A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  De Portau did not answer at first, but signaled Charles to remain where he was while he ambled over to a young woman selling sachets of violets. He exchanged a few compliments with her, flattered her outrageously, and paid her twice what the sachet he bought was worth, then strolled back to where Charles was waiting. “There’s too much traffic here. We would not be able to accost them without a fight.”

  “Then where?” Charles asked, eager for the chase.

  “A little farther on there is an old fountain with a tiny place around it, little more than a widening of the roadway,” de Portau said. “Very old houses there, and an apothecary’s—”

  “I know it,” Charles interrupted.

  De Portau went on as if Charles had not spoken. “There have been workmen repairing the quai in front of it. The roadbed was washed down, sometime last winter; it’s being fixed. This morning all the workmen’s material was still there. You and I and a handful of bricks ought to discourage them.”

  “What if they raise the alarm? If the Watch comes, we will have to answer to Mazarin and des Essarts.” Despite his warning, Charles could not suppress the grin that spread, wolflike, over his features. “But it is necessary, isn’t it; since they’re following us.”

  “Of course it’s necessary,” said de Portau with a grin of his own.

  “So,” said Charles, setting off in the direction of the fountain. “Let us hurry.”

  “Let us not,” said de Portau seriously as he grabbed Charles by the sleeve once more. “If you rush, those behind us will take up the chase in earnest. We don’t want that to happen,” he said, then laughed loudly and put his arm through Charles’. “Walk as if you had nothing on your mind but a little boasting, and do not give your attention to any part of the street. You and I are having a chat. We’re old comrades-in-arms and we’re catching up on each other’s escapades.”

  Chagrined, Charles lowered his head. “I am sometimes too hasty.” He pointed to where an apple-seller was dining on his unsold stock. “That fellow, he has the right idea.”

  De Portau approved vigorously. “That’s the way of it. Now, a little faster. We don’t want them to get too close, either.” He slipped past a group of students in their university robes, and cocked his head at them. “Filling their heads with Greek, I’ll wager, and the forms of different leaves. I have a cousin who’s a scholar, did I tell you that?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Charles. “You tell me so many things.” He bowed as he passed the students, for two of them were looking offended.

  “And at least half of them are true,” crowed de Portau. He sidestepped a heap of dung and pointed to the fountain not far ahead of them. “A pity it doesn’t produce wine and ale as well as water.” He went up to the ancient stone fountain but did not drink. “Half the beggars in Paris come here. They probably bathe and piss in it as well as drink it.” He laughed, and pulled Charles closer. “Go find a brick.”

  Charles touched the brim of his hat. “There’s a hoe, as well, and a trowel.”

  “Good devices, all of them,” said de Portau, winking at Charles before he reached out to seize his brick. “Not like facing the Dutch or the Germans, but it keeps me in practice,” he observed to the air as he turned around, arm at the ready.

  One of the two men who had been following them was only a few steps behind; he skidded to a stop, poised to run as Charles lunged at him, throwing himself full-length against the man, his arms wrapping around his knees, bringing him down.

  The other was far enough behind that he had time enough to see what was happening to his companion; he had already turned to run when de Portau’s brick thudded into his back. He gave a guttural cry, stumbled and fell.

  “In one shot!” de Portau shouted, rushing forward, shoving some of the passersby aside in his hurry to get to the fallen man. He dropped to his knees, one of them on the man’s back, reaching to secure his hands. “I have you now, villain,” he announced to the man as he secured his hands with his jabot.

  The man de Portau had caught swore in the lowest of gutter Parisian as he rolled onto his back, then struck out with his knee, attempting to slam into de Portau’s groin.

  “That’s enough of that,” said de Portau, and hammered his locked hands into the man’s stomach, stepping back as he collapsed.

  Charles was still struggling to hold the man he had caught; he had been bruised in his face and shoulders but had not released the ruffian’s legs. He was determined that no matter how the man fought, until he lost consciousness he would not let go. With that, he was able to endure the blows being rained on his head, face, and shoulders. He dreaded what would happen to him if his captive found a weapon of any kind and started battering at him. He needed time; he knew that time was his only protection, and he sought for a little to aid him. He forced both of them to roll over, closer to the low barrier between the quai and the Seine, and as he rolled he saw the other man reach out to grab a trowel.

  Then a boot kicked the trowel away and de Portau stood over them both with his sword drawn. “The Watch will be along shortly, and we had all better be gone by then,” he said, breathing hard but perfectly amiable. “Get up, and you”—he pointed his sword at the captive man’s throat—“just get to your feet, your hands behind you.”

  Slowly, truculently, the man obeyed. He hawked and spat but did not attempt to flee. The curious people who had gathered to watch the fight only seconds before now vanished. The four stood alone at the edge of the river.

  Charles retrieved his hat and ran his fingers through his hair before putting it on. His head still rang from the drubbing it had taken, and he could feel cuts on his lip and his cheek. He forced himself to pay no attention to the discomfort as he pulled off his jabot and used it to tie his captive’s hands. “We will tend to you, never fear,” he said when he felt the man’s arms tighten in resistance.

  “Gracious, yes,” said de Portau heartily. “My companion and I want to know why you were following us. There are a few others who might be curious as well. A silly request, I know, but one you might comply with, don’t you think?” He prodded his prisoner with the hilt of his sword. Neither of the men spoke, but this did not appear to distress de Portau, who marched his prisoner in front of him, and whistled as they went.

  Charles followed after, too sore to join in the merry whistling, and too worried to feign lightheartedness. He kept his captive moving at a steady pace; his sword was sheathed but ready. As the last of the afternoon faded into evening, Charles felt that the light was being taken from his life as well.

  Text of a letter from Le Fouet smuggled into Jacques Vidal Jumeau in prison. Taken by prison guards and not delivered.

  To my aide Jumeau, my greetings.

  You are to say nothing, no matter what they may offer you as incentive. I have it in my power to give you more than anything, anything they might hold out to you. I have it in my power to give you all that you desire or to have your life snuffed out like a candleflame at bedtime. I want you to believe that I will reward your service to me in whatever way is appropriate.

  It is said that the Italian widow has brought complaint against you. She has proof that you were spying in her household, and I must reluctantly agree that what she has presented to the magistrates and to the intendant will be supported in trial. You will stand accused of espionage at least, and of treason at most. We are fortunate that the widow is not French, or there is every chance that you would automatically be sentenced to death. As it is, there is a slim chance that I will be able to plead for you with the Parlementaires who will then decide your fate.

  In order to do this, I must have your help, for if you falter now there is nothing I can do to save you. You must remain staunch in your denial; say that it was never your intention to work against the interests of the Cardinal and the King, and that you have always been loyal to the oath you gave to the Spanish whore. Say all that, and do not budge from it. If they accuse you of reading dispatches, insist that it was because you
wanted to know what had transpired so that you might better expedite the information that arrived and more swiftly direct it to those with need of it. If you are accused of substituting forgeries for true dispatches, tell them that you thought there were spies intercepting the messengers and couriers, and that you had a plan to foil them, through substituting false material, so that you could evaluate the results of your actions and thereby discover the true criminal. If you are accused of endangering Bondame Clemens, say that you were told that she was not truly working for the Cardinal, but for the Pope and was charged with reporting on the progress of wars and negotiations in France so that the Pope might better regain greater control of Europe. This woman comes from an old Roman family, and it would take little to have such an assertion believed, or at least accepted as grounds for action.

  I have been told that you are supposed to be tortured once, but I have sent word to prohibit that. You are to say that your health is fragile and that excesses of pain would be mortal to you. I will arrange for a physician to support you, and swear that you cannot tolerate torture, or other physically damaging methods. I expect you to be willing to appear to faint or to have a fit if there is any attempt to do more than ask you simple questions. You are dealing with rapacious, subtle men who will not let your vows stop them from wresting all they desire from you. You are as mortal as the rest of us, and do not be so proud as to think that you could resist what they do: that is done by dying and nothing else. So we must have them believe that you will not respond well to torture. At such times we must be as ruthless as they are, and you must be firm in your purpose or we will not prevail.

  If you fear that you may not be able to resist what they would do to you, then get word to the night jailer and inform him of it. He will get word to me and I will provide you with sufficient poison to end your life before they can injure you too badly. Do not tell me you flinch from this if it becomes necessary. You don’t suppose God really cares if you do this when the Cardinal’s men are about to do the same thing, only more painfully and slower. Say your prayer and take the potion if it is needed, and be glad you were spared the torments that would destroy you and our cause at once.

  There are more nobles with us at all times. They are growing certain that it is Mazarin’s intention to break their power and seize it for himself. They know this would be the greatest disaster to befall France since the Black Plague. They see the example of England, and they know that they must act, or none of them will have the mandate of their position. You must buy us the time we need, for half a year should do it; then every nobleman in France will be carrying a sling and breaking windows until that perfidious Italian turns tail and runs for Rome, taking that Spanish whore and her bastards with her.

  Have courage and be true to France, Jumeau.

  Le Fouet

  On the 23rd day of March, 1648.

  Destroy this.

  8

  Mazarin shifted against the squabs as his coach bowled down the road. Behind him Paris seemed to be a toy city, made of painted wood for a fortunate child. He held in his lap a leather dispatch case, and as he looked at his other passenger, he shook his head despondently. “I have no idea how best to advise you, cara mia,” he said to Olivia in Italian as he reread the letter he had received the day before. “Abbe Gottard is a trustworthy man, and if he says that one of his tertiary Brothers was spreading such lies about you, then—” He lifted his hands.

  “What lies are these?” Olivia asked. She was dressed in court finery, having come from the semi-annual Parisian reception for Queen Anne of Austria. She found the elaborate clothes binding and uncomfortable and not particularly flattering, but all she did was remove the large emerald-and-pearl earrings and tuck them away in her brocade purse. “They were about to stretch my ears to Greece.”

  “Very beautiful, though,” Mazarin said with a touch of his old gallantry.

  Olivia relented. “Go on, Giulio,” she said quietly. “Tell me what the Abbe says. What are these lies that were spread about me, and who spread them?”

  Mazarin glanced at the letter again, shaking his head with disapproval. “Abbe Gottard had a tertiary Brother at les Sacres Innocentes—an Italian, worse luck, who’d been a soldier—who was taken in hand for being the man who was responsible for the destruction of your house. While he was held by the monks, he said he did it to protect Tours from you. He said you were a demon, that he knew you were much older than you looked, that you had not changed at all in ten years, that you were preying on young men in order to keep your youth. He said you would corrupt all the monks, and because he could not bear to have that happen, he destroyed your house. The Abbe tells me he believes none of this, but he is afraid that there are many who have heard the rumors, and those rumors have grown, so that he is now advising me that it would not be wise for you to venture to Tours again. There are too many people who have heard the whispers and believed them just enough to want to prevent your return. I do not want to send you into such a place now, for I cannot guarantee your safety. I can hardly guarantee that in Paris, let alone Tours.” He said this last with bitterness.

  “Eminence,” Olivia said, “there was bound to be trouble. The nobles were bound to resent your coming. You said as much yourself.”

  He did not have the French way with a shrug, but he was able to convey resignation, skepticism, unconcern, and lack of confidence with his. “I thought I was prepared for it, but it is as if everything I try is … blocked, anticipated. I fear I have spies around me—I know I must have—and it makes me slow to act when I need most to be decisive.”

  “You will prevail, Eminence,” said Olivia with more sureness than she felt. “You will not fail now.”

  “I think I may have already.” He looked at the letter from the Abbe again. “This is the sort of thing that has been plaguing me at every turn. You have been my truest support, you have not faltered when times were difficult. By being away from the court, you have performed all sorts of inestimably important tasks for me, and all without attention. But this makes it impossible for you to do that, and not because of the ridiculous lies about you. You are no longer isolated or remote, you are someone who is known. This makes you noticeable, visible, and a person attracting speculation. Which ends the wonderful luxury of the privacy you have afforded me and my messengers.” He put his hand to the page. “Tours is already dangerous for you, we both understand that. And I believe that Chatillon may be as well. Once rumors of this sort begin, they spread and grow more vicious.”

  “I have been the subject of rumors before,” Olivia remarked; she stared at the page as if she wanted it to burst into flame. “I do not know what to do, Eminence; what do you advise? Do you want me to make plans to leave?”

  “No,” he said at once. “We have discussed why before, and that has not changed. You must remain here. I want you close at hand. Your departure would be assumed to herald my own. I will have to make other arrangements. I think that perhaps I will find another place in France for you, away from the court, until it is safe to bring you back. Or better yet,” he said, brightening visibly, “if you were to come to Paris, to wait attendance on Queen Anne when she is there, it would be even better. Niklos can remain at Eblouir, if you insist, but I think it might be wise—”

  “Eminence, you know my aversion to court life,” Olivia reminded him with a sinking feeling.

  “Yes, and that is what makes this difficult.” He folded the letter carefully. “I am grateful to Abbe Gottard; that is certain and I have no lack of respect for him and all he has done for me and for the Queen Regent. But he could not have chosen a worse time to have this happen.”

  “The time does not seem to have been of his choosing,” Olivia reminded Mazarin. “From all you have said, this was thrust on him by that tertiary Brother.”

  Mazarin lifted his dark brows in patient agreement. “It is a poor time no matter who has chosen it.”

  “What was the name of the tertiary Brother who defamed me?” Olivia a
sked, not wanting to catalogue other disappointments. “Did he mention that? It might be someone I know, or have heard of.” She did not expect to recognize the name, but sensed that her question would be welcome for them both.

  “I did not know you had such enemies,” Mazarin said stiffly. “A man who would blow up a building, for no other purpose than ruining your house, is a formidable foe.”

  “Neither did I know,” Olivia responded. “But it would appear that both of us have been wrong. I suppose it may be one of the men from Italy who thought he could have a place with my estate because I come from Roma, and was refused one. I have been told some came to the estate and were turned away. I had no part in that decision, but it could be I was considered responsible. That has happened to me before. If he approached Perceval, then he would have been refused out of hand. Perceval has employed local men only.” She studied her fingers in her lap. “I can’t conceive of any other reason for this to happen to me, not that is not connected to what I do for you.”

  “That could be what has happened,” said Mazarin, pursing his lips as he thought. “Soldiers in a foreign land sometimes trade on their fate with others from the same country. This fellow might be that sort. The name is Colonnello, the Abbe says. Do you know someone named Colonnello?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. I only know Colonnas,” she said, making an obvious joke on Mazarin’s family name.

  He dutifully chuckled, but it meant little. “I don’t suppose,” he said remotely, “that he is lying about being Italian.”

  “Probably not,” said Olivia. “It’s in the speech, isn’t it?” She knew a sad amusement as she mentioned that, for her own Italian had an archaic flavor to it, an old-fashionedness that occasionally provoked comment.

  “He might be a Spaniard,” said Mazarin darkly. “Corpo di Dio, he could be anything. And the name Colonnello could be just another ruse, to anger me. He may have another name entirely, and we might never discover it.” His frown deepened as he spoke, making his handsome face look older and less attractive. He put the letter back in the dispatch case. “I have talked to d’Artagnan, and on his recommendation, I will have his friend given temporary assignment to my Guards, and then posted to guard you.”