A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Niklos was waiting for her outside the door. “Is it true what the Cardinal says?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed. “Olivia?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, a trifle light-headed. “He has been saying so many things.” She started toward the hall leading to the rest of the house.

  “Are we going to Paris?” The words came out sharply, matching the frown making a deep line between his brows.

  Olivia stopped walking and considered the question. “I think you are staying here. If Charles were not dispatched to the Marquis d’Hocquincourt, I would ask to have him here as a guard so that His Eminence would be willing to let me remain. But I suspect that I am indeed going to Paris.”

  “Because Mazarin thinks you’ll be safer there?” Niklos said incredulously. “He’s mad if he believes that. Paris is the center of this … this noble discontent. It is the Parlement of Paris that resists Mazarin most consistently.” He swung his arm impatiently. “What about the Queen Regent? He isn’t bringing her to Paris, I wager.”

  “I don’t know,” said Olivia thoughtfully. “I suspect he might, if only to show that he is not frightened by threats.” She fiddled with the sash at her raised waist. “If he would simply allow me to return to Roma. Half of my house in Tours is a ruin and the other half is little better than a byre. And now this. It was called Eblouir because of all its windows. The glazers will need a long time to restore it.” She opened the door to an alcove, a room most often used to hold cloaks and wraps, but empty now. “Come in, Niklos,” she said.

  “What is it?” he growled.

  “Mazarin cannot object now. You will have to pack most of the goods here in any case, to protect them against vandals. Let me try to convince him that they can be shipped south, in small amounts, without attracting attention.” She sagged against the wall, saying as much to herself as to Niklos, who closed the door so that they could not be overheard, “Why does Giulio tempt them this way? He is the master of the great gesture, of skillful negotiations, but he does not know how to wait, and waiting is making him skittish.”

  “Then leave.” He said it harshly out of worry, but he touched her arm at the same time. “This is not your risk, not your fight.”

  “No, but I gave my word to His Eminence, and to the Cardinals Bagni and Barberini and Bichi. They would not look kindly on my leaving at such a time.” She shook off her lost look. “I want my ducksfoot pistol and two swords. And I want the four best horses in the stable. If I must remain here, I intend to be prepared.” This time she was able to smile with a little of the roguish charm she displayed occasionally. “Since I am to be in the storm—”

  “Is this because of Charles?” Niklos interrupted, his tone low and sharp. “Because if it is—”

  “I think it is, in part,” she said. “If he were not Mazarin’s courier, then I would have gone when Tours was wrecked. As it is, I know that if I displease Mazarin now, I will be putting Charles at risk, and perhaps I would not see him again. After all this, I don’t know if I could endure losing him as well. So I will do as Mazarin wishes, and hope we win through.”

  Niklos paced the length of the small alcove. “Doesn’t Mazarin know what he is asking of you?”

  She went to Niklos’ side and leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. She spoke softly, her eyes all but closed. “He hasn’t said; it would make no difference if he did.”

  “Be damned to him,” hissed Niklos, a quick jerk of his head indicating the way Mazarin had gone.

  “Very likely,” said Olivia with a faltering smile.

  Text of a letter from Charles d’Artagnan in his own hand to Atta Olivia Clemens

  My love Olivia,

  You are not safe now. The victories and the Te Deum were too late. The Parlementaires Broussel, Charton, and Blancmesnil are the cause of the trouble since Eminence and Queen ordered them arrested. Now the nobles and the Parlementaires are together and will not be stopped.

  I want you to leave. Trust the man who brings this. Go with him to Avignon, and then to Rome. Wear men’s clothes and take arms. I want to come, but I must be with Eminence and King. My soul hurts to do this, but you will not be safe here, and I cannot make you safe. Go with de Portau. He is my good friend. Wait for me in Rome and I will come, dead or living.

  I pray for you. Your love is with me that makes me strong.

  Charles d’Artagnan

  Burn this.

  9

  His bow was perfunctory, and he spoke just above a whisper. “Will you do it?”

  Olivia held the scrap of paper to the flame of her candle and watched as it started to burn. “So you are de Portau,” she said, still looking at the paper.

  “And you are d’Artagnan’s famous widow.” From another, such words might have been insults; from de Portau, they were almost affectionate. “He did not over-praise you, Madame.”

  “I am Olivia, not Madame, if we are to flee like felons in the night,” she said. “I will not summon the maid,” she went on, “so I will need some help with my boots.”

  “Of course,” said de Portau, trying hard to conceal the astonishment she wakened in him. “How long will it take? We must be gone before the night Watch is relieved, or we might not leave the city.”

  Olivia smiled as she looked at de Portau. “I am not dressing for a ball, Monsieur. I am dressing to escape. I have some experience of escapes and I know the rules.” As she said this, she went to the armoire at the far end of the chamber and opened the two lower drawers, pulling out dark men’s clothes, a hat and riding boots, leaving them in a puddle of dark on the rose-patterned carpet. “I don’t want to offend your modesty, de Portau. But I warn you I am about to dress. You may bring a screen if you think you’ll need it.”

  De Portau shrugged with more sangfroid than he felt. “As you prefer, Madame.”

  “Olivia,” she corrected him. “And you are—?”

  “Isaac,” he said, staring as she pulled off her night rail and stood naked amid her pile of clothes. “Your mirror—”

  “I won’t require it,” she said with a quick twitch of a smile as she reached down and pulled out her underwear, a serviceable unboned corset and brief drawers. She dressed without any trace of coquetry, as efficient and meticulous as any soldier readying for battle. Her heavy grey chamise was on and she was tugging into her breeches when she said, “There is a case under the bed. Will you get it for me, please?”

  “We can’t carry much,” de Portau warned.

  “You’ll want what’s in that case,” said Olivia as she fastened the rosettes of her breeches at the top of the peplums of her dark wool doublet.

  De Portau pulled out the case and opened it suspiciously, then stared in renewed astonishment at what he saw. “Madame!”

  This time Olivia did not bother to correct him. “Take one of the purses for yourself, Isaac. Be careful with it, because we may need much gold before we are out of France. Give me the other.” She held out her hand and took the purse he gave to her. It was satisfyingly heavy. “Do you want the duck’sfoot or shall I carry it?”

  “Can you use it?” he asked, amazed to find the multibarreled pistol in the case.

  “Yes. Why would I keep a weapon I can’t use?” she asked, straightening up. She took her dark jabot and tied it around her neck, adjusting the fall so that it gave extra protection to her throat. She went to her dressing table and picked up a small pair of scissors. “I can’t do this for myself,” she said, holding them out. “Here.”

  De Portau took them. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Cut my hair,” she said as if the answer were obvious. “I won’t pass as a man if I have all this trailing down to my waist. Cut it shorter than yours, so that the friz by my face will not be as noticeable.”

  Reluctantly he took the long, light brown strands in his fingers. “It is beautiful hair, Madame. It is a shame to cut it.” He flinched at the thought of what Charles might say if he were given this task.

  “It is a great
er shame to be caught because of it,” said Olivia pragmatically. “Cut it.”

  De Portau could not argue with what she said; he took the scissors and started snipping, saddened by each lock of shining fawn-brown that fell amid the carpet roses. He tried to comply, as if cutting hair for a page, but he had to admit that he did not do a very good job. Finally he stood back. “I’ve done,” he said sadly.

  Olivia ran her hands through her short hair, shaking her head to loosen any unfallen bits. “I hope your cuts are surer with a sword,” she said with a chuckle as she realized how ragged her hair was.

  “I have some experience of swords,” said de Portau. He put the scissors aside and went back to the case. “I will take the ducksfoot, I think,” he said.

  “Make sure it’s charged, then,” said Olivia, not willing to argue. “I don’t want to have to stop for that if we are pursued.”

  “Of course,” said de Portau, a bit huffy at having his good sense questioned.

  Olivia relented at once. “I do not mean to impugn you, Isaac. When I am in … difficult circumstances, I think aloud; that way I am less likely to forget important things.” She took the other two pistols from the case and put them on the foot of her bed. “And I need a sword,” she said, indicating the empty scabbard that hung from her belt. “And that dagger, for my boot.” She reached out for it, then went to put on her high, soft-topped boots. “I have horses in the stable, and tack. It will not take long to be ready. Will you give me a hand with these boots?”

  De Portau obliged at once, coming and taking her foot in his hand so she could push against it as she tugged her boot on. As she was drawing on the second one, he lifted a finger, indicating the need for silence.

  Olivia was instantly still. Her hand closed around her dagger.

  There was a discreet knock at the door. “Madame Clemens?”

  “Who?” de Portau mouthed, making no sound.

  “A priest,” she responded in the same way. “Yes, Pere Chape?” she asked as if just wakened from sleep.

  “Are you all right?” He was just outside the door. “We have had warnings of more prowlers in the palace.”

  “I am fine,” said Olivia. “Is there any danger?”

  “Of course not,” said Pere Chape with false assurance. “It was only my duty to be certain you were well.”

  “Very well,” said Olivia, frowning now.

  “Then I will not disturb you further. God be with you.”

  “And you,” answered Olivia, her frowning deepening. She motioned de Portau to utter silence as she got up and moved to the door, her footstep muffled by the carpet. She stood listening, then came back to the bed. “Listen to me,” she whispered, so low that he had to bend near to hear her. “He is still at the door. He is still listening. He is waiting to catch me, or us.”

  “But why?” de Portau asked, puzzled. “He is one of the Cardinal’s men, isn’t he?”

  “Who knows?” said Olivia, her eyes hardening. “With Mazarin leaving so hurriedly, Pere Chape might want to go over to the Parlementaires.” She checked her pistols. “I’ll charge them in the stable,” she said in an undervoice. “Gather up the hair and put it in here. Then put the whole thing back under the bed.” She was opening another small case, and drew out pistolballs. “Hurry,” she hissed to de Portau, who was trying to pick up all her hair.

  He had just closed the case and was sliding it back under the bed when Olivia slid back toward the door, listening intently. She gave a sign that indicated Pere Chape had not left. Cautiously she came back to de Portau and again whispered. “We go out through the maid’s room and by the servants’ stairs. It means someone may see us, but with Pere Chape in the hall, I can think of nothing else to do. I have a copy of the Cardinal’s seal, which might or might not help us to leave the city.” She went to her dressing table and reached under the bottom drawer, then pulled out a sheet of vellum with Mazarin’s seal impressed in red wax at its center. “It might get us out of the palace, at least,” she said.

  “Possibly,” said de Portau as softly as he could, “or it may mark us as spies.”

  “We run that risk no matter what we do,” she reminded him, then looked around the room one more time. “If we can only gain a little time. Most of them will be looking for the Cardinal and the Queen. They will not bother with us, not at first. If we are lucky, that will be enough.”

  At her signal, de Portau followed her to the small door leading to the empty room which would ordinarily be occupied by her maid. As he closed the door carefully, so as to make no sound, he said, “What of remounts? We might get away from Paris, but it is a long way to Rome.”

  “I have horses stabled along the route,” said Olivia, her voice a little louder now that there was more distance between them and the waiting Pere Chape. “That is the least of our worries, Isaac. Pursuit is more crucial than remounts.”

  “Is it?” He allowed her to lead the way through the maze of little hallways and down precariously steep stairs toward the back of the palace. The whole building moaned and sighed due to the broken windows and the wind. “I don’t like it,” he said as they neared the servants’ common room adjoining their dining room. “It’s too risky.”

  “Would you rather walk out the grand entrance?” she asked. “There are still nobles watching, in case Mazarin has decoyed them with a third coach.” They were almost through the common room when the kitchen door opened and a thin page wandered in, clearly still half asleep.

  Olivia and de Portau stopped, waiting to see what the boy would do, and listening for the approach of others.

  The page looked at them, his eyes growing wide. Then he yelped and ran from the room.

  “Quickly,” whispered Olivia, and all but dragged de Portau through the door leading to the pantry. She kept him moving through the next two rooms, one of which was filled with pots and pans, the other of which had sacks of wheat and unground grains for use in the palace kitchens. The door beyond that opened onto a little courtyard in front of the creamery.

  “There may be guards,” de Portau warned her as she began to make her way through the shadows toward the stable.

  “We have this,” she reminded him, patting where Mazarin’s seal lay under her doublet. “If there are any questions, the guard will honor it.”

  “Are you certain?” de Portau asked as he moved after her.

  “No.”

  The stable was unguarded. Half the stalls were empty, and the main tack room was not locked. The grooms were not in their quarters and there was no sign of any of the stablehands and farriers who might usually be found there at night. As Olivia and de Portau passed the stalls, the horses whickered.

  “They’re hungry,” said Olivia, wondering if the animals had been fed at all that day, or given water.

  “There’s no time to feed them,” warned de Portau as Olivia pointed him in the direction of the little room where his own tack was kept. “Perhaps we should let them loose. They might find some food, and it would slow pursuit.”

  “If we have time,” she agreed reluctantly. “But better get grain for our mounts, then. They will do better with a bit of food in them. Take one of the small sacks, as well, in case we need to stop on the way; they can eat then.” She was already taking her saddle, breastplate, and bridle off their racks, then chose a leather-backed pad for the saddle. Her brushes and picks were in a farrier’s apron which she donned. “Hurry. Nothing more than a quick brush, and check the hooves,” she warned him. “There isn’t time for more.”

  The mouse-colored mare was nervous, but the quick grooming Olivia gave before saddling her served to calm her a little. She took the grain she was offered eagerly, and when it was gone nudged Olivia’s arm requesting more. By that time Olivia had the saddle on and was buckling the breastplate to the saddle. The mare lifted her head as de Portau swore in the next stall.

  “What’s wrong?” Olivia called in an undervoice.

  “Damned horse stepped on my foot.” He did not sound
injured. “Is this a Spanish horse?”

  “Partly,” said Olivia, readying the bridle. The mare took the bit and brought her head into a neat tuck as Olivia buckled the reins and led her out of her stall. “Isaac?” she called as she pulled off the apron and tossed it back into the stall.

  “Just a little more time,” he answered. “The fellow’s trying to eat through the grain sack.” His slap on the horse’s rump was the loudest sound they had made yet. “Almost ready,” he assured her, and then opened the stall door. “There. Do you have a crop I can use?”

  Olivia had taken two from the tack room. She gave him one and slipped the thong of the other over her wrist. “We’d better mount in here. There’s no telling what we’ll find outside.”

  “True enough,” said de Portau. He checked the stirrup, then swung up into the saddle, holding the bay in as the horse started to move. “Stand, you barbarian.”

  As Olivia mounted, she noticed a movement near the open tack room door. She peered through the dark, her eyes not as hampered by night as others were. The only thing she could make out was a black sleeve, but it might be nothing more than a piece of canvas caught by the wind. She cocked her head, listening, but heard nothing louder than the soft clatter of the horses’ hooves. She let the mare take a few steps nearer the tack room, then held her, not wanting to court discovery. Slowly she brought the mare back around and nodded in the direction of the stable door. “Isaac? Are you ready?”

  “For anything, Madame,” he answered with a flourish of his hat. “Let us proceed.”

  The streets around the palace were slick with broken glass. A few drunken Watchmen staggered their rounds, paying no attention to the destruction they saw, questioning no one. They threw stones at the shuttered windows, imitating the earlier window-smashing attack, laughing when their small rocks struck. As Olivia and de Portau rode past them, they made an extravagant point of looking the other direction, and then laughing immoderately when the two were far enough away that they would not return to thrash them for their impertinence.