The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (18 page)

But with the great man’s patronage, I soon became fashionable, with a parade of notables waiting to be “done” by me. Partly it was that they wanted to flatter Wolsey, by asking for my services, and partly it was that Wolsey flattered them by asking for their portraits “for my collection of notable persons of the age,” as he would say to them, in that confidential, insinuating way that he had. Soon it was known that one of Wolsey’s pleasures was inspecting his growing collection of miniatures, medals, and ancient coins with portrait heads. Then everybody ambitious craved most fiercely to be in the drawer with Nero and Charlemagne, and I was beseiged at home and when I attended my lord bishop’s court.

All this should have made me rich, but of course, great people take everything on credit and pay when they wish, and so far I had only gotten a very small advance from Master Tuke and had to beg for it because materials aren’t free. It was a lucky thing I had all that excellent parchment all ready to cut, and the margins started disappearing from the pages of that old piece of book which my stingy husband had saved.

“You do well,” said Master Tuke one day, as he repeated the great man’s orders to me. I could tell I was in favor with the bishop because of how agreeable he was to me. The bishop was very clever about paintings, and I knew that Tuke was taking instruction on art appreciation from a liveryman of the guild in order the better to flatter his master. I heard it was a bit of a waste, because he was color-blind, but that was just gossip.

“See here,” said Master Tuke, “they say the best flattery is imitation.” He held out a framed miniature to me, a shoddy piece of work with muddy shadows and a face resembling a turtle more than a human should. Master Tuke’s face was impassive, but I could tell he was waiting with some amusement to hear what I would say.

“Only competent imitation flatters,” I said. “Look at those eyes; they’re not even on the same level. Whoever painted it must have been drunk.”

“The masters of the guild are claiming that foreign work is cheap and shoddy. What would you say to that?”

“Why, that I am English born. Did a master do that? I think he needs a lesson or two, before he ventures into painting in small.”

“They fear the importation of more foreign artists for the new craze, so they venture into the business themselves, even though they have no jurisdiction.”

“And no skill, either,” I said rather sharply, but then tried to redeem myself by saying, “I am grateful to have a patron of such distinguished taste that he can see bad work at a glance.”

Tuke laughed. “He wanted to know what you would say when you saw it. And I judged correctly, for you are no bad judge of a painting, even if you are a woman.” Before I even had time to be offended, he went on, “And who do you imagine the portrait to be?”

“By the B there, and by the hat, which I have seen before, I judge it to be Sir Thomas Boleyn, but not by the features.”

“Right again, and most puffed up he was when he showed it to me.”

“Master Tuke, what manner of man would show off such a work?”

“Why, Mistress Dallet, has no one yet told you that the bishop makes a game of showing your work to the visitors in his cabinet? He finds someone unsuspecting and says, ‘What manner of painter do you think did this?’ And then the visitor says, ‘Why, surely he is a cunning worker, no doubt from overseas.’ And then my lord bishop says, ‘Ha! You are deceived! It was painted right here in London, and by a woman, too!’ Ah, then they are embarrassed, and shuffle and say, ‘A woman? By Our Lady, I would never have supposed it so.’ And my lord answers, ‘Find me a man who paints like this, and I will make him great.’ Then he laughs up his sleeve at what they do unearth, for they are no judges.”

My next sitter was the king’s boon companion, Charles Brandon, the king’s Master of the Horse who had been made Duke of Suffolk and who was famous for being married to different rich ladies, which shows that the hand of fate was moving very mysteriously but luckily to my benefit. It turned out he would be very important to me later, but indirectly and not in a way I’d ever imagined. However, I did not understand that it was the hand of fate at the time and instead was very annoyed. The duke came to pay court to Wolsey for assistance in some financial matter, then when he had inspected the collection in the cabinet he demanded that I take his likeness on the spot.

“Paint my glance fiery,” he demanded, settling his huge bulk into the chair.

“My lord, I always paint what I see, and I assure you, your natural glance is very fiery,” I answered. But it was no easy thing painting a man who looks first out the window, grunts and readjusts himself, stroking his beard, then admires his shoes, and then glances at a maidservant while he makes odd noises to draw a hound closer.

“Your Grace, can you return your face to this side again? Yes, that way. First turn the whole head toward the window, then return only the eyes toward me.”

“You’re not done yet? How long do you take, anyway? Lady Bourchier assured me you were swift.”

“It takes more time to capture the fiery eye of a warrior than the mild eye of a lady,” I answered, because I was becoming more like a slippery courtier every day from being exposed to their bad examples, which are nothing like the models of discreet conversations recommended in
The Good Wyfe’s Book of Manners
. That contented him, so he settled back into the chair with a lot of snorting sounds.

It was not until I was packing away my things and Suffolk was inspecting the near-finished miniature that I saw among the watchers a man who made the hair go up on the back of my neck. I knew him even at a distance by the streaks of white that swirled up in his hair like two curly goat’s horns and by the cold glitter of his eyes, which seemed to fill up the room. He was conferring with Master Ashton as if they were the dearest of old friends. He darted his eyes at me with a triumphant look, as if to say, See my power. Then he leaned forward toward Master Ashton familiarly, almost intimately, whispering something to him, and Ashton looked back at him most trustingly, as if he were drinking in every word. My heart started beating so loudly that I hardly heard Suffolk’s farewell in my ear. That ghastly man that even dogs didn’t like, accompanied by Master Ashton, was approaching me.

“Mistress Dallet, here is a collector of rare art who has heard much of you and wishes to make your acquaintance,” said Master Ashton. “He tells me he knew your late husband well.” Once again, I found myself staring into that pair of pale, calculating eyes. I scarcely heard as we were introduced. “…Sir Septimus Crouch…has procured several curious and ancient coins for the bishop’s collection….” The words just seemed to flow past my ears.

“A tragic, tragic accident. How glad I was to hear that you were prospering.” I felt my skin crawl at the sound of his voice. Ashton seemed perfectly unaware of the man’s repulsiveness. In fact, they acted like the best friends in the world, as if they had shared some secret. That’s how men are, I guess. Cozy. They never see anything.

“Rarities? How lovely, lovely,” I stammered.

“Rarities indeed, though not as rare as a paintrix of your
virtue
, Mistress Dallet,” and I didn’t like his tone.

“Sir Septimus, you are too modest. Nothing like them has been seen in England before. First French coins of an antiquity greater than Charlemagne himself. And now, a Byzantine medallion in an almost perfect state of preservation. His lordship will be delighted. Only an authentic coin of King Arthur could please him more.”

“It will be a rare accident, indeed, that unearths such a treasure—though a treasure chiefly to men of learning and wit, such as the great Bishop Wolsey. Only the highest minds are interested in my curiosities. Your late husband, I believe, Mistress Dallet, was also a collector of curiosities. Should you find anything of this sort among his possessions, say, an ancient casting or a bit of old manuscript, remember I would be delighted to purchase it from you at a fair value.” He fixed me with his cold, repellent eyes in a way that didn’t seem delighted at all.

“My late husband’s creditors took away everything,” I managed to croak out. Ashton’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles on his jaw tightened.

“Such a pity,” said Septimus Crouch.

“Pity, indeed, that she could not reap more benefit from a well-sent letter,” muttered Ashton, and I noticed Crouch glancing at him to quiet him.

“A pity that works of the soul should fall into the hands of the soulless. Perhaps I should seek out these creditors. With whom should I speak?”

“The whoremasters, the tavern keepers, dicers, drinkers, and tailors of London. Try also a lawyer called Ludlow, who took away even the baby’s cradle.” Hearing this, Crouch’s eyes narrowed. But Ashton looked surprised and puzzled.

“Master Dallet’s son was born dead from the shock,” I said. Master Ashton took a half step forward, but Crouch spoke suddenly, interrupting and taking his elbow.

“But, Mistress Dallet, you have wrested triumph from tragedy. I have great hopes of becoming better acquainted with you and your exquisite likenesses.” His voice was warm and oozy. He stepped closer to Master Ashton, as if he owned him somehow, partially blocking my view of him. It made Master Ashton seem, suddenly, corrupt, as if some of the repellent qualities of Sir Septimus had rubbed off on him. His intelligent eyes that used to shine and speak seemed flat and deadened, and his even features cold, marble without soul.

As I fled the room, I noticed that the hounds were already gone.

The Fifth Portrait

Louise de Savoie, Duchesse d’Angoulême.
Engraving from a lost original.

Married at the age of twelve to Charles d’Angoulême, a great-grandson of Charles V, Louise of Savoy was widowed at nineteen. From that day on, she devoted her whole life to the career and fortunes of her son, whom she never doubted would one day be King of France. This nineteenth-century engraving is an authentic copy taken from an original miniature held in a private collection, dated 1514, that regrettably vanished during the Paris Commune.

—Frontispiece.
J
OURNAL DE
L
OUISE DE
S
AVOYE

I
n
MY TRAVELS
I
HAVE PAINTED MANY LADIES BUT NONE SO FIERCE AS
M
ADAME
L
OUISE OF
S
AVOY, WHOSE LIKENESS
I
TOOK IN THE WINTERTIME IN THE
P
ALACE OF
L
ES
T
OURNELLES IN
P
ARIS, WHEN
I
WAS AT THE COURT OF THE
K
ING OF
F
RANCE.
Madame Louise was short and pale, with metallic black eyes that could see right through a person, especially if he was what she called “of low condition,” which included everybody but French princes of the blood. That is how it is with poor relations; they get even more snobbish than the rich ones because they haven’t anything else to go on. I used my palest carnation for her complexion, and what with her black widow’s gown it looked as if I hadn’t bothered to use color at all, but I do believe I captured her grim, suspicious look very well, and everybody told me it looked like the portrait of a saint, so I got much credit.

Everyone said Madame Louise was clever, because she read books, but I think she was one of those people who get one idea stuck in their heads and that makes them cleverer than they are because they don’t waste time on other things. The problem was that Madame Louise’s one idea was the same one several other ladies also had, which made them hate her as much as she hated them. That idea was that she would be mother of a king. Now in my experience there’s no one more ruthless and cunning than a mother who is advancing her child at the expense of somebody else’s child. And all the while these ladies are tearing at one another more fiercely than Turks, they claim they are martyrs who only live for the good of others. Never cross one of them.

Eleven

L
OUISE
of Savoy received the messenger from Paris in the spacious antechamber of her bedroom in the Château de Blois. The luminous sun reached through the tall windows, dappling the bright tapestry on the wall behind her with patterns of light. Outside, below the walls of the château, the lazy green of the Loire meandered between glistening sandy banks. The cries of the boatmen on the river, of washerwomen on the shore, the sounds of the village at the castle’s feet carried upward in the warm air, reaching her ear as a vague buzz of prosperity and content.

“Ah, the messenger from Longueville,” said the mother of the heir apparent to the tall, graceful young woman beside her, as she spied the little packet sewed in oiled skin in the hand of the dusty-booted messenger who knelt before her. “He has certainly taken his time in answering me.”

“My lady, the ship was delayed by the weather,” said the messenger. “The English weather, you know, the Channel…”

“I suppose, then, we are fortunate that it has been so lovely here,” she answered. “Rise, and my ladies in waiting will see to your refreshment while you wait for my reply.” As her attendants escorted him out, the young knight thought how like a nun Louise of Savoy looked. It was hard for him to imagine that this austere little woman in black might once have been beautiful. Her pale, even features were tense with watchfulness and dedication. It was clear that everything he had heard was true. She was not a woman to be wooed to the sound of a lute. A life without luxury and an early widowhood had left her with a single passion: to see her only son, her Caesar, mount the throne of France.

“Stay, Marguerite,” she said to her daughter, as the young woman seemed to accept her dismissal with the others. “I want your assistance in this.” Marguerite, married to the Duc d’Alençon, had been away in Normandy, but the funeral of old Queen Anne, Louise’s great rival, had gathered the family in one place again. As Marguerite turned back, a stray shaft of sun caught her luxuriant chestnut hair, only half hidden by her headdress, and her mother delighted briefly in the color. It was the same shade as that possessed by her younger brother, Louise’s glorious hope, her Francis. Francis, though only a first cousin once removed of the king, was the last direct male heir of the Valois, now that the king had failed to produce a son. And all this time, Louise had planned and schemed. Louise had raised Marguerite as her most faithful ally in her great cause, and now that her most trusted friends seemed to turn like weather vanes to the new wind blowing from Paris, she had new need of her daughter’s fresh intelligence, of the renewed strength she could draw from Marguerite’s unwavering loyalty.

Ah, bitter, bitter, thought Louise, to have waited so long, to have the throne within grasp, and now have it come to this. The past winter, her old enemy Queen Anne had died, her infant son preceding her. This removed the last obstacle to the marriage of the queen’s deformed daughter Claude, heiress of the Duchy of Brittany, to Francis. By May, Louise had finally been able to force the marriage. Now as Duke of Brittany, only Francis could unite the lands that properly belonged to France. She had gathered her whole family here at the king’s seat in Blois, to press her intrigues on behalf of her son. Francis must rule. Aloud she said, “The old king still dreams of a son; he has begun negotiations with the English again.” The English, hereditary enemies of France, who had just withdrawn their conquering armies after the humiliating rout in which her son had barely escaped capture.

“The English, and not the Spanish, Mother?”

“The Pope has forbidden the alliance with the daughter of King Ferdinand. But the English king then offered his sister, widow of the King of Scots, who is of a likely age, and not barren, as a token of peace. Then my agents told me he considers the Englishwoman too old and too fat. Ah, I breathed again! No Englishwoman should sit on the throne of France. The obscenity! Does he not understand God’s will in this matter? His first wife was barren; his son by the heiress of Brittany has died. It is our François who is willed by God to sit upon the throne. But now the English king has written again offering his youngest sister to tempt King Louis. I swear, that English king is too young and inexperienced to have thought of this; he would never have had the wit if someone wiser were not advising him. Longueville has told me of this Wolsey, this devious priest, who whispers at his shoulder. The woman, they say, is young and healthy, sure to outlive the king. The question: Is she too ugly to please him as her sister was? The subtle priest plots to make an Englishwoman Queen Regent of France, I swear. This shall never happen, not while I have breath in my body. Open this for me, Marguerite, and you shall help me judge whether or not the king will accept this offer.”

Marguerite snipped the threads with a little silver penknife that lay on her mother’s desk. She held out the letter for her mother, but her intelligent eyes lit with curiosity at the round, sealed case that accompanied the writing. Two years older than her brother, she was devoted to his cause and person. Like him, well educated, amber eyed and witty, she had turned to the enjoyment and patronage of the arts to console herself for the boredom of a mismatched marriage. The little case promised amusement.

“This letter, useless,” pronounced the mother. “A shallow description that could fit a hundred girls, and a silly ghost story. At least he has sent a copy of the portrait that has gone to the king. That Longueville is a superstitious fool. Useless. Hopeless. I want to know the dowry, the conditions. Is this the woman that will sit on the throne of France?”

But Marguerite’s eyes had lit up at the sight of the tiny painting revealed when she opened the little case. “Mother, look at this. It is a match for Fouquet. Why, the brushstrokes are invisible!” Handing the letter to her daughter, Louise took the little portrait case in her hand. Involuntarily, she drew in her breath. The golden French sun made the colors glow with new warmth. The ropes of pearls, the jewels had a radiant luster. The princess’s red-gold hair shone like silk; her skin seemed as soft and luminous as if alive; her eyes glinted with boldness, with youth, as she stared out into the face of the bitter, watchful older woman.

At the sign of the neat red head and sparkling eyes, Louise’s own eyes had narrowed. “This is the one,” she said. “He will not be able to resist. The treaty with the English is as good as signed. He will imagine she can restore his lost springtime. Ah, God, what cursed illusion is it that makes old men think they can still sire sons! And the eyes—look at that, Marguerite. What do you make of the eyes?”

“Flirtatious, Mother, and spoiled. This princess has never been a moment without her slightest desire being granted. You must take care, Mother, that she does not provide the king with an heir by some gentleman of the court.”

“You are right, Daughter. I had not thought of that until I spied this picture. I imagined he was being offered some milk-fed pious little thing more suited to an old man. This creature is too clever, too headstrong. Her father was a ruthless usurper, after all. Never forget, it is in the blood.”

“But you must also take into account that her father was old and shrewd, and died in bed.”

“All the worse. This one is at least young. It is best to catch them unhatched.”

“What will you do, Mother?”

“I will begin by planting a rumor at court that she has had a lover in England. This will make the old king jealous and watchful. That, at least, will keep her from making a false heir with a more vigorous sire.”

“Write Longueville and ask if there are any men whom she seems to favor, then you can let that be known as well.”

“I needn’t bother. The king will send his own spies. He will appoint his own guardians. In fear of a cuckold’s horns, he will raise a wall of steel around her.”

Marguerite laughed. In a flash, it was all visible to her. A jealous old man, frantic with rumors, desperately trying to prove himself young, trying to satisfy a demanding girl. “Why, Mother, he’ll exhaust himself!” she exclaimed.

“Exactly,” said Louise, with a thin-lipped smile. “That English princess is too spoiled, too inconsistent of purpose for the task those foreigners have set her. She has not the force of will to be Queen Regent of France.” Marguerite’s shrewd gaze flicked from the miniature to her mother’s indomitable face. A kitten and a lioness. There was no match.

“So, Mistress Susanna, you have been traveling again. What brings you to grace our humble establishment after flying so high?” The white hairs growing out of Master Ailwin’s ears seemed to have gotten even longer in my absence, and he was altogether more eccentric-looking than ever, if that is possible. He bumbled around humming something to himself. “I suppose you’re too grand now to use orpiment made in my poor little establishment. Send to France, send to Italy! I remember a time you were grateful and paid a little something on the side. Now I’m not sure I have the time for you.” He started to weigh out earth of cologne, then forgot he was about and began to put it away again.

“Master Ailwin, just because I was invited to Richmond to paint doesn’t mean I don’t have to come home and buy colors just the same as ever. That Lady Guildford used up everything I had! First she liked her picture so much in small, she had to have it in large. Is it my fault I have a gift for flattering old ladies? It was all wearisome, and the food wasn’t even good. Besides, grand houses wear me out. They treat me just like an oversized chest that is an inconvenience. ‘Oh, yes, put the paintrix there—no, perhaps over here.’ That’s how it is for someone who’s just a servant and not a great lady. I’m lucky to get a decent corner for me and Nan where silly ladies won’t go pawing through my things and getting their greasy fingers on the carnations so the paint won’t stick.”

“So now they cover you in flowers. Laurel wreaths. You have become spoiled.”

“Carnations, Master, those are the parchments ready made for painting,” said Tom, who had come to listen in.

“I knew that,” snapped Master Ailwin.

“Master, if you allow Mistress Dallet to accompany me into the back room, I can find what she wants and weigh it out and save you the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience? You rogue, you were supposed to tidy up! The society meets here tonight, and I see things heaped everywhere back there, and not a bench to sit on!”

“Why then, I’ll go back right away,” he said, gesturing me to accompany him, while Master Ailwin began to rearrange things on the shelf, fretting and fuming all the while about youth and their disrespect in these wicked times.

“Mistress, you must forgive him. He’s having another one of his spells,” said Tom, and I did feel sorry for the poor boy who was so faithful and caring for such a grouchy old master, even if he did sometimes make cow eyes when he delivered things.

“Of course I do,” I said, looking about the room. “How on earth do you find what you want here?”

“Every time he puts something back, it’s in another place,” said the apprentice, “so I just follow him about and replace what I can. Sometimes even I can’t find it. Let’s see, it’s green bice you’re wanting?”

“Oh, say, what are these things lying here?” Amid a jumble of old glassware and half-filled containers on a worktable lay several old parchments covered with queer figures, an open book with diagrams in it, and several antique coins.

“Interesting, aren’t these? They’re very old.” He picked up a medallion of some dead foreign king. “We have a regular customer who collects odd old coins; he has a standing order with us to save anything like this for him to see first.”

“Not a tall, heavy man with a square-cut beard and white streaks in his hair up here?” I asked, gesturing to the corners of my forehead. Just thinking about the man troubled me.

“Oh, you must mean Sir Septimus Crouch. No, this one’s a thin old French fellow with a lined face and gray hair. Now he’s piecing together a rare manuscript. If anybody comes in with fragments, we’re to tell him. Odd that you mention Sir Septimus. He’s doing the same thing. It must be all the fashion these days, not that I keep up with fashion. We don’t like Sir Septimus much—he’s a slimy dealer. But we have our ways of getting even. See here? To him we sell these forgeries as antiques.”

“These parchments? But they look old.”

“If they’re not old to begin with, they look old when we’re done with them. Treasure maps, alchemical allegories for finding the Stone. People bring things in for the master to decode, and if they’re worthless, he buys them and doctors them up. Crouch is such a believer, he’ll buy anything. We even sold him a map to the lost treasure of the Templars. But look here—” The boy dug under the trash and brought out a wooden panel painting, brown with age, or at least aged-looking varnish. Even in its new disguise, I recognized it at once. One of my
Eve Bathings
, complete with leafy Adam and glowing mountaintop in Eden. In the front of the shop, a bell tinkled, and the growl of conversation could be heard in the background.

“We got it from a tavern keeper who kept it for payment of some monk’s bill. Isn’t it perfect? The old boy will love it. And if he doesn’t take it, the Frenchman will.”