A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Events in England should be warning enough to Mazarin and Anne, but they do not seem capable of learning from the misfortunes of others. They are determined to continue as they have been, trampling our time-honored customs and institutions underfoot and undermining the fabric of society with intendants in place of Parlements. Be sure that no King may count himself secure if his nobles are discontented, for as the nobles raised him up, so they will bring him down. I do not mean to harm a little boy who has no father, I mean to be rid of two foreigners who are poisoning his mind, making him unfit to rule.

  If we are to have a Louis XIV, let it be Louis de Bourbon, Due de Conde. He is a Prince of the Blood, he is a great hero, he has experience leading men in battle, he has shown himself courageous, a man to be reckoned with. He is more entitled to the Throne than is a child who has yet to master a pony and Latin verbs.

  France has been at war for more than thirty years. That must indicate to any sensible man that we cannot have the kingdom drift, rudderless, at this time. De Conde will serve France better than the little boy can. He will strive to give the kingdom her rightful place in the nations of the world, as the great kingdom she is. We must not tolerate indecision and weakness while there are so many treaties and similar negotiations to enact. What child understands the smallest part of such negotiations? What child is capable of maintaining the honor of France? For we can have no less that such a one as our King. Now France is like one of the husbands in Moliere’s plays—led about by the nose by a cunning woman and her sly lover.

  I wish to hear from you shortly. I wish to have news and information of everything that transpires at Eblouir, no matter how insignificant it may appear. Be cautious, for it would not do for you to be caught. But do not use caution as an excuse not to act. Nothing is trivial at this juncture. Nothing is minor. Never has Mazarin been more suspicious or more treacherous. We must equal him, or we will go down to defeat, and France will be the greatest victim of all.

  Le Fouet

  On the 9th day of September, 1647.

  Destroy upon reading.

  6

  As Meres trimmed the stems on the last of the cut roses, he heard the door into the library open behind him. He continued at his task, using the small sewing scissors he had been given for the task; he looked over his shoulder for an instant, and saw the sweep of a black habit. “Jumeau,” he said, giving the man a slight bow, though it was hardly a required courtesy where he was concerned. “Has Bondame Clemens returned from her ride yet?”

  “Not that I am aware,” said Jumeau curtly. He busied himself putting more sheets of fine paper in the pigeonholes of the desk, and adding a little water to the standish so that the ink would not dry or clot. It was so tempting, having three sealed messages all but under his fingers, yet not daring to touch them because a lackey was in the room.

  “Soon, perhaps,” he said, indicating the window with a gesture of his elbow. “The clouds have blown in.”

  “It may rain, or so the cook says,” Jumeau reported, wanting to throw Meres bodily out of the door.

  “Well, at this time of year, we might have rain at any time. It’s not as bad as England, of course, but—” He made a philosophical gesture with his scissors and went back to the flowers. “These are the last until next spring, I’m afraid.”

  “Weren’t there roses at Christmas last year?” asked Jumeau, trying to sound natural. He looked in the drawer for Olivia’s sealing wax. “Ah, she has sufficient.”

  “The roses were from Tours,” said Meres softly. “We won’t have any this year.” He took the stem ends and rolled them up in a rag, then stood back to look at the faded bouquet. “It’s not going to last more than a day or so. Such a pity.” He put the scissors into the flat leather wallet hanging from his belt. “I’ll leave you to your work, Jumeau. But I think you might have to let Bondame Clemens relax in here.”

  “Oh?” said Jumeau, trying to sound irked rather than eager.

  “She has another report on Tours to review. If I know her, she will be at it until late in the evening. The last three nights, I have retired late, and yet she was still here, poring over the information from Tours.” He gave a single chuckle. “She is a most enterprising woman, not at all like most women. I never thought it would be rewarding to be in a woman’s employ.”

  Jumeau smiled hostilely. “There are women in the world who would interest any man who was weak enough for them.”

  Meres started toward the door, but turned at that. “No, I don’t mean that. I don’t suppose a courtesan is any more interesting than a housewife, if you are not partaking of her pleasures. Bondame Clemens isn’t like that, though. She’s so much herself, and so much a … a woman”—he pursed his lips as if trying to taste the right word—“a woman to be appreciated. Almost as if she were a man.” He took the latch in his hand and opened the door. “I will tell her you want to speak to her.”

  Jumeau looked startled. “Why do—”

  “Why else would you be here, if you did not want to speak to her?” Meres laughed a little. “I know it’s nothing either of you can discuss. It’s the Cardinal’s business, isn’t it? something you have to tell her in confidence for His Eminence. I know that she has many such secrets.” He did not wait for any response Jumeau might give, but went out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Meres was in the pantry selecting crockery for the servants’ supper when he heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard. He put the large soup plates aside and stepped out into the lowering dusk. “Madame Clemens,” he said, bowing as one of the grooms hurried over to take the reins of her mare.

  “Good evening, Meres,” said Olivia as she got out of the saddle. She said to the groom, “Aulirios is a little way behind me. His horse picked up a stone and went lame on him. They’re walking.” Though she was as steadily polite with her staff as she had always been, Meres noticed that there was a certain inattention in her courteous manner, as if her mind were on more important things. He thought about the disaster at Tours and knew the reason why. “I have done as you asked,” he said quietly as Olivia walked up to him.

  “Good,” she said quietly. “Is the seal correct?”

  “From the one you gave me,” said Meres. “There are two letters, actually; the one you prepared yesterday and the one we did not use last week.”

  “Very good,” said Olivia with a single tight nod. “It would suit me to the ground to see this scoundrel exposed for the culprit I suspect he is. It would also satisfy me to know that there is false information going to Le Fouet—whoever that Francois is—instead of the real work we have done. Le Fouet is not a foolish man, but perhaps he is gullible; I am gambling that he is.”

  Meres opened his hands. “What do we know of plots?” he asked rhetorically. “You are a Roman widow, and as such know nothing of statecraft.”

  “Naturally,” Olivia said drily, then turned and looked at Meres with respect. “You show great promise, my friend. I anticipate the need to find you a proper patron before I return to Rome.” She let him open the pantry door for her. “Would you like to be a major domo?”

  “I would like to be a Comte, but I doubt that will be possible. We’re connected to a noble house somewhere on the family tree, but we are not so well connected that it would gain us any real advantage.” He led her through the kitchen as quickly as possible, leaving the rest of the staff to continue with their work. “I think I can also duplicate the handwriting of Cardinal Bagni, if that is necessary. It might be wise to have a new note from the Vatican as these plotters grow more bold. If Le Fouet thought that the Pope might intervene, it could force his hand.” He opened yet another door, and emerged into the main hall of Eblouir, the grand dining room on the left, the study on the right. “Do you want to inspect what I have done?” He favored her with a bow.

  “Is Jumeau in the room?” Olivia asked in a whisper.

  “Yes; or he was when I left. He will have had time to be busy, and we will know of it. I prepared wel
l: I have put a single hair under each seal, so if he has broken them, we will know it.” He put his hand on the door latch, then hesitated. He was smiling like a boy bent on havoc. “Are you ready, Madame?”

  Olivia returned his smile fleetingly, but without the bravado he showed. “I will be sorry to lose you, Meres. And the day will come when I shall lose you. You are truly a prince among lackeys. Let’s venture it.”

  “A thousand thanks, Madame,” he said as he bowed her through the door.

  Jumeau was sitting by the fire, a copy of Exercitatio de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis—which he had evidentally mistaken for a religious text—in his hands. He was frowning over Harvey’s diagrams of arteries as Olivia came into the study; hastily he set the book aside. “Madame Clemens.” He bowed with more formality than grace, looking at her with what he thought was veiled contempt. “Was your ride pleasant?”

  “In fact, it was not,” said Olivia directly. “Aulirios had to walk when his horse went lame, and the weather was so blustery that there was little enjoyment to be had, for the horses were very nervous. You know what they can be like on stormy days.” She removed her jaunty-but-windblown hat and tossed it onto the chair beside her writing table. “Have you had a worthwhile afternoon, Jumeau?”

  “I’ve had time to myself,” said Jumeau, a bit puzzled that Meres had not gone to bring refreshments. “I have used it to study, as you see. I knew nothing of this theory of … circulation, and so I read what I could, but find I do not have the … stomach for this anatomy.” He indicated Harvey’s book with a flip of his fingers. “Surely an erudite man, but to waste his intelligence on the circulation of the blood!”

  “There are few things more important than that, Monsieur Jumeau,” said Olivia. She took her place on the settee and patted the wild strands of hair back into approximately the right place. Then she looked at Jumeau again. “I have been told to expect a messenger sometime in the next two days,” she said conversationally, as if she were mentioning something he already knew. “If the weather continues, it could be three days.”

  “The next two days?” Jumeau was not able to appear as uninterested as he wished. “Two days. Or three days. There have been … a goodly number of messengers as late.”

  “That is because the Cardinal has need of them, I suppose,” said Olivia, picking up the Harvey book and thumbing through it. “A most excellent work. So many things are explained once you understand that the blood is a single system that circulates throughout the body. In my youth … quite some time ago … they still subscribed to the old notion that there were two different systems for blood, one hot and one cold. Health and temperament were determined by which system was the stronger, and in what way.” She returned the book to its place on the shelf. “I am pleased that this book has been written.”

  Jumeau shook his head ponderously. “This is hardly an appropriate subject for you to discuss, Madame. Women are not moved to learn these things, for it is not their purpose in life to learn and study, but to care for the young and be protected by a husband.” He gave her a short, triumphant glance. “No wonder you remain a widow, when you pursue such works as Harvey’s.”

  Olivia’s smile was distinctly sardonic. “I remain a widow, Monsieur Jumeau, because I wish to remain a widow.” She dropped a sealed packet on her writing table. “I will attend to that later, after I have bathed.” She started toward the door. “Is there any word yet out of Germany?”

  “What sort of word?” asked Jumeau, who knew what she was asking but would not admit it. He found Olivia’s affair with Charles repugnant, for to his mind no French soldier with a sense of honor should become ensnared by an experienced foreign widow like Atta Olivia Clemens. He was also offended that she was so beautiful a woman, youthful and active, not bent, crabbed, and surrounded by lapdogs, as a proper foreign widow would be.

  “Why, about d’Artagnan,” said Olivia, as if there were no shame in taking a young and portionless lover. “Have we been told when he will be back?” She picked up her hat and brushed the brim. “It was bad enough while he was in England; while he is in Germany, I worry that he will be shot by some zealous soldier of Maximillian’s.” She went to the door, adding as she left the room, “I will want to have this room to myself in an hour or so.”

  Jumeau glowered at the closed door and said three words under his breath that demanded his immediate repentance, but he knew he would never confess. He looked at the packet Olivia had left, and it seemed to him that the oiled cotton pouch glowed as hot as the heart of a fire. If it were filled with diamonds it could hold no more desired treasure for him than the dispatches it contained. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands laced in front of his chin. It was so tempting and so easy to reach forward and pull the entire pouch apart, but that was not possible, not if he wished his perusal of the contents to go undetected. There had to be some other way, he told himself in that vehement manner he used when he was determined to do a thing. He studied the pouch without moving, then rose and paced around it, as if he suspected it might be alive. Finally he sat down and lifted it up, once, weighing it. The cords holding it shut, he saw, were cleverly tied, and the knots would not easily yield to his fingers. That was vexing. He grew more committed to his desire to see the contents of the pouch; for him, secrecy gave a spice to his endeavors that nothing else had provided him. He set himself to the pleasure of working out this intricate puzzle, regretting only that there was so little time to do it.

  There was a discreet rap on the door and Meres entered the study. “I ask your pardon, Monsieur Jumeau, but it is now time for supper in the servants’ dinner room. We’ve rung the bell twice. We do not wish to start without you, and there are some who would like you to pronounce the blessing on the meal.”

  Jumeau ran his hand down the front of his habit. “Of course,” he said; he rose quickly, as if he had nothing better to do in all the world. “The bell rung twice, you say?” He shook his head in self-condemnation. “I forgot the time.” He motioned to the weight-driven clock near the hearth. “And that is not a very reliable instrument.” He stretched his joined hands out in front of him, trying to make it appear that he had been dozing. He did not want it noticed that the pouch was lying on the table.

  “Yes,” Meres agreed. “Not even the water or saw clocks do much better, though,” he pointed out. “I hope I have caused no intrusion.” He was able to keep from laughing only by remembering that the game was a deadly one.

  “Oh, no,” said Jumeau, looking innocent and eager to please. “I still count myself something of a stranger in this household, and it … touches me when I discover that there are those who seek to include me in their activities.” At the door he nodded toward the fire. “Do you need to bank it?”

  Meres shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. It won’t go out for two or three hours, and you will be back at work here before then; you can build up the fire to suit yourself. I will see that it is banked for the night.”

  Jumeau bowed, keeping strictly to the required social form in the belief that it was the most appropriate shield he could use. He fell in behind Meres and allowed the lackey to lead him to the servants’ dinner room.

  While the staff were eating their soup course, Niklos arrived back at Eblouir, his temper as frayed as the cuffs of his shirt. The long walk had made him as grumpy as his horse; his feet hurt, his head hurt, he was hungry. He sought out Olivia as soon as the gelding had been placed in the farrier’s hands.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said as he came into her sitting room and before she could speak. “I should never have let this happen. Today of all days, there had to be this!”

  Olivia, who was magnificently en deshabille, said, “Oh, certainly; I hold you accountable for every stone in the road, and each step your horse takes.” She flipped the enormous lace ruff of her robe de chambre. “Be realistic, old friend. Neither one of us could have anticipated this happening. You have no reason to apologize.” She ran her ivory comb th
rough her hair, bringing the long, sleek strands over her shoulder. “What do you think of this friz by the face? I can’t make up my mind if it is very attractive or a bit silly.”

  “It’s probably both,” said Niklos. “And don’t think you’re fooling me by changing the subject, Olivia. I should have been here, no matter what you tell me. Jumeau isn’t the kind of man you can trick easily.”

  “Oh, I agree, Niklos,” said Olivia, giving her head a toss.

  “I mean it, Olivia,” he said, a bit more belligerently.

  “Yes, I know,” said Olivia, so sweetly that she was almost intolerable. She indicated the chairs in the room. “Sit down before you collapse, and I’ll tell you what Meres has done. Between us we have covered most of the possibilities. I think you will agree that our lackey has a knack for this service. It might be wise to mention this to Mazarin.”

  Niklos did not appear much mollified, but he allowed Olivia to persuade him to sit down and take off his caped coat. “All right,” he capitulated. “How many pieces of false information have we supplied to Jumeau so far?”

  “I think it’s seven, that’s assuming he has accepted everything as genuine—I’m not sure he has, but—and passed it on in that complicated code of his. Honestly,” she went on in mock exasperation, “to base a code on books and chapters of the Bible, so that the number of the specified chapter tells which letter to start from, and even numbers say every other number, odd say every number. It’s too unwieldy for me.” She frowned suddenly. “I wish I knew which of his cohorts destroyed my house at Tours.”

  “I don’t think he would want to tell us,” said Niklos. “How long do we give Jumeau with the pouch?” He sat down on the satin-covered settee by the window. “You realize, Olivia, we could be mistaken, that our assumptions are wrong and the spy in this household is not Jacques Vidal Jumeau?”