those considerations are for the future, for that day that is still far-off, when Bondama Clemens will be released from her vow to Mazarini and his embassy. Before that time, you need only provide five weeks’ warning and the coaches will stand at Eblouir, God willing and the Cardinal approving. Then, unless the weather is prohibitive, it will take seven weeks at most to bring her and her household back. As you see, we are ready to work in haste on behalf of our mistress.

  I have appended the reports of all the areas of the estate so that you and Bondama Clemens can examine what we have done and what the costs and profits have been. I fear that the charges of the harness-maker may appear excessive, but these new coaches have required new harness for the horses, and because it is new, the first harness made proved to be incorrect. Also, the cooper has had to raise the price of his barrels because of the higher cost of the wood, especially the northern oak. He asked me to assure you that he had not intended to charge so much.

  I have taken the liberty of increasing the amount donated to San Andrea and to Santissimo Redentore for the alleviation of suffering, not only for those with fever, but for those who were left without adequate food because of the early rain. There are more than ten families within a day’s walk from here who will be in desperate straits because they lost their crops before they could be brought to market. I know this is in accordance with Bondama Clemens’ orders; it is my desire to inform her that I continue to carry out her commands whether I agree with them or not. I agree that it is wise to end tribulation, but I fear that this concern of hers does more to coddle than to aid.

  I pray for your safe return and for God’s Grace upon you while you are far from us. All of us here say prayers for the protection of Bondama Clemens, and ask that she come back to us still in the bright favor that took her away. As far as it is my poor ability to do the task, I have striven to care for Senza Pari as it would satisfy Bondama Clemens to do were she here now herself. My greetings to both of you and my hope that all will be well in France.

  Gaetano Fosso

  acting major domo, Senza Pari

  The 10th day of January, 1646.

  Retain for estate records.

  8

  Not long before sunrise, Fontaine de Rochard left the Louvre through the eastern river gate. He was wrapped in a long cloak and he carried a lacquered leather case close to his body as if to keep it warm. He made note of the King’s Guards standing near the Pont Neuf, and of the sentries at the other end of the wall. In the slate-colored light, he could just see the reflection of Notre Dame in the river. He could hear the first clanging of church bells and the occasional distant sound of watchmen on the boats moored in the Seine. For a terrible moment he was afraid he would sneeze; then he stifled the urge and stepped into the street.

  As he came to the end of the street, he held out the Cardinal’s safe-passage, doing his best to appear bored as the sergeant pondered his way through the letter. “What are you carrying?” he demanded as he gave the pass back to de Rochard.

  “I wish I knew,” said de Rochard with the assumption of annoyance. “You know what the mighty ones are like—fetch me this, bring me that, carry the other thing—and this Cardinal is a mighty one.” He patted the case under his cloak without revealing it. “So I am carrying what he has ordered brought to him.”

  The sergeant laughed. “And have you a long way to go?”

  “Not far, no,” said de Rochard. “I hand it to another servant and that is the end of my part in it. I probably won’t be here in time for breakfast, but…” He shrugged eloquently, sharing a wink with the sergeant.

  “Stop by the sign of the Red Cat,” suggested the sergeant. “They have food every hour of the day from dawn until two hours after dark. They’ll see you have something to eat, and you will not have to go through the morning with your innards growling.” He gave de Rochard the gesture permitting him to pass, stepping back for him and waving him on.

  “The Red Cat,” called de Rochard. “Thanks. Perhaps I will.” He started away from the river, toward the northeast quarter of the city, trudging along at a steady pace in the frosty morning.

  There had been snow two days before and most of the streets were slushy, ice forming in the muddy ruts. De Rochard took care to be wary, for a single fall might imperil the documents he carried. He kept his cloak pulled tightly over his livery, for Mazarin had impressed upon him how urgent and important the papers were. The warning was so stringent that it was all he could do not to look at the documents, to discover what it was he carried. Jumeau had taunted him over his reticence, calling him a dupe to carry messages and not know what they were.

  “Alms!” cried a feeble voice from a doorway. “For love of God and blessed charity, Monsieur.”

  De Rochard had a few coins with him, and he tossed the beggar the least valuable of them, saying, “Pray for the King and the First Minister, fellow.”

  The voice—no longer so feeble—laughed. “I’d rather pray for the hoards of the pagan Turks to overrun France; it would be a quicker, more honest death.”

  Although he knew it was unwise, de Rochard began to move faster, not quite running, being careful where he put his feet in his attempt to break away from that jeering beggar behind him. He tried to remind himself that his first duty, his only duty, was to see the case he carried into the messenger’s hands, and to obey whatever additional instructions the messenger gave him.

  He slipped, his foot going out from under him as he skidded in the deep, ice-rimmed groove in the road. He gave a single, wordless cry of distress, then steadied himself and got back onto his feet. His cloak was heavy with vile-smelling mud, his leggings and low boots were wet, and he had scraped his shin. He stood still to assess the extent of the damage, and decided that his vanity was the greatest casualty. He brushed at the mud and succeeded in smearing it over more of his cloak than before. It took him a short while to make his appearance as neat as was possible given the circ
umstances, and then he resumed his walk.

  He had never been to Amiens; he often saw reports from there, and when the Cardinal was in Paris, he kept messengers moving between Paris and Amiens, maintaining his contact with the Queen Regent and the boy King. Three months ago the lackey had gone as far as Beauvais for the Cardinal, to deliver another case to a different messenger. In a year or so, de Rochard thought, it might be possible to ask for the privilege of carrying a message all the way to the Queen, since he had been halfway to Amiens already; as far as Beauvais, he knew the road. He smiled wryly at the idea, trying to imagine what he would have to do to attain that degree of confidence on the part of the Cardinal. Whatever it was, it could not include falling into mud, he decided as he looked down at the wreckage of his garments. His scowl went unnoticed except by a lean, brindled cat, who gave a low, musical growl before slinking away into the dull morning shadows.

  As de Rochard reached a small place where the only sign of habitation was the fragrant smoke coming from the baker’s shop, he looked around for the old round church of Saint-Etienne. He had been instructed to meet his courier there and to give him the case. The place was little more than the convergence of five streets where the buildings crowded together as if vying for the best place for trade. Some of the houses were tall and lean, sagging on their neighbors like old folk leaning on the strong shoulders of their children. De Rochard remembered being told that some time before, in the time of Abelard, this place was the center of a small village, not part of Paris. He could not recall who had told him that; possibly Bondame Clemens, who often spoke of the past.

  Finally he located the ancient stone church tucked in behind a mercer’s shop; he touched the rounded walls once, as if to convince himself that they were real. Then he looked for the door, trusting it would not be barred. He saw the enormous iron brackets that must once have held a bar to brace the doors closed, but the brackets were rusty now, and no stout length of wood was in sight.

  There was a baptismal font carved inexpertly from a single granite stone, and over it a small faceted window let enough light in for de Rochard to be certain that he was alone in the place. He sighed, and saw his breath before his face, all white. He wished the new messenger would arrive, so that he would be able to pass the case to him and then have some rest. He yawned, feeling a little guilty although there was no one there to see.

  A short time later a white-haired priest came tottering in, and began to recite the Mass in a low, emotionless voice. He was accompanied by a gangly youth who stared at the middle of the ceiling during the whole of the service, performing his parts of the ritual only when the aged priest motioned him to act. As the Mass continued, de Rochard had to force himself to keep from dozing.

  Then the altar candles wavered, bowing, as the door to the little church opened and someone strode inside. There was the ring of spurs on the rough stone floor, and a pause as the messenger genuflected. Then the man was sitting beside de Rochard, his hat pulled down low over his brow. “The Cardinal greets you and says that the enemies of Caesar are the enemies of God as well.” He coughed.

  “The enemies of Caesar are the allies of Hell,” said de Rochard, relieved to hear the new passwords. “I have the case for you.”

  “Everything the Cardinal wanted?” asked the messenger, his voice thickened as if he could not quite keep from coughing again. He busied himself brushing at his mud-spattered cloak. “The farmers in Beauvais said it would rain by tonight, and the roads are all but impassable as it is.”

  “There has not been much snow,” de Rochard observed. “At this time of year, we have often had snow.” He caught a glimpse of the messenger’s reddened face. “But there is much wind.”

  The messenger nodded. “I thank God I am not a sailor.” He leaned back against the unpadded plank behind him. “I think I might have taken a chill. My head aches enough for it.” He cleared his throat and remembered to cross himself and give response to the Mass, nudging de Rochard with his elbow as he did. “I have told the Cardinal that he needs fighting men to be his messengers and couriers. Many and many a time I’ve told him. Now that he’s succeeded in having de Troisvilles put out, he ought to find a few of those precious Musqueteers to carry his documents and letters to him.” This time his cough was much worse; his face reddened, and when he was quiet once more, two bright spots remained in his ashen face.

  From the sanctuary the Mass continued as if the church were completely empty.

  “Are you well enough to ride?” asked de Rochard, hating himself for the hope that rose in his breast. “Do you think you can safely make the journey?”

  The messenger shrugged. “I must,” he said simply, but wiped his brow. “Dry,” he said, examining his handkerchief. “That’s … not good.”

  De Rochard knew as well as anyone that a hot, dry forehead meant fever. He looked at the messenger in some alarm. “How long have you felt … like this?” He did not know if it was safe to challenge the messenger more directly, for most of the men in private service to the First Minister of France were touchy about their honor, and that often included their fitness for their work.

  “Yesterday I was not myself,” the messenger admitted grudgingly. He made a sound in his chest as he tried again, unsuccessfully, to clear his lungs.

  With an irritated gesture the old priest prepared to elevate the Host, glancing over his shoulder once but looking at neither of the men there. He continued the service, paying no attention to the two men.

  “Do you need a physician?” de Rochard suggested tentatively. “One is available at the—”

  “No one is to know I am in Paris—well, no one but you—and certainly no one is to discover that I am not well.” He took a long, ragged breath. “I will have to take a draught of pansy. Yes. Pansy. That will help me.” He nodded several times, convincing himself that old nostrum was sufficient to restore him sufficiently to permit him to carry the sealed case back to Amiens. “Pansy and an hour or two of sleep and I will be ready to travel.”

  “Of course,” said de Rochard, doing his best to agree, though he was keenly aware that the messenger needed more than a draught of pansy. “When Mass is over—”

  The messenger waved this notion away. “Why remain? You know how it goes.” His chuckle became another cough. “Is there a tavern nearby where I can get some hot wine? And an apothecary, so I may purchase the pansy?”

  De Rochard was shocked: here was a messenger of Cardinal Mazarin who dismissed the Mass with nothing more than a gesture of his hand. “The Mass is—”

  “I’ve heard it, and the Cardinal’s business is more important than a few hosannahs.” He genuflected, coughing again as he got to his feet. “I’ve been sitting through Masses since I was old enough to hold myself up. If I miss one from time to time, God will not mind, since I miss them on His business.” He favored de Rochard—quite unnecessarily—with an inclination of his head and two fingers to the brim of his hat. He started for the door without waiting to see if de Rochard was accompanying him.

  As he left the pew, de Rochard was keenly aware of what a very sorry figure he cut with the mud starting to dry on his cloak, and his legs crusty. He dropped to his knee and crossed himself, then rose and followed the messenger, the case still clutched tightly beneath his cloak. “I have not bothered to discover where the tavern or apothecary is.”

  The messenger was standing in the door now, peering out at the feeble sunshine that seeped through the clouds. “Not a promising morning,” he remarked to himself. Then he looked at de Rochard. “You don’t know where the tavern and apothecary are? Is that what you said?”

  “I don’t come to this part of the city very often,” de Rochard admitted, feeling odd that he could not at once provide the information the messenger wanted. As the Cardinal’s lackey, he was convinced that he should have all such knowledge at the ready. How could he convince Mazarin of his usefulness if he could not accommodate this messenger?

  “We’ll find them together,” sa
id the messenger with a greater show of purpose than de Rochard had seen from him. “There is usually a tavern near a place, especially an old one like this, to cater to the folk on marketday.” He stepped out onto the cobbles, then stopped as another, more alarming, fit of coughing overcame him.

  “I will find a physician,” said de Rochard, now very seriously concerned.

  “No you won’t,” the messenger countered, reaching out to grab de Rochard’s arm. “You will tell no one I am here. You will not betray me.”

  “Betray you?” de Rochard repeated in disbelief. “I am sworn to the Cardinal; I could not betray you.”

  “Send for a physician and you will discover otherwise,” said the messenger, indicating the bakery. “We will go in there; surely they know where the tavern is.”

  Unwillingly de Rochard tagged along behind the messenger, growing more convinced with every step that the man was very ill. He noticed that the man’s shoulders drooped and that he trembled when he stood still. De Rochard could think of no way to address the matter again. “I have a few coins,” he volunteered. “I will buy us some bread.”

  “Save your coins for hot wine,” ordered the messenger. “Hot wine is more healing than bread.” He had almost reached the door of the bakery when he almost bent double, swearing comprehensively. “And piss on God’s toes, too,” he ended, making himself stand straight once more.

  De Rochard was appalled; the messenger had ordered him not to send for a physician, but he wanted to summon some kind of aid for the man. “You need—”

  “—a drink!” said the messenger with ferocious good-humor. “A drink and a woman and three hours to call my own.” He staggered through the bakery door, bawling out, “Where does a man go to get wine?”