A Candle For d'Artagnan Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Notes

  Map

  Part I

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Prologue

  chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part III

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part IV

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Tor books by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Copyright

  For Virginia

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Any mention of the Musketeers, let alone the name d’Artagnan, immediately evokes Alexandre Dumas’ wonderful novels in all their swashbuckling glory; certainly my interest in the France of Louis XIII and the early years of Louis XIV was partly kindled by his Musketeer stories. However, marvelous as those books are, historical accuracy is not their strong point. For one thing, almost all the action takes place when the historical d’Artagnan was, in actuality, a child—at the time of the murder of the Duke of Buckingham, d’Artagnan was not yet ten years old. While there might be some confusion over the fact that there were two Charles d’Artagnans in the Musketeers, the first one died in 1633, long before the d’Artagnan known to Dumas had left his home in Gascony; at least part of the many questions about this man is due to the earlier Charles. Some of it is the fault of d’Artagnan’s own “official” biography, which never let the facts stand in the way of a good story. It has been the task of historians to document or dismiss the various claims made in the “official” biography. While I sympathize with the official biographer—and being a novelist I have a hearty appreciation of a good story—I nevertheless prefer truth with all its knobs on whenever it is possible to get it.

  For that reason, among others, in this book, I have made every effort to stay within the bounds of documented fact. When direct material was not available, I used the best secondary sources I could find in order to keep the events as authentic as possible. Where no reliable sources are available, I have made the best and most reasonable guess I can, which is part of a novelist’s job when working with history. I am especially indebted to D’Artagnan, the Ultimate Musketeer by Geoffrey F. Hall and Joan Sanders, Houghton Mifflin, 1964 for filling in more gaps and answering more questions than any other single source consulted in the preparation of this novel.

  Since it was usual to destroy private communication and covert diplomatic documents, there are many curious holes in authentic information regarding d’Artagnan’s career; verification of certain key events in his life is all but impossible.

  Because of the familiarity of Dumas’ work, and the assumptions that go with it, I have elected to use the Gascon spellings of the characters most readers know better by the Parisian versions of their names. Hence, you will look in vain for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and will find instead the short-lived Arnaud de Sillegue d’Athos, d’Artagnan’s good friend Isaac de Portau (who I have taken the liberty of numbering among the Musketeers three years before he actually joined the regiment), and their comrade-at-arms Henri d’Aramitz. However, I have made one exception to Dumas’ literary tradition: I have retained the d in d’Artagnan, though he would be more properly addressed as Artagnan except when adding Monsieur to his name. Strictly speaking, d’Artagnan was not his proper name, but his mother’s maiden name which d’Artagnan assumed when he joined the Musketeers, since it was more distinguished than his own. The Bearnais leader of the Musketeers, in Dumas called Treville, I have kept in the original version of his name—Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles.

  The treacherous years of the end of Louis XIII’s reign and the long regency for the young Louis XIV under the care of his mother, Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin, Richelieu’s handpicked successor, are difficult to sort out; the political situation in France was precarious and much of the concessions, trades, negotiations, agreements and the like was carried out in secret, as much from necessity as from any perverse love of the covert. As I have noted, oftentimes no records were kept, or were deliberately destroyed when negotiations were concluded.

  There is also the matter of historical tradition as regards the actual persons of this story—legend far more than facts have come to color the general understanding of the motivations and personalities of these illustrious persons, which has made sorting out truth from misconception a particularly knotty problem, and one which often only adds to the confusion.

  Because of that, and because rumor was always rife at the various royal courts, it is not uncommon to find more than one version of an event, often several accounts—all secondhand—exist, all very much at odds. Where there are conflicting accounts of events or their precursors, I have chosen the version that best serves this story.

  And while this story concerns actual people who lived in the seventeenth century, they, the places and the events that surround them, are used fictitiously and there is no intention whatsoever to depict actual persons, places, and/or events.

  PART I

  Giulio Mazarini

  Text of a private note from Nichola, Cardinal Bagni to Atta Olivia Clemens, delivered by personal courier.

  To the gracious and most respected widow, Atta Olivia Clemens at her villa Senza Pari;

  Word came from Parigi today, and some of it is encouraging. The great Richelieu continues his interest in Mazarini, and has said that he wishes to have him return to Francia as soon as it can be arranged. While it is true that this has been said before, our recent developments give us all reason to believe that the day is not far off when Mazarini will once again leave Roma.

  We are proceeding on the assumption that Mazarini will, indeed, take up his work in Francia again, and before very long. Apparently one of the stumbling blocks is the matter of citizenship and for that reason we are advising Mazarini to accept the offer of naturalization. We have waved the matter of ordination; an Abbe in Francia is well enough for his work, and not so suspect. He has not quite resisted becoming a subject of Louis, but his family has many doubts. The Colonnas are being especially difficult, for they are the most noble of his relatives and they are offended that he would consider leaving Roma at all, let alone surrendering his nationality. They have their own arrangements, of course, and do not want to have their position questi
oned.

  Why, you wonder, do I write of this to you? We know you are friendly with members of the Colonna family, and we are convinced that if you are willing to support Mazarini’s requests, it must bear some weight with them. You are regarded as disinterested in the matter, and even so suspicious a household as the Colonnas must give some attention to you. Also, if you are willing to travel with Mazarini and his suite to Francia, it might persuade them that they will not be without influence still. I am certain I can rely on your discretion in your dealings; the interest of the Holy See is concomitant with the interest of Roma.

  It appears that I must pile one request on the shoulders of the rest, and for that I offer only the expression of our gratitude and the assurance that your service will not go unnoticed: we would be most appreciative if you would consider this offer and undertake such a move. With you to accompany Mazarini, we are confident that his mother’s family will rally the necessary approval; the Tuscan branch of the Colonnas is respected and powerful and they can make the rest listen. Since any mention of Mazarini’s future coming from the Holy See must be viewed with skepticism and scrutiny, we are all especially obliged to those who are willing to give us aid at this difficult time. I cannot promise any direct recompense, but there are many clandestine favors that might well come your way from your assistance; I will be pleased to discuss them with you.

  Certainly it is not my intent to offer you any insult, but I wish you to know that should you decide to journey with Mazarini and his household, or better yet, precede him, we would be more than willing to defray the costs to you, and to see that your villa is maintained in the style you would like for the time you are gone. Do not disdain this offer, for we can send soldiers from the Papal Guard to keep your villa and its grounds protected if there are any unpleasantries while you are away. You have only to issue the instructions for us to see that they are carried out.

  I await your answer and I pray that you will perceive the advantage of having Mazarini once again in Parigi with Richelieu. It is said that you are a most intelligent and sensible woman, and that God has given you wisdom of a sort. I implore you to use it now, for the benefit of Roma and all the people of Francia. If you refuse, we will have little chance to influence the successor to Richelieu. If you accept, then the peace of our countries is assured, for which we must all thank God.

  With my gratitude and my prayers, and with the certainty that you will help us in this difficult time.

  Nichola, Cardinal Bagni

  By God’s Grace and Mercy

  From Roma on the 17th day of November, 1637.

  Nota bene: destroy this.

  1

  From Advent to Epiphany there was a continuous parade of musicians and acrobats at Senza Pari; the entertainment, always an essential part of the season, was reputed to be superior at the home of Bondama Atta Olivia Clemens, more than the equal of any titled nobleman in Roma. No part of the festivities was neglected—food, dancing, music, amusements, all were lavishly available.

  “Not that Sanct’ Germain approves,” said Olivia to her major domo as the two of them met in her library at the deepest hour of night. “He warned me that I bring too much attention to myself.”

  “You have said that he often lives splendidly,” said Niklos, who had removed his shoes and was rubbing at his feet. “Who would have thought I could still get blisters.” They were speaking a language they had evolved between them—part Imperial Latin, part Italian, part Frankish—in the long years they had spent together.

  “It’s my penchant for remaining in the same place and living conspicuously,” said Olivia as she removed the elaborate pearl drops from her ears. “It’s one way to have some protection. A woman alone invites attention; I prefer to command it.”

  “We’ve lived other places,” said Niklos absently. “I wish we still had those Turkish chairs.”

  “There are many things I wish I had; many, many things,” said Olivia, and for an instant her hazel eyes were spectral.

  In all the time he had known her, Niklos had never learned to see these flashes of despair without sensing an echoing desolation in himself. Very deliberately he changed the subject, saying lightly, “What is the matter with that damned Genovese with the squint? He has run into me six times in the last two days. Every time I look up, there he is, squinting.”

  “He has a weakness for handsome men, or so I’ve been told,” said Olivia. She dropped onto an upholstered bench and sighed. “I agree about the Turkish chairs. How many more days of this, Niklos?”

  “Seventeen,” said Niklos, straightening up and flexing his toes. “That’s better.”

  “Why not wear softer shoes?” she asked, not completely paying attention. She fiddled with the short tendrils of fawn-colored hair that framed her face. “Whoever decided that showing all the forehead was immodest?” she asked of the air.

  “Wrists, too,” said Niklos with a slight laugh.

  “Oh, yes,” said Olivia, making no excuse for her sarcasm. “The view of an uncuffed wrist is enough to undo us all.” She looked away abruptly, and when she turned back, she spoke more evenly. “Pay me no mind, Niklos. I am … oh, I don’t know what I am.”

  “Bored?” suggested Niklos gently. He started to draw on his uncomfortable shoes, making sure the modest rosettes were fixed properly.

  She considered her answer. “Perhaps I am. I’m restless for no reason, to no purpose. Perhaps there is nothing more extreme the matter than that I feel it’s all so tedious.”

  As he got to his feet, Niklos said, “There is Bagni’s suggestion.”

  “To go with Giulio Mazarini to Parigi?” She shrugged. “I haven’t been there in…”

  “Centuries,” Niklos supplied bluntly when her voice trailed off. “If you want a change, why not Parigi?”

  She made a complicated gesture. “It’s too difficult and it’s too easy, all at once.” Her expression softened to rueful amusement. “It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t ask you to understand it, because it isn’t sensible.” As she put her hands into her lap, she toyed with the antique cabochon emerald in her largest ring. “What would be the point of leaving?”

  “What would be the point of staying? You said yourself, in the summer, that it is approaching the time for you to have another disappearance. We have been here sixteen years straight.” He paced down the room, his steps muffled by a splendid carpet brought from Persia three hundred years before.

  “Yes, yes.” She put her hand to her brow. “There are many people in Parigi who have seen me here; Giulio Mazarini is one of them. What is the point of picking up and leaving if there are those who know me? It would not be a successful disappearance.” She clapped her hands together. “There’s the New World, but the thought of crossing the ocean is … out of the question.”

  “It could be arranged,” said Niklos gently. “You do not need to suffer.”

  “Certainly,” she responded with alacrity. “I can stay off the water. After that nightmare in Portugal, I never want to sail beyond sight of land again.” She touched her forehead. “I should return to my guests.” But she made no move to leave.

  “They will not notice that you do not eat if you wait until they are done,” said Niklos, rising and adjusting his peplums so that they fell evenly from his high-waisted English-style doublet. Although the cloth was satin, it was plainly cut, and only the lace at the hem of the peplums suggested luxury, as was fitting in a major domo.

  “Of course,” said Olivia, sighing. “I wish we had a good Roman holocaust to heat this place, instead of these smoky hearths. We’d be warmer.”

  “We could have a holocaust and Roman floors,” Niklos reminded her as he had many times before, “but it would give rise to comment.”

  “And we do not want comment, oh, Dio mi salva, no,” said Olivia in exaggerated horror. She extended her foot from beneath the hem of her wide, brocaded skirt. “Next time I won’t wear these chopines,” she said, speaking of the Venetian shoes she had on. “
They’re miserable for dancing.”

  “You could change them now,” Niklos suggested.

  “It would account for my absence,” she said, nodding in a remote way. She rubbed at her side where her corset was tightest. “They say the French are shortening the stomacher and are wearing less restrictive corsets.”

  “The Pope does not approve,” said Niklos with a slight smile.

  “The Pope is not supposed to approve,” snapped Olivia. She shook her head once. “Pay no attention. I am in the mood to argue with someone—about anything.”

  Niklos chuckled softly. “Olivia, would I were a worthy sparring partner for you.”

  “You come closer than any other,” said Olivia with asperity, but knowing that Niklos would not respond to any goad.

  “Save one,” said Niklos.

  “Save one,” she agreed. She lowered her eyes and pressed her knuckles together. “I suppose I must face them again.”

  “Is it so much an ordeal?” Niklos asked, and knew the answer from all his years with her. “They are not—”

  One of the servants scratched at the door. “Bondama.”

  Olivia lifted her head, making a warning gesture for silence to Niklos. “What is it, Giorgio?”

  “There is a messenger. He has just arrived.”

  Niklos shot her a quick glance. “Shall I leave?” he whispered.

  “Why? You’re major domo here.” She went to the door, her face set in a smile that touched only her mouth. “Enter, Giorgio,” she said to the young page, indicating where he was to stand. “Tell me who this messenger is and why he has come now.”

  “He is a personal courier from Alessandro, Cardinal Bichi. He has a letter for you.” Giorgio ducked his head, turning suddenly bashful. At eleven, he was still awkward in his duties.

  “Show him into the salon by the inner garden,” she said when she had given the question a moment of thought. “See that he has wine and something to eat.” She held out a silver coin. “For your good service, Giorgio.”

  The boy took the coin, bowed gracelessly once, and left.