A Candle For d'Artagnan Read online

  Cardinal Bichi turned his razor gaze on Mazarini. “Giulio,” he said dulcetly. “How is it that for all the time you were in France, you made no mention of this?”

  Mazarini was prepared for the question and answered it very directly. “I saw nothing of it for myself, Eminence, not personally. There were rumors, of course, but you have warned me against rumors. There was no advantage for any of us in promoting tales to the discredit of the King if there were, in fact, no basis for them. Since gossip was all I knew, I remained silent. To be frank,” he went on, looking at Pere Chape, “I am sorry to hear my worst apprehensions confirmed, for it could mean that Louis’ heir will be questioned and his legitimacy doubted.”

  Pere Chape nodded once in agreement. “And with good reason, I fear. They were married so very long before their first son was born, and the King did not conduct himself well at the lying-in, I am ashamed to say. It is acknowledged that Louis avoided Anne for more than fourteen years.”

  “And the King of Spain did nothing? Under the circumstances, he would be excused taking action on behalf of his own daughter,” said Cardinal Bichi. “Why would he refuse?”

  “There has been trouble enough between France and Spain,” said Pere Chape.

  “Of course,” said Mazarini. “Of course. We must strive to maintain the peace between France and Spain: this revelation would end all that we have worked to maintain.” He rocked back on his heels. “Still,” he said in a soft, speculative voice, “I am surprised that Richelieu did not confide in me.”

  “He is dedicated to the protection of the Queen and her children,” said Pere Chape.

  Mazarini nodded. “And he would not speak against his King until he was certain I was pledged to France. He has always been wise.” He hesitated, looking away from Cardinal Bichi and Pere Chape toward the windows. “But I wish he had trusted me.”

  From what seemed like a great distance, Pere Chape said, “He has more than himself to consider—he has his duty to the Crown, and to the Queen.”

  “Yes, the Queen,” Mazarini said gently, his expression softening. “Poor Anne.”

  Text of a letter from Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles to Paul de Batz-Castelmore.

  Monsieur de Batz-Castelmore,

  Your family is well known to me, as are many of the Gascon families who have sent their sons to defend the King’s Honor. If it were possible I would be delighted to welcome your brother Charles into our ranks at once, but at this time we are full. Should there be a vacancy in the Musqueteers, then it will be my pleasure to receive your brother’s application once more.

  The Guard may be a less illustrious company, but be assured that the skills gained there, and the promotions, are most useful and will serve him in good stead when he again attempts to secure a position with my men. Pray inform your brother on my behalf that his application to this company will always be welcome to me, and that I will review his career from time to time if he will but keep me informed. It is nothing to me that he is not adept with letters; I am more concerned with his skill at arms than his gift for persiflage.

  I thank you for your kind words in regard to the Italian Abbe. I will resist his rise to power with all the strength I possess, and with the determination of my men, if that is necessary. No man fighting for France can wish to see the reins of state held by a foreigner. They say that he is giving up his country to become a Frenchman, but we all know how deeply bred in the blood and bone the country of nativity is, and this must be true of Mazarini as it is for any Frenchman, or Gascon, for that matter.

  Not only does Richelieu continue to ail, but His Majesty has not enjoyed good health for some little time now. He has been in the care of his physicians, but they do not appear to be in agreement in regard to the best treatment for his ills. Again we are made to recall that all, from the most mighty to the lowliest, are in the Hands of God, and our days on earth are at His pleasure, not our own. Those who are faithful subjects of Louis XIII will address Heaven on his behalf, for surely that is where the hopes of all of us lie.

  Let me hear from you again, and ask your brother to present himself to me at his convenience. We of the King’s Musqueteers are ever searching for men of courage, and from what you have told me, your brother Charles is one such. I will be pleased to see him at any time he presents himself.

  With my regards and prayers to you and your family, and the distinguished family of your noble mother,

  Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles

  The King’s Musqueteers

  At Advent, 1638, in Paris.

  A bona fide copy has been entered in the records of the King’s Musqueteers.

  7

  On Twelfth Night, Olivia gave her first grande fete at Eblouir, officially marking her entry into French society. The planning took well over a week, and by the time the guests were expected, four cooks had been busy in the kitchen for the better part of two days and a dozen lackeys scurried throughout the chateau putting the last touches on Niklos’ and their mistress’ instructions for the occasion.

  “It must be very grand, as splendid as we can make it and not offend Richelieu. And all can only be very, very Italian,” she reminded Niklos as he showed her the decorations in the largest salon. “At least the cooks and the musicians are Roman, that’s something.”

  “So is the wine,” Niklos reminded her with a wink. “From your own estate.”

  “Excellent,” said Olivia without much enthusiasm. “Predictable, too, but what’s to be done.”

  Niklos lifted his brows and looked at her. “How is this, Olivia? Still downcast? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all. The same complaints; pay them no mind.” She lifted one shoulder, trying to make light of her distress. “You have heard it all before: I feel old. My home is a long way off; I am in a strange place, far from my native earth, and my friends here are few and untested.” She shrugged, indicating the splendor of the room and the lavish decorations. “Still, this may persuade a few more to recognize me—what do you think?”

  “I think you are worried,” said Niklos honestly, his ruddy-brown eyes meeting her hazel ones directly. “Now, don’t stiffen up that way. I do think you are worried. And I think you are lonely.”

  Olivia made an impatient gesture as she turned away from him. “I wish you would not start that again,” she said, her voice unsteady, for although she had no tears to shed, some words caught in her throat when she uttered them. “I am not … truly lonely.”

  “But you are,” said Niklos, more firmly and more sympathetically than before. “What else would you call it? Don’t answer me yet, Olivia; I’m not finished.” He waited to see if she would permit him to continue, and when she gestured her permission, he nodded. “You are not the only one worried. I am worried for you. I see the expression in your eyes and I wish for the power to end the pain I read there.” He saw her start to turn away but he would not stop now. “I listen to you speak. Give me a little credit after all these years, these centuries. You are a spectre at a feast, Olivia. You hunger for the food you need but you will not eat.”

  Olivia had put one hand to her eyes. “I wish we had discussed this another time,” she said softly. “There is no time. It is too difficult with over a hundred people arriving here this afternoon.” She looked at him, aware that he would not be put off with facile answers. “All right. I will see if there is anyone who might not object to a vampire for a lover, who would not betray me—and you—to the King’s men, or the Cardinal’s men, or the Pope’s men. And if there is such a man and he wants me as well, then perhaps I will be more than a dream to him. Will that content you?”

  “It is not my content that concerns me,” said Niklos. “But yes, it is sufficient. I have never known you to abjure your word.”

  Her eyes darkened and though she did not frown, her face seemed shadowed. “It has happened. But that was long ago.”

  “It must be, if it was before we met,” said Niklos, making a point of rega
ining his good humor.

  “It wasn’t,” she said abruptly. “Come. I ought to have Avisa do something about my hair. There are times it is the very devil not to be able to tend myself in the mirror.”

  “That’s not amusing,” said Niklos, a line appearing between his brows. “Not even as a joke.”

  Olivia turned to him with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I did not mean…” She hesitated. “Or perhaps I did. I’ve been called devilish for so long that I must be getting used to it.” Pausing to take a last look around the room, she said, “I want the napery edged in gold for the buffet.”

  “Of course,” said Niklos, following her and signaling for a lackey to close the door behind them as they started down the wide gallery that connected the grand salon with the spacious library. “I have ordered evergreen boughs in the library, and sprays of evergreens over the coaching entry.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be Italian: all that evergreen sounds more English.” She had regained some of her buoyancy but Niklos knew what an effort it cost her. “I wish the Abbe were here. It would be much easier to manage if his arrival could be approved at once.” She stopped to pick up a comfit dish, examining the sweetmeats and candied fruit presented on it. “I suppose it doesn’t matter where we are, or who the guests are. We have been strangers for so long that it is all the same.”

  “Is that the excuse you give yourself?” he asked bluntly, and before she could continue, he went on, “How long has it been since you trusted yourself to take a lover? Twenty years?”

  “Stop it, Niklos,” words sharp, coming in Italian instead of French. “We have been over this ground until it is sterile and repeating ourselves will change nothing. Whether I take a lover or not it is no concern of yours. I have promised Mazarini that I would conduct myself with dignity, and you know that dignity is another word for celibacy for widows.” She walked slowly away from him, then looked back, her features as immobile as those of a statue. “Who would be safe here, even if I wished to have a lover? Assuming that there might be a man who would not be distressed by my nature, it would be dangerous to know me. We are in France, part of the Abbe’s embassy and there is no one we can count a disinterested friend. I would be more of a fool than I am to look for … something more than sweet dreams.”

  “Mi sono detto,” Niklos began in Italian, finishing in heavily accented English, “‘The lady doth protest too much.’ That is the quote, isn’t it?”

  Olivia glared at him. “It comes from Shakespeare.”

  “I remember,” said Niklos. “He was right.” He leaned back against a tall, antique chest decorated in red lacquer as he folded his arms and crossed one foot over the over. “I say it again, and nothing you tell me will change my mind: you are lonely, and it makes you…”

  “Makes me what?” Olivia challenged.

  “It makes you less than you are; it limits you. And that breaks my heart, Olivia.” His smile was lopsided. “Don’t tell me that ghouls cannot have broken hearts.”

  This time Olivia did not argue with him. “Very well, I am lonely. I have been lonely for more than a thousand years if you were to count the sum of them,” she conceded, her eyes growing weary. “But that does not alter any of my objections. We are part of Mazarini’s suite, answerable to the Abbe and therefore under scrutiny. We are at risk here. No words, no longings, can change that.”

  Niklos gave a short sigh. “Won’t you at least consider taking a lover—not a man you visit as a dream, but a lover, one who knows you are with him, who welcomes you?”

  “Stop, please, Niklos,” said Olivia, one hand raised. “Please.”

  “So you will deny it?” he asked, compassion in his handsome face. “You have denied yourself much too long, Olivia.”

  She did not answer at once. “Sanct’ Germain is far older than I am, and he has learned to bear it.” Her smile was quick and rueful. “Perhaps he’s right, and too long denial turns to a loss of … savor.”

  “Don’t mock yourself,” Niklos warned her. He raised his head. “Coaches.”

  “In buon punto,” said Olivia, straightening the heavy gathers of her taffeta skirt; she put a hand to her hair. “I must find Avisa. See to the formalities at the coaching door and direct the servants to their quarters.” She had already started away from him.

  “I do know my duties,” Niklos reminded her as he watched her rush toward her own apartments in the chateau. He noticed that the young lackey who had secured the salon door was showing great interest in Olivia, which troubled him. There were always spies in a household like this one, and as the first of Abbe Mazarini’s suite to be established in France, Olivia was more vulnerable to spies than others might be.

  Some of the same unhappy thoughts plagued Olivia as she hurried into her dressing room. She reached for the bell that would summon Avisa, ringing it with more determination than usual. “Avisa! My hair!”

  A few moments later, Avisa came into the dressing room carrying a small lamp and a number of crimping irons. “You should not have waited until the last to have this done.”

  “But if you had done it earlier, it would all be nothing more than wisps,” said Olivia reasonably as she settled herself in the chair and gave herself over to Avisa’s ministrations.

  “Your guests are starting to arrive—” she began.

  “My guests’ servants are starting to arrive,” Olivia corrected her. “The guests will be behind them by less than an hour.” She blinked as Avisa brought the hot iron near her cheek. No matter how many times Avisa performed this simple task, Olivia winced as she felt the hot metal near her skin. Fire was deadly to her as few things in the world were, and no matter how minor the burn, it carried with it a reminder of her own provisional mortality.

  “I did not touch you, Madama. I am not a clumsy girl. I have done this before, many times, to your satisfaction,” said Avisa with more certainty than she felt. She held the crimping iron in a thick rag mitten, smelling Olivia’s hair.

  “No, you did not touch me. I know it,” Olivia said a bit faintly. “You do your work well.” She did her best to sit more comfortably and let Avisa get on with her chore, but again as the next hot iron came near her skin, she had to resist the impulse to cringe.

  “I will take great care,” said Avisa, looking critically at the results of her first effort as she tended to her second. “Your hair is very silken, Madama, very lovely. It is so pretty that who can blame you for wearing it uncovered, widow or no.”

  “Such is the nature in my House,” she said, aware that all but she herself had died out fifteen hundred years ago. “My brother Drusus had beautiful hair, a little curly and shiny like a metal cap, not light brown like mine.” It reassured her in a strange way to discuss the past while Avisa wielded the crimping irons. “He was a very pretty boy, very straight and soldierly.”

  “Was, Madama?” asked Avisa, who could not disguise her curiosity about Olivia’s history, and was always eager to glean more information about her past. The few tidbits she had were intriguing beyond anything she could imagine for herself. “You have not told me about this brother.”

  “He died young,” said Olivia, unwilling to recount her own husband’s deliberate betrayal of her brother and father. “But he was the best-looking of us all.” She leaned back and locked her hands together. She wished she could use a mirror to mark Avisa’s progress.

  “You miss him?” Avisa asked, not giving her answer as much attention as she would have liked. She was speculating already as to the cause of death for the beautiful brother.

  “Not anymore,” said Olivia, then amended this denial, “or not very often; that was a long time ago.” Then she deliberately changed the subject. “Do I need color on my cheeks or will I do for Twelfth Night?”

  Avisa stopped her task and looked down at Olivia’s face. “You are fair, Madama. I think it would be wise to remain fair. The Frenchwomen may paint their cheeks and redden their mouths, but you do not need to augment your beauty.”


  Olivia laughed, her spirits lifting a little at this flattery. “How very diplomatic you are. Mazarini should have made his bargain with you.” She would have nodded but Avisa was once again setting another hot iron in her hair. “I will follow your advice and appear just as I am. I will add the diamond clip to the pearls around my neck, but that will suffice.”

  “You are too modest, Madama,” said Avisa, this time so bluntly that Olivia knew she meant it. “You are the most elegant woman and no one will rival you tonight. The jewels on your stomacher are sufficient to make all the others devour their own entrails from envy. That you are beautiful enough to dare to appear without macquilage—”

  Olivia cut her short. “Come, Avisa, there is no reason to toady to me. Doubtless I will have my fill of that in the next few hours. Speak directly, I pray you.”

  “I do speak directly,” said Avisa, with a trace of pride. “It is not often that a maid is given the chance to dress and do for a beautiful woman. Then, most beautiful women are spiteful and you are kind.” This last caused both of them some embarrassment, and it took a few moments before Avisa was prepared to go on. “Bondama Caldopiove was good to me, but she was plain as a sack of flour. She understood that I could not do more than God had willed, and she bore this patiently. She was blessed with a most wonderful voice; I suppose that made up for her face.”

  “Mauro Caldopiove certainly thought so,” said Olivia. “She was fortunate in her husband.”

  “And well she knew. It is five years since she died and he still has not remarried, he, with his title and his money.” Avisa sighed. “He doted on her.”

  “No,” Olivia corrected her seriously, “he loved her. There is a difference.”

  Avisa set one more crimping iron, then stood back, examining the results. She reached for a brush and tweaked the crimps with it. “There, Madama,” she said. “Your hair is ready.”