A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I realize it is possible for the sun to rise in the north, too, but I don’t expect it.” Olivia picked up a small bell and rang it. “Meres is waiting for my signal.”

  Niklos nodded but his eyes remained troubled. “I am serious about this, Olivia. What if it is not Jumeau? What then?”

  “Well, who else can it be?” Olivia countered. “Who else has regular access to the dispatches and letters, knows the messengers Mazarin uses, is familiar with the negotiations in progress? Surely you don’t think that one of the lackeys here has been suborned, do you? How likely is that? Recall, if you will, that the problem began a month after Jumeau arrived. We were through this already. He is the only person who has had access to the records and—”

  “So has d’Artagnan,” said Niklos, his voice low and the room suddenly very quiet.

  Olivia stared at him. “You don’t really suspect that Charles is a traitor to France, do you? Do you believe he could do that? Charles? Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan, work against France?”

  “But you know that the rebels appeal to the love of France in those they recruit. Why not d’Artagnan?” He held up his hands. “I am merely being Devil’s Advocate; I do not believe my own questions, but I must ask them.”

  “Yes, I know.” Olivia’s sigh was short and hard. “Charles swore an oath before God to be loyal to Mazarin and to King Louis XIV. He will honor that oath for as long as he lives. Or longer. And he is not literate enough to substitute forgeries for the real documents. You know that as well as I. We know that Jumeau is the spy.” She put her comb down and stood up. “Do I look like a widow wakened from sleep by some disturbance?”

  “No,” said Niklos bluntly. “You’re much too well-ordered for that. You need to have your hair in a braid down the back and a cap on your head to protect you from draughts, and that robe de chambre is far too alluring for a chaste widow to wear.”

  “How nicely you compliment me,” said Olivia, a little of her usual mischief back in her manner. “Come. I want to see what is going on in the study. I’ve asked Meres to help us out. He ought to be there soon.”

  “Does he realize that Jumeau might have armed himself?” Niklos asked as he hauled himself to his feet.

  “I have warned him, but I think he is convinced it is all some kind of delightful game. I don’t know how to convince him otherwise.” She had lowered her voice so that it was little more than a whisper as they went down the hallway toward the stairs to the main floor.

  “The game costs lives,” said Niklos, his eyes on Olivia again. “How can you be certain it was sensible to bring that youth into this?”

  “I’m not,” she snapped. “I am only saying that he is enjoying himself.” She was going faster now, without appearing to hurry. Niklos lengthened his stride to keep pace with her. “By the Saints, Olivia, what is the matter? You—”

  “I’m nervous. I want to find that man with his fingers on the letters.” She was almost at the door when she gave a gasp, then followed it with shaky laughter as Meres stepped out of the shadows. “Don’t do that,” she admonished.

  “It’s exciting,” he said, making his bow sketchily. “Ever since you told me what you are going to do, I’ve been wanting to tell the world—”

  Niklos took him by the shoulders at once, his attitude uncompromising and serious. “You cannot mention this, Meres. Not now, not later, not to your confessor, even when you are dying. What we do here has never happened.”

  Meres nodded several times, his face flushed with excitement. “I know, I know. Bondame Clemens told me all about it, and how wrong it is to reveal these things. I would not ever say anything that she would not like.” He put his right hand over his heart. “By the Cross and Mere Marie, I swear I will never speak of this to anyone but God in my prayers.”

  Niklos released him, shrugging. “If he breaks that oath, he will not be the Meres we know now,” he said to Olivia.

  “I will accept that as guarded approval,” she said, pausing by one of the hall sconces and taking the candle from it. She shielded the candle, then gave a shrill laugh and flung open the study door, as if she fully expected to find the room empty.

  Jumeau was seated at Olivia’s writing table, and under his hand was a letter with a broken seal dangling from one of the two ribbons that crossed it. He brought up his arm, as if to protect either his face or the document from a downward blow, though his countenance was more disbelieving than fearful. Because of the light, he did not see the two men in the hall beyond.

  Olivia stood in the doorway, the candle held aloft, her hair rioting about her face. Tiers of ruched lace cascaded over her robe de chambre, and it was closed provocatively with satin rosettes. She took two slow steps into the room. “Jumeau,” she said after a short hesitation.

  “Madame Clemens” was his guarded acknowledgment.

  “What are you doing at my writing table?” she asked, trying her best to sound affronted rather than angry. “It is not fitting for you to be there, Monsieur.”

  Jumeau was already halfway to his feet, his left hand swiping at the letter he had been reading. “I … I thought it was best … for the Cardinal … yes. I thought it was best,” he said with a bit more confidence, “that I read through all the material you have received. After all, I am here to tend to various of the Cardinal’s messages and—”

  “Jumeau,” Olivia interrupted, her voice so soft and sweet it slid over him like warm honey, “you are sweating. Your face is shiny. Have you taken ill? Should I send for the physician to bleed you? And your hands!” She pointed. “Look at them: they are trembling, Jumeau.”

  He joined his hands behind his back like a recalcitrant child. “It is nothing, Madame. Your concern is most generous.” He spoke as if the words were steeped in poison. “I assure you I am perfectly well. It is … a little late.”

  “But you are shaking,” Olivia protested, coming nearer to him. “I can tell. It may be you are reading something dangerous, and that has caused a grippe. And what letter is this?” She reached out artlessly with her free hand and lifted the letter. Her gaze fell on the seals, still intact. “Why, Jumeau, you have not broken the seals,” she remarked. “Dangerous indeed. How very curious.”

  Jumeau audibly ground his teeth. “If you will leave me to the tasks the Cardinal has set me,” he said hastily, snatching for the letter.

  But Olivia had moved deftly away, and was holding her candle so that she could read the dispatch. “Oh, dear,” she said, turning to look at Jumeau. “This is not something you ought to have read,” she informed him. There was a subtle change in her voice and the way she stood. “And I suspect that you know it.”

  “Madame!” he blustered. “Madame, I would never—”

  Olivia dropped her pose. She turned and faced Jumeau with her direct hazel eyes fixed on him. “Would never what? Would never betray Mazarin’s trust? Well, we know that is a lie, don’t we? Would never intercept messages? Oh, of course not. That would be unthinkable. Though the evidence suggests otherwise. Would never oppose the King? Well, you cannot expect a little boy to command the allegiance of grown men, can you? It’s not reasonable. And you are such a reasonable man.” In the silence that followed her denunciation, Olivia walked toward Jumeau, the letter held in her hand. “Or would you like to offer another explanation for this? One that might be accepted.”

  He moved back as if from a deadly insect. “No,” he said in a strangled tone. “Not when we are so close.”

  “So close to what?” Olivia asked with exaggerated care. “The culmination of your treason?” She moved so quickly that her candle almost burned out. “Tell me! You will not leave here until you do, Jumeau. Tell me what you have done,” she demanded as she blocked his way out of the study.

  “You have to let me go!” he shouted at her. “You won’t dare let Mazarin hear of this—he’ll make you leave the country, you whore!”

  In the hallway, both Niklos and Meres bristled at the word, though only Meres started to move
. Niklos touched his arm and shook his head.

  Meres made a rude gesture with his hand, but kept still.

  “Stay where you are,” Olivia warned Jumeau. Now her voice was steady and her eyes were calm. “I think you have confused a few things, my friend. I think you do not believe I have an estate in Rome and funds of my own. It serves your purpose to believe that I am Mazarin’s tool, his pawn. You assume I am an impoverished relative dependent on Mazarin for my place in the world, and therefore willing to be of service to him.” She shook her head, the beginning of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “But you see, you are wrong.”

  “You are a courtesan, a harlot!” He lunged at her, but she stepped out of his way, though not enough to give him sufficient room to reach the door.

  “Don’t be more foolish than God made you,” she said. “Your beliefs about me are a lie. Your assumptions that I would not be able to discover who in the household was purloining reports and substituting forgeries was false as well. What made you think that it would not be noticed? Do you think that Mazarin’s friends are stupid? Do you think that there is only one set of dispatches carried at any time? Did it never occur to you that there would be questions and comparisons, and that eventually the road would lead to you? There were so few candidates, you see. Mazarin has only six secretaries, and all but two of you work at his side. It was just a matter of time until we unearthed you, exposed you. Used you.” She saw the shock in his eyes. “Oh, yes, we used you. And, incidentally, we have been guilty of a little forgery ourselves.” She watched his face turn ashen. “Oh, yes. Those reports you have taken such pride in, those documents you have copied with different information, they were made from deceptions.” She shrugged. “If this is the game you wish to play, Jumeau, you need to be more deft.”

  “Deft!” he bellowed, and rushed at her, his head low.

  This time Niklos could not restrain him: Meres charged into the room, ready to do battle with the world. He threw himself directly at Jumeau, catching the cleric on the shoulder, both men staggering under the impact.

  Niklos barreled through the door, reaching out to pull the combatants apart. He yelled a long curse in Greek and strove to find a hold on the struggling bodies.

  Olivia tossed her candle into the fire. “You handle Jumeau. I will take Meres,” she ordered, and did not wait to see if Niklos complied, but came as close as she dared to the grunting, rolling men locked in battle. She was almost in position when she heard a muffled report; her eyes flew to Niklos’. “A shot?”

  Dumbfounded, he nodded, then he moved in with more determination. Meres started to shove himself off Jumeau, his young eyes filled with amazement. Then a bubble of blood formed on his lips, expanding, breaking, and he fell back on top of the man who had killed him.

  Olivia, holding a poker in her hand, prodded Jumeau in the side. “Move,” she said, her mouth tight and white-lipped.

  Slowly, with dawning terror in his soul, Jumeau did as she commanded. He hunkered back in the shadow of the settee and felt a sense of protection when Niklos came and seized him by the back of the collar.

  Olivia knelt down beside her lackey. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, and eased him onto his back. With the gentlest touch she crossed his hands on his breast, then made the sign of the cross on his forehead.

  “You believe?” Jumeau barked, and cringed at the look she gave him.

  “No. But he did.” Resolutely she turned her face away from the body on the floor. There were no tears in her eyes, for she had none to shed, but there was an abiding anguish in her soul that was worse than tears would have been. She looked up at Niklos. “It’s such a waste.”

  Text of the confession of Frere Gautier presented to Luc-Simeon Gottard, Abbe of the monastery Sacres Innocentes.

  In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen. I offer this confession to purge my soul of error and to submit to the judgment of my Brothers and God for the Glory of God. I know that I am stained deep with sin and that what I say here is not for my forgiveness, but to set down the extent of my straying.

  I accuse myself of bringing unrest and sin to Sacres Innocentes by nominating Nino Colonnello of Rome to join our numbers as a tertiary Brother. I did not adhere to the Rule of our Order, praying for guidance and searching my soul for the truth, but thought instead of my days in the world, when I was a soldier and spent my hours at war. This Nino Colonnello was another such as I, or so I deceived myself, and permitted his sinful ways to cloud my prayers and my duties. Had I not persevered in attempting to bring this man among our numbers, we would not now be so shamed and disgraced through his wickedness; for this I ask forgiveness of all my Brothers, and of Mere Marie.

  I accuse myself of obstinacy where Nino Colonnello is concerned. I was remiss in my tasks the better to plead his case, and when he was allowed to begin his training as a tertiary Brother, I would make provision for him, so that he would not have to undertake the full rigors of monastery life until he was more accustomed to the burden. I offered myself the excuse that I was concerned because of his injured leg, and I thought, mistakenly, that my actions were charitable. I could not see how steeped in malice and envy this man is, nor how willing he was to bend me to his purpose. I know that I led him into error and encouraged him to persist in error.

  I accuse myself of bearing false witness, through the lies this Nino Colonnello told me in regard to the widow who keeps the stud farm that marches with the monastery land. He claimed she had used her influence to have him unjustly blamed for laxity and other crimes, and that because of her he could no longer live with his wife. He swore that this widow had forced them to separate and would not permit him any access to his wife at all. He said that she corrupted all she touched, and that he sought only to save his wife from her predations. There were similar allegations, but it disgusts me to catalogue them, for I know now that they were the very heart of his lies, of his sin. I listened to every poisoned word and I did nothing to warn a blameless woman of the danger near her, nor did I believe there would be any event so devastating as the destruction of half of the chateau and a portion of the out-buildings of her estate. Had I not harkened to Nino Colonnello, that house would still stand, and those who labor there would continue to do so in peace and without harm. It is more shameful that Nino Colonnello was apprehended by a highwayman and his troop, instead of you, my Brothers, and for that I am deeply repentant, for that is a fault that must be laid at my door with the rest.

  I accuse myself of lack of vigilance, for even when I began to have doubts, I made no attempt to learn what the truth of this man’s assertions might be, and I continued to assume that his threats of violent revenge were more the signs of wrathful fancy, such as soldiers often express, rather than true intent. I always assumed that Nino Colonnello would not actually do the things he threatened to do. I did not anticipate he would actually construct grenada bombs and use them to turn her house to a ruin. I accuse myself of cowardice, for when I discovered the extent of his perfidy, I still did not speak out as my Vow demands. I was too much in the world, concerned about reputation and the honor of men who fight in battle. I did not say to any of my Brothers or to our Abbe that I had known of Nino Colonnello’s plans, I could not admit that I had heard him plot and that I did nothing.

  I accuse myself of my fall, of my loss of any claim to the habit I wear and the Rule I have sworn to follow. Each sin is more grievous than the last. Had I been willing to make a larger escort to take Nino Colonnello from his cell here to whatever punishment the magistrates would mete out to him, I am certain he would not have escaped and Frere Herriot would still be alive. I did not suppose he would have hidden bottles of wine in his mattress, or that he would use them as clubs. What honorable man would do that? I was too arrogant to see that Nino Colonnello is not an honorable man. I must answer for the life of my Brother in this life and before the Throne of God. I sinned through pride, which is the greatest sin of all, and I have been cast out of the company of those
seeking Grace.

  I beg you, Abbe, my Brothers, let me determine my penance, and pray that I will fulfill it. I will not look for the facile way now, I will not be taken in by the appearance of goodness. I wish to remove myself entirely from the world, and to devote myself completely to prayer. I ask you to immure me, sealing the door of my cell so that nothing less than the fall of the walls of the monastery will open it again. I will want nothing more than bread and water, and the wine of Communion. Otherwise, I implore you to leave me there until I am dead. I ask no word from anyone, no comfort or wisdom; I will accept complete silence with gladness, and embrace my state as I would embrace the Feet of God. I request only that if Nino Colonnello is ever found and brought to justice, that one of you tell me of that great blessing, for that will be my sign that I may be redeemed at last. I do not hope for that joy in the world, but perhaps, if God is good, He will show me Nino Colonnello in Hell when I am come there.

  I will pray every day for the repose of the soul of Frere Herriot, I will pray for the wronged Bondame Clemens. I will pray for all those who have suffered injustice, and all those who are blameless but bear the burden of another’s crime. I will pray that God, in His Mercy, will bring each of you to joy and peace, and that those who enter our walls never again be instruments of sin. May Saint Michel, who was my patron once, pity me for my weakness and give me courage to endure my penance with a thankful heart. May Saint Dismas, who died with Our Lord, expunge my crimes from the minds of men. May you, my Brothers, forgive me, so that your prayers may guide me. Benedictus qui venit in Nomine Domini.

  Frere Gautier

  At les Sacres Innocentes on the Feast of Saint Odo of Cluny the 18th day of November, 1647.

  Retain with monastery records.

  7

  “Have you noticed the broken windows?” de Portau asked as he strolled past the Louvre toward the river. “A bad sign, very bad.” He raised his gloved hand. “Three right in a row.”