A Candle For d'Artagnan Read online

  “Oh, Numi!” Olivia cut her off in exasperation. “I really don’t have to have my maid as chaperone in my own buildings. Stay where you are, Avisa. If I need you, I will scream.”

  “It might not be possible,” Avisa warned darkly as she made her way to the shade of a tall old fig tree; its fruit was just starting to ripen, and Avisa occupied herself looking for those first few delicious morsels.

  There were barrels and sacks and bins along one wall, carded wool in loose-knotted hanks and rolled hides on the other. The doors at the far end of the shed were closed. The atmosphere was stifling and so full of smells that the air seemed the consistency of minestra alla cacciatore.

  As she picked her way over the uneven and unswept floor, Olivia said to Uberto, “Where do we look for him and his tallies, pray?”

  “I don’t know,” Uberto admitted unhappily. “Sometimes he goes behind the bins, back where the wine barrels are.”

  “Naturally,” said Olivia, her face becoming set. “And does he broach any of them, do you think?”

  “He has been told he must not,” said Uberto with great care. “I have told him myself.”

  “I see,” said Olivia as she pushed her way between a large bin half-filled with crushed oats and a barrel of bacala. Her nose wrinkled as the odor of the salted cod enveloped her. “Why don’t we keep that in the kitchen cellars? I’m surprised all the feed doesn’t reek of fish.”

  “I will attend to it, Madama,” muttered Uberto as he followed her down the narrow access toward the tremendous barrels standing twice the height of a man where the wine was made. “He might be on the other side, by the small barrels.”

  “Thank you,” said Olivia as she made her way around the end of the line of huge barrels.

  Desperately Uberto added a warning. “He has an uncertain temper, Madama.”

  “So have I,” Olivia countered, and in the warm, wine-scented gloom she began to look for Nino, finding him almost at once reclining against two of the smallest barrels, his head cradled on his arms, snoring gently.

  Behind her, Uberto whispered, “Gran Madre Maria,” and crossed himself.

  “Ah.” Olivia went to where Nino slept. “He smells more than the wine does.” She reached down, her hand wrapping around the back of his grimy smock. “All right,” she said loudly, tugging suddenly upward, dragging Nino to his feet and waking him all at the same time.

  Uberto blinked, astonished at what he had seen. He stood in silence, regarding Olivia with an emotion between awe and distress. “Nino,” he said as his brother-in-law blinked at him. “What happened.” It was a foolish thing to say; he knew what happened.

  Nino tried to take a step or two away and found that he could not. He stared at Olivia, his thoughts disordered. He shoved his hand through his hair and then over his stubbly chin. “This morning. Early. There was much to do. I … I wanted to rest…” He gestured toward the small barrels as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man to nap on them.

  “You stink of wine,” Olivia informed him.

  “Well, look where I am,” Nino said, doing his best to smile.

  “I did not say you smell of wine,” Olivia corrected him with severity. “I said you stink of it. It is in your sweat.” She released him and moved away from him. “You are here because Uberto vouches for you, and you abuse his trust. And you abuse mine.” She cocked her head to the side. “Well?”

  Nino smiled; it was a practiced smile, as guileless as a child with pockets full of sweetmeats. “All of us has a lapse from time to time, Madama. Who of us has not occasionally forgot himself and had a bit too much of wine? Eh?”

  Uberto had tried desperately to signal Nino, to stop him on this disastrous course. His attempts were in vain, and so he tried to intervene. “The priest will pray for you, Nino, and I will pray and Angela will pray.”

  The smile disappeared. “Pray. That’s all you’re good for, the lot of you. All for this damned widow who hasn’t the decency to remarry or to turn over her estate to her relatives.” He spat. “You know what kind of women do that, brother-in-law, and though they work other streets, they are the same meat.”

  Olivia’s brows rose. “So you think I am a harlot,” she said blandly. “Then you should be pleased to be gone from my service. Present my tallies to me, take your things and leave before sunset.”

  Uberto stood transfixed. In a voice that seemed to come from a great distance, he said, “Madama. He is my sister’s husband.”

  “That is unfortunate for her.” Olivia looked at Nino. “You are not to be on any of my land again. Is that understood? If you are, I will have you in front of a judge.”

  Nino laughed once but this time it was nothing more than bravado; his eyes were shiny with fear. “What judge would hear the likes of you?”

  Olivia answered him sweetly. “Would you care to make a test of it and find out?”

  “Iddio aiuto.” Uberto clasped his hands together as if keeping them closed would somehow stop Nino’s catastrophic words. “No, Nino. Be silent.”

  Without warning Nino rounded on him. “Why? Are you afraid I will ruin your place here with this woman? Do you fear her wrath?” He was angry now, his countenance darkening with each accusation. “You speak against me to my wife. You give me no privilege here. You could have made all of us rich, but you will not do it! You have decided to have it all for yourself, and your sister and I can starve! That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Uberto was staggered. “Nino, it’s nothing like—”

  But Nino was too caught up in his own delirium of wrath to listen or to stop. “You plan to have it all for yourself. You won’t share your treasure, will you? You’re not going to—”

  “Both of you be silent,” said Olivia, her voice not much above her usual conversational level, but of so certain a purpose that both men turned and stared at her. “You, Nino, will leave before sundown as I have ordered. Your wife need accompany you only if she wishes to. If she would prefer to remain here, she would be—”

  “So you can make another whore of her!” Nino bellowed, and swung his locked fists toward her.

  Before Uberto could move, Olivia ducked under the two-armed swing and kicked Nino lightly on the back of his knee. With a loud cry, Nino toppled. Olivia moved out of range.

  “To continue. Your wife can remain here if she wishes, in the company of her brother. She will continue to be paid for her work dying yarn, if that is what she wishes to do. You will not be allowed to take money from her, but if she decides to provide for you, that is her affair. If there is any attempt on your part to coerce her into aiding you, I will have you before a judge.” This last, she realized, was a bluff. Not since her youth, more than fifteen hundred years before, had women been entitled to hold and administer their own money; in this world a woman’s wealth was the property of her husband as much as the woman herself was. “Uberto will keep me informed of this.”

  Uberto thought of his monthly dispatches and sighed. “Madama, it is not fitting that man and wife should separate.”

  “It isn’t fitting that man and wife should live with one filling the other with dread, but it happens.” Olivia’s words were hard and flat; Uberto sensed he would be wise not to question the reason for it.

  “We were wed by a priest, joined together,” Nino declared, suddenly trying to scrape some dignity into his demeanor. He was sitting on the floor rubbing at his ankle. “You are trying to sever what God has joined.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Olivia said. “I am trying to spare your wife more pain than you’ve already given her. I am doing my best to see that only one of you has to starve.” She turned and started toward the passage between the barrels.

  “You are a dangerous woman. You are worse than those who are poxy.” He made the sign against the Evil Eye before he got laboriously to his feet, taking care not to put too much weight on his ankle.

  “Nino, for all the Saints, think what you are saying,” Uberto urged him, his voice low
, as if Nino’s accusations would be less real if they all spoke more softly.

  “I do think,” said Nino, nodding furiously. He was shaking now, but whether from wine or fright it was impossible to tell. “I think that a clever witch has been working on you and has done something to poison your mind against your family, that’s what I think.” He pointed toward Olivia again. “You are a vile creature and you will be destroyed.”

  Olivia had heard such threats many times in her long, long life. “And you intend to destroy me?” she asked sardonically.

  “By God’s Right Hand, I will,” swore Nino. He moved abruptly, shoving her out of the way and lurching toward the door of the storage shed.

  “My, my, my,” said Olivia softly, sarcastically, when Nino had gone.

  “Madama,” Uberto began, his features sagging with dismay, “I pray you, do not regard it. What am I to say? He is my brother-in-law, but what he has said … Madama, how can I apologize?”

  There was a brittle edge to her lightness now. “You have nothing to apologize for, Uberto. You did not speak words against me, you did not make threats, Nino did. For what consolation it may be, I think your loyalty to him is misplaced but admirable.” She took a short, deep breath. “Come. I think the odor will overwhelm me if we remain here longer.” With a quick turn that revealed more of her anger than her words did, Olivia continued along the narrow passage toward the door.

  Uberto hurried after her, saying, “Ah, Madama, the smell of wine is sweet, almost as sweet as wine itself,” in an attempt to mollify her.

  Olivia turned as she reached the door, her hazel eyes meeting Uberto’s as penetrating as steel. “I do not drink wine.”

  Text of a letter from Abbe Giulio Mazarini to Abbe Luc-Simeon Gottard at the monastery of Sacres Innocentes, Tours, written in Latin and French.

  To the most reverend leader of monks and wise advisor of the soul, Abbe Gottard, this brings the blessings and continuing good opinion of Abbe Mazarini, with the most respectful request that the good Abbe Gottard will pray for him and his endeavor.

  Your King has requested my elevation officially now and I am told it is only a matter of time before I will be once again in Paris where I may begin to serve the country and people who are to be mine by adoption; and as in the case of an adopted family, you have my vow that France will receive my greatest attention and continuing care. There need be no fear that France and her people will suffer the fate of certain step-children, and be allowed to languish. I take up the cup from the most august and perspicacious hands: the honor that Richelieu does me is so great that I know I will never be wholly deserving of it, no matter how earnestly and faithfully I strive to fulfill his mandate, or what success in that effort I attain.

  The first members of my suite will arrive in Paris before the end of the year and will be established there by the time of my own arrival, or so I hope. It is in respect to one of these that I write to you now, and request you will give my words your thoughtful and prayerful consideration.

  There is a Roman widow, a woman of rank and fortune, who is soon to occupy a small chateau a short distance from Paris. She is not of the first youth, as sensible a woman as God has made and not sent into His Church, and discreet. She is also learned, but not so given to learning that she has forgot the world.

  It is my understanding that she owns a stud farm near Tours and she has assured me that my couriers have access to her horses for their use and for remounts if ever the need arises. That is generosity that has more of charity in it than many of those who throw a few coins and trinkets to beggars and think that they are piling up bounty in Heaven for so minor an act. It is my hope that you might be willing to extend the hospitality of Sacres Innocentes to those couriers, if such becomes necessary, and to keep their presence unknown if the couriers so require. I am aware that you do not wish to be embroiled in politics. Those living as monks are often reluctant to be wooed into the world in such a way, and their devout attentions are cherished by all those who long for salvation. However, salvation is found on many strange paths, and for these couriers, a haven can be as much salvation as the Sacraments.

  It is not necessary that you answer me now, or that you come to a decision at once. There is some time before I leave Roma, and so long as I have your answer by that time, it is sufficient for me. Forgive me, Abbe, for the requests I make of you, but it is the nature of the world that compels me, for I cannot compromise my oaths to your King Louis, as I cannot abjure my vows to God and His Church.

  Should you decide to permit my couriers to come to your monastery, I will so inform the overseer of Bondama Clemens’ stud farm and will provide him with proper letters of identification and necessary passwords. He will then contact you and whatever arrangements you deem appropriate may be set at that time. I have it from Bondama Clemens that the overseer has been her trusted agent for many years and has been faithful and honest in the discharge of his duties. Would that all servants acquitted themselves so well!

  I will pray for your wisdom and compassion, I will place my confidence in you, I will ask Heaven to guide you in all your works, and I will accept your decision, whatever it may be, with a grateful heart and a tranquil soul.

  May God raise you up, may He bring the world to the foot of His Throne, may He bless His servants and forgive us where we fail. May He restore the health of Cardinal Richelieu and spare the Kingdom of France from the scourge of war. Until I may pray with you myself, I place my trust in your wisdom and the Love of God which unites us all.

  Giulio Mazarini, Abbe

  On the 27th day of August, 1638, in Roma.

  Keep covertly or destroy.

  5

  By the end of September the harvest was well under way; the bounty of field and orchard and vineyard were given up to the farmers who fussed and sweated and swore with the task of reaping the largesse of the earth.

  “I hate traveling now,” said Olivia as she stared out the window of the coach. “I’d rather be back supervising the harvest. It’s where I belong.”

  “Uberto will attend to it,” Avisa said, her lavender sachet held close to her mouth.

  “They say we will reach Firenze tomorrow,” Olivia said a few minutes later.

  “We make good speed,” said Avisa, as if reciting from rote, for she had never traveled so far and thought the hours in the swaying coach were more torture than she could endure for the number of days Olivia had said the journey would take.

  Olivia chuckled. “Be glad you are here, at the head of the line, not back with the other servants and the baggage on the big wagons, where you would breathe nothing but dust.” She closed her eyes a moment, sensing that brief vertigo that claimed her at odd instants when she was away from Roma, a sense that she was drifting and rudderless, without any link to her self. It made little difference that the soles of her shoes and the floor of her coach were lined with her native earth; such necessary precautions were anodyne, but they could not replace the reality of Roma, and the sustenance provided by the place of her birth.

  “Madama?” Avisa said uncertainly.

  Olivia opened her eyes and did her best to offer a reassuring smile. “You are not the only one to be uncomfortable while traveling,” said Olivia, indicating her brow as if she had a headache. “At least we are not attempting to reach Parigi in winter; then it would take us forever.”

  “It is not the height of summer, either,” Avisa said with a wise nod. “A coach is an oven on wheels and we the loaves it bakes at the height of summer.”

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed distantly. She frowned, then managed a good-humored shrug. “Firenze. It makes me remember I have a very old friend who used to live in Firenze.”

  “A very old friend?” Avisa repeated.

  “I have known him most of my life,” she said truthfully.

  Avisa smiled with satisfaction and put one hand to the large ornate silver crucifix she wore around her neck. “That is an old friend; those we know in childhood are—”

&nb
sp; “He is … much older than I am,” said Olivia.

  “A friend of your parents, then?” Avisa said, once again puzzled.

  “A blood relative,” said Olivia in a manner she decided Sanct’ Germain himself could not improve upon.

  Avisa gave an approving cry and clapped her hands together for emphasis. “How fortunate you are in your relations. Few women can speak so well of their families.”

  There was nothing Olivia could think to say. She closed her eyes again, and was immediately struck with memories of her mother, living alone in their old house, her treasures and her slaves stripped from her in spite of the protections of the law, all for the greed of the man Olivia had been given to in marriage. Even now the recollection was corrosive. She straightened up and opened her eyes. “Well, at least we have passage documents from His Holiness. That will simplify matters for us.”

  “It is a great honor he has bestowed on us,” Avisa said as she crossed herself decisively.

  “It is not precisely a gift; I am expected to accommodate the Abbe upon occasion,” Olivia said without rancor.

  “Madama!” Avisa said, scandalized.

  “Not that manner of accommodation, and well you know it,” Olivia rejoined. “One of the reasons we are to arrive ahead of Mazarini is because he does not want to give the least hint that we might have such an arrangement. Whatever the Abbe’s tastes may be—or if he has any at all—they do not include me except in matters of entertainment.”

  “A strange reason to have you with him. I have said from the first that there is more to his request than apparent.” Avisa folded her arms and did her best to look aloof, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

  “Occasionally the Abbe will require aid from someone who is not under suspicion,” Olivia said carefully, knowing that it would be very unwise to reveal the whole of her agreement with Mazarini to her servant. “Undisputed ground, if you like; a place where courtesy may be relaxed.”

  “And there are your horses,” said Avisa with great knowledge. “He has a use for your horses.”