A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  One of the men swore, but another silenced him, and a third brought his horse closer to de Portau. “Who are you, fellow, that you stop honest men on the King’s road?”

  “Another honest man,” said de Portau, “who asks you to get back.” He made a quick gesture with his sword.

  The man laughed and the sound raised hackles. “We were informed by Pere Chape that a Roman whore who is a spy for the Italian Cardinal has attempted to escape, carrying lies to the Pope,” he called out, the harshness of his voice making his horse sidle under him.

  “How good of Pere Chape,” said de Portau. “Yet there is no Roman whore here, soldier, only a King’s Guard.” He held up the duck’sfoot. “With lead enough for all of you, if you are not the men of King Louis and the Queen Regent.”

  “Spanish whore,” muttered one of the other men.

  “Dear me,” marveled de Portau. “A Spanish and a Roman whore. The Cardinal has had his hands full, it would appear.” His smile glinted. “What do you intend to do to this unlucky woman?”

  “That’s a matter for the Parlementaires. And us,” said the leader, urging his horse closer to de Portau.

  “Move him back, Monsieur,” said de Portau cordially, “or I will be forced to cut his legs. It offends me to hurt innocent horses when the rider is the sinner.”

  This time the leader was more deliberately aggressive. “You will tell us where you are bound, and why, and if we are not satisfied, then we will take you with us and you will aid us in the capture of this spy.”

  Olivia had moved to the other side of the Plague hostel, thinking that though she was almost behind the mounted men, she was not much of a deterrent to their retreat. She held one of her pistols at the ready as she watched the men on the road.

  “I am for Fontainebleau,” said de Portau, “not that it is any of your concern.” He would not move from the center of the road. “Who did you say dispatched you after this Roman woman?”

  “Pere Chape,” said the leader. “He is a true Frenchman, working to restore France to her nobles, free from foreigners. He has devoted himself to learning all that he might of the Italian Cardinal; he has given years to our cause.”

  “It seems to me,” said de Portau, deliberately insulting, “that you are looking in the wrong place for a spy.”

  The leader swore and in the next moment had a pistol in his hand. As he fired, his horse reared, and the shot went wild, though the others were now drawing their weapons, their restless horses adding to the confusion.

  Olivia moved closer, aimed, and shot the last man in the group out of the saddle. She was grateful to her night-seeing eyes, for it gave her an advantage in shooting. Her second shot was not as effective, catching the second man from the rear high in the shoulder. His scream bubbled, and she realized with horrible satisfaction that the ball had found his lung.

  Two of the others were struggling to bring their mounts around so that they could get a shot at her, and one of them was able to aim at where her pistol had flashed, though she had moved away from the place.

  De Portau had fired twice, once directly into the chest of the leader’s horse—the animal was now on his side, his rider pinned under him as he coughed and kicked out his life—and the second time at the man behind him, aiming for the lower brim of his hat. The fellow screamed and slipped out of the saddle. He landed heavily, tried to rise and crawl, then fell.

  More shots were discharged, and de Portau staggered as a pistolball ripped into his side. He rocked on his feet, then fired at the man who had shot him, knowing that the ball went wild. He fired his next into the man’s thigh as he rode forward, then hacked upward with his sword, catching the man at the waist and pulling him screaming from the saddle.

  The second man Olivia had shot was barely staying in the saddle. He had fallen forward against his horse’s neck and the gelding was whickering in distress, milling unguided against the others.

  The fourth man in the group, taller than the rest, started toward de Portau, his sword raised to strike. Olivia broke from cover, reaching for her dagger and throwing it with skill and all her tremendous strength. It lodged in his back, just below his shoulder blade. He threw his hands high as if surrendering to God, then fell backward onto his horse’s rump before dropping to the ground.

  One of the pursuers had already pulled his horse back; he was about to wheel about and run when Olivia reached his side, grabbed his arm, and thrust her sword upward into his chest. She stepped aside from the man as he fell and grabbed the reins of his horse, pulling the raw-boned blue roan aside for her own use.

  De Portau was faltering under the attack of the last of the men. The bullet in his side was hot as a brand; his vision was wobbly and he had to fight against nausea as he beat the other man’s sword aside. He felt his arm weaken, and he knew the next blow would hurt him badly.

  But it never came. Olivia attacked from the other side with an upward cleft so ferocious that she almost severed his arm from his body. The man howled, kicked his horse into a choppy trot, then tumbled to the ground.

  “Ah,” said de Portau, wondering how he came to be sitting in the road. The last he was aware, he had been standing, sword in hand, and two shots left in the duck’sfoot. He looked up and saw Olivia kneeling beside him. “I think I’m done,” he said, and was startled to hear the thread of his voice.

  She could not bring herself to deny it. “They’re all dead,” she told him.

  “You got the leader?” he asked, and ended with a single cough that tore through him with fangs and claws. He shook as he tried to make the pain stop, but all he was able to do was hold it in abeyance.

  “Yes.” She had made sure all the men were dead before tending to him.

  He heard this with satisfaction. The coppery scent of blood filled his head, like the air of a slaughterhouse. He gathered his strength so that he could speak again. “It was a good fight.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He lifted his hand to bless himself, but it was now much too bothersome and he let his hand drop, thinking remotely that he had not yet put down his sword.

  Olivia finished the cross for him, her emotions and thoughts carefully banked like a night fire. She shifted her saddle from her mouse-colored mare to the blue roan—she had had a weakness for the color since Sanct’ Germain had taken her away from her tomb and Roma all those centuries ago—untied the hobbles, then brought the bay de Portau had been riding. With no one to see, she could use her preternatural strength to lift the dead man across the saddle. She tied him there, then cut the reins on the horses that remained in the road so that they would not stumble over them and injure themselves. She slapped each in turn and set them trotting away nervously into the night, away from the carnage on the road.

  As she mounted the blue roan and took the reins to lead the bay, the first pale line of approaching dawn lit the edge of the eastern horizon. Olivia felt the first diminishing of her formidable stamina and was morosely glad that she had done the necessary tasks before the sun made her dependent on the native earth that lined the soles of her boots. She looked for a church or a monastery now, somewhere she could leave de Portau’s body with honor before she made her way south, ever south, for Fontainebleau, Avignon, and Rome.

  Text of a letter from Niklos Aulirios to Atta Olivia Clemens.

  To my most esteemed bondholder and all-but-eternal friend, greetings from Eblouir. This comes with yet another two carriages of your possessions, released with the permission of the First Minister, and duly exempt from customs.

  You will be pleased to know that the windows have finally been completely replaced and no one has come to break any of them for well over a month. Thus it would appear that Mazarin has the upper hand again at last. He has most of his windows repaired, as well, but he is not as sanguine about his state as he was a year ago. The Parlement has been made to accept most of the royal edicts, and Mazarin has consolidated his position very well. In spite of Mazarin’s successes, the Queen Regent has been
slow to return to public life. She is afraid for the lives and welfare of her children—not without cause—and she has become less willing to concede to the nobles’ requests for access to the King. It is her decision to live a more retired life and to be ready to flee if such is necessary. The events in England prey on her mind, or so Mazarin thinks, and she has visions of someone executing her son.

  She may have some cause for alarm. The Great Conde, Louis de Bourbon himself, who commanded the troops that ended the Fronde last year, has been taking on airs of late, demanding that he be given a higher place in the world. He is a Prince of the Blood, of course, but he has said that he does not think that Mazarin is grateful enough for his deliverance. It is possible that he may change his position in regard to the rebellious nobles if he cannot maneuver Mazarin into the position he wants.

  Comminges, the lieutenant of the Queen’s Guard, is very much opposed to these assertions of de Conde; it was Comminges who was able to escort the Queen and her children to safety during the Fronde. Charles will tell you all you wish to know of that, and more, if you will let him, since he was with Mazarin on the same expedition. Once again, the nobles are waiting to see what de Conde will do before they act, but I expect another round of broken windows before too long. I am growing nervous whenever I see a sling, in case that means another smashed window.

  Octave has once again returned to the Tours estate as the major domo, as a tribute to his brother. He has his men searching the region for the monk who set the bombs that ruined the chateau; if the man is alive and anywhere between Orleans, Chartres, Alencon, Angers, and Poitiers, they will find him. I begin to agree with Octave that the fellow fled as soon as he escaped, and if mischance has not killed him, he is probably in Spain or the Low Countries or Germany by now. It would please me to bring the man before the magistrates—either local Parlements or intendants, it makes no difference—and see justice done for his act. Seven people died because of him, and it galls me that he has been able to run free. I know that if Octave’s men catch him, there will be no need for magistrates, but I have Octave’s word of honor that he will inform me if the miscreant is found, and I believe him.

  I have asked Mazarin to give permission for a dozen of the Tours horses to be taken to you in Roma. He has been using the estate for some remounts, but not enough to require the number of horses we keep there. With so much rebuilding to do, it would be sensible to reduce the number of horses. I can get permission to place them on sale, and no doubt Mazarin would be happy to receive them as contributions to his own stable, but I have authorized such donations already, and I believe it is time that a few of the horses be sent to you. If you would rather I do not press this question now, you have only to tell me and I will wait until a more opportune moment, say, perhaps, when I am bound for Roma myself, which I am assured will be before autumn rains make the roads too dangerous.

  Three weeks ago I was able to present Charles with the gift you sent to him; he was overwhelmed at what he called your gallantry, for he said that two matched musquets is a princely present and that he is not worthy to have it. He also offered to behead me if I attempted to take them back. He misses you, Olivia, in a way that I find so touching that there are no words for it. He has asked Mazarin several times to give him permission to carry dispatches to Roma for no reason other than it would give him a few hours in your company. I think that in his own way he is faithful to you in his heart.

  So far there has been no official report on de Portau. As far as the official records are concerned, he has simply disappeared. There are a few who think that he might have aided the rebels of the Fronde, and others who have said that he took the opportunity given by the Fronde to leave France for the New World, where he might do more to gain his own fortune. I have said nothing, and will not unless you instruct me to; I have taken the liberty of informing Charles because it was he who sent de Portau to aid you. As almost a year has gone by since that night, I assume that there will be no more inquiries into his whereabouts and he will be among the many who have vanished.

  I have arranged for Masses for his soul, as you requested, and have told Charles of that, as well.

  Pere Chape has been put into prison, though he is not to be officially tried. Like de Portau, he will vanish, but into a dark cell for the rest of his life, with no recourse to the Church or the law. He was finally convinced to give a full confession, so that he might have an occasional book to read rather than nothing at all. I suppose it is not a bad trade, the truth in exchange for books. He has implicated a Padre Fabriano Riccono, a secretary at the Vatican, but if the Pope will act upon this depends a little on how His Holiness and Mazarin negotiate the problem.

  This talk of the Pope and the Vatican makes me homesick. I have almost forgot what it is to contend with the Church. With reasonable fortune, I will see you before the New Year. If there are more delays, I will tell you of them as quickly as a messenger can bring you word. Whenever we meet again, I will be overjoyed for it.

  Niklos Aulirios

  major domo Eblouir

  Chatillon, near Paris

  The Feast of the Blessed Virgin, 1649.

  10

  This was the third time since Olivia had left France that Charles had been sent to Roma. He had arrived at Senza Pari early on a misty October morning, dressed as a Jesuit and carrying two cases of property and documents to Olivia.

  She met him in the small salon that faced on the old garden, decked out in a very fashionable day-gown of sea-green silk over two exposed petticoats, one of fine embroidered muslin and the other of striped taffeta. The corsage had a narrow ruff of standing pleated lace and she had her hair caught up in ribbons. Her smile made her face luminous.

  “It’s been too long,” Charles said when he stopped kissing her. “I would have come sooner, but—”

  “But Mazarin has suffered too many changes of fortune to permit you to come here unless there is business to do,” she said, trying to keep the wistfulness from her voice. “I think he would not let me come to Paris again for similar reasons.”

  “It is five years, Olivia,” said Charles, his smile lopsided as he went on. “You no longer seem an older woman to me; now we are the same age.” He touched her face. “Is that how it will be with me, too? That I will look no older than the day I … die?”

  “Yes,” said Olivia seriously, then put her arms around his waist once more.

  “Don’t think of it now, my love. If we had days and days to do nothing more than ask each other silly questions, it would be different, but—”

  “But,” she concurred. “Come; Niklos will see that you have breakfast and a little time to yourself, if that’s what you want, and—”

  “If I wanted time to myself, I would remain in Roma at the Lateran,” he said bluntly. “I am here to be with you. Let me have an hour or two to sleep with you beside me, and then we can forget the rest of the day together, and the night as well.”

  Olivia could not keep from smiling into his eyes, her face radiant. “How wonderful,” she said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” He bent and kissed her once, lightly. “The hall to your room is at the top of the stairs, isn’t it? I remember correctly, don’t I?” He touched her hair. “It’s still short, isn’t it?”

  “Not as short as it was,” said Olivia. “It will take another six or seven years before it is as long as it was in Paris.” She reached up and flipped off his priestly hat. “No grey, that’s pleasant,” she said. “It has been more than two years, Charles. I was…” It became hard for her to speak. “I was afraid you had decided I was not worth the—”

  He put his fingers to her lips. “If you say anything more I will be angry with you, and I do not want to be angry with you, I want to be drunk with love of you.” He slid his hands to her neck, so that he could turn her face up to his. “I could never believe you were not worth whatever price was placed on you.”

  She laughed with feigned indignation. “Now you make me sound like one of my pri
ze mares,” she said, and as she saw the stricken look in his eyes, she went on, “I am teasing you, Charles. Think nothing of what I saw. I am so filled with happiness that you are here that I don’t know what to do with myself. And I am a little frightened of how ecstatic I become when you are here because I am so devastated when you go; it is hard to lose you when you are so much to me.”

  “Then I will not return,” he said, pulling her tightly against him. “What will your servants think, if they find you embracing a priest?”

  She kissed the corner of his mouth. “If they mistake you for a priest, they are too simpleminded to be a servant of mine.” The last words were all but lost as she gave herself over to his kisses again. “Come,” she said, a catch in her throat. “There will be time later.”

  He obediently followed her, ignoring the occasional curious glances from servants who saw them. He went quickly up the stairs, unfastening the front of his coat as he went, pulling at his linen neckcloth before they reached the door of her private apartments, unbuttoning his chamise before the door was quite closed.

  “Unfair,” she protested when she saw how much he had undressed already. “And I have all these petticoats and laces to unfasten.”

  He was now in nothing but his boots and breeches. “I will be your ladies’ maid; you needn’t worry about all those petticoats and laces,” he said, pulling her close against his chest, pressing lace and taffeta against his skin. “Send your maid away and let me tend to you.”

  “My maid is with her cousin’s family today,” said Olivia, glad now that she had given Nicola a few days to spend away from Senza Pari. “And tomorrow. And the day after.”

  “I will try to be here that long,” said Charles, turning her around so that he could unlace the bodice of her dress. “Where are the ties?”

  “Tucked under at the waist,” said Olivia, and grinned as he fumbled with them. “You are a man of experience, Charles; how is it that you’ve never learned how to unfasten laces?”