The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (21 page)

So powerful was the king’s wrath that the heavy oak paneling on the walls seemed to quake at the sound of his voice.

“I tell you, he has betrayed me! And he has betrayed you, too, sister. Do not deceive yourself.” Henry the Eighth, clad in blue silk slashed with gold tissue and reembroidered with gold thread and pearls, strode about the room with his rolling, powerful gait like an enraged bull. Still young, he was tall and athletic, his muscular frame not yet gone to fat, though there was promise of it for the future. His red-blond hair fell in damp disorder about his ears; his clean-shaven face was bright red with fury. Veins stood out on his thick-muscled neck. His eyes were slits of rage.

“But did he not say he was too ill to receive me, and have I not written him and called him husband, and has he not sent me jewels to show his favor?” The anger terrified Mary Tudor, who had for so many years been her brother’s favorite, his plaything, his pampered and adored baby sister. No one had joined more joyfully in his masques, sung to his accompaniment on the virginals, greeted and amused his friends. Now, suddenly, this terrible storm. Her lord and brother had come to tell her that her marriage, arranged in childhood, was no longer valid.

“His aunt, that wily witch who governs the Netherlands, persuaded him to it, to keep me soft until the blow was struck. A secret treaty they signed behind my back! The emperor has played me false since the beginning. I tell you, sister, you are no longer betrothed to that miserable creature. Prince Charles of Castile may find another bride!”

“But—but my jewels, my trousseau in the Flemish style, my plate…and was the marriage not consummated by proxy? He did kiss me, I do recall. I fear the sin of it.” Mary’s eyes glanced from side to side, like a trapped doe. She wrung her hands. Frantically, she thought of excuses. No one must ever guess why.

“The plate will suit the King of France better, and so will you, my sister. The King of France is a great prince in all his strength and maturity, not a miserable stripling. You will be Queen of France, and he will dote on you. Wolsey, explain again to my recalcitrant sister that this marriage was not truly consummated, and therefore does not exist.”

“Consider, my lady, that not only do you owe your king and brother obedience in all things, but that his wisdom in matters pertaining to the Church is excelled by no one in this land. The Pope himself has commended your brother’s faith and wisdom. Now by all the understanding of those wise in these matters, this consummation was no true consummation, in that a kiss is hardly sufficient, even with the giving of the ring. It is to your marriage
de praesenti
that the witnesses swore, the consummation to be completed when you and he were of age. I tell you with all the authority granted to me by the Holy Church that your marriage was in name only and therefore no true marriage. True marriage requires true consummation, witnessed in the marriage bed. So you see? Even the Holy Church says you are free to obey your lord’s will. You are most blessed and fortunate to become queen of so great a realm as France due to the great care and concern of that most noble prince, your brother.” Wolsey’s voice was oily and subservient. From the corner of his left eye he watched the red color fade from Henry’s neck. Women, Wolsey’s tone of voice seemed to say, they are hopeless in understanding. One must tempt them with toys and not try their minds overmuch.

King Henry watched his younger sister look at her lap and pick at the embroidery on her dress. Over and over, she rolled a little seed pearl between her fingers. Wolsey is right, thought Henry. Again he spoke, and this time his voice was softer.

“Mary, Mary, you shall be a great queen and the mother of kings. You shall wear the jewels of France; there are none more famous or beautiful in the whole world. A great prince pines with love for you, while that sickly boy will not live to grow up, without a doubt. Think of your great happiness and obey one who is wiser than you.”

“It is my pleasure to obey you in all things, my lord,” said Princess Mary in a low voice, still not looking up. King Henry took the gesture for humility. He could not see her eyes. “But—but is not the King of France old, and a cripple?” Mary spoke softly, hesitantly, as if she were ignorant and possibly misinformed. As sly and willful as her brother, she knew she must play the role of a simpleton if she were to get the one promise she wanted most.

“A cripple?” Henry laughed. “Never, sweet sister. True, he is in the autumn of his life, but virile still. All the better for you to enchant him.”

“Brother, may I ask from you one favor? Then I shall wed the King of France most readily and do your bidding always when I am queen in France.”

“And what is that? What is in my power to grant you?” asked Henry, the storm past and content to see such rapid acquiescence in his strong-willed sister.

“If—if the King of France should die, may I then choose whom I wish to be my husband?”

Henry was taken aback. Unheard of. But deluded by his own word-painting of a masterful king in his autumn years only, and secretly reserving the right to change his mind for reasons of state, which was only proper in a king, he answered his sister:

“Yes, if that is what pleases you.”

“What pleases me will always please you,” she said so meekly that her brother did not hear the double edge in her words. Clapping his hands, he called:

“Ho, Wolsey, bring the paper you have prepared. You must practice this speech, sister, until you are letter-perfect. Then tomorrow, we will hold the formal audience in which you renounce this false and malicious prince Charles.” There was a rustling as the formidable Wolsey brought out a roll of papers from beneath his outer gown. There were documents to sign and a florid speech for Mary to deliver renouncing her marriage vows. Wolsey had outdone himself. As he read the speech aloud, King Henry smiled and nodded. The fault was Charles’s; he had let evil counsel and malicious gossip turn him against her. Having breached faith with her, he had so humiliated her that she now disclaimed any wifely affection for him. The contract was null and void. Of her own volition entirely, she now severed the nuptial yoke. Mary’s face changed from sullen to amazed as she listened to the words she was expected to deliver.

“You must end, of course, by petitioning the king for forgiveness and declare that in all things you are most ready to obey his good pleasure. Now, shall I repeat it slowly, while you speak it after me?” asked Wolsey, assessing Henry’s reaction from the corner of his eyes. The king’s face was a study in contentment.

“Well done, well done, Wolsey. You have served me well in this affair.”

“Your Majesty, my sole endeavor in life is to serve you exactly as you would serve yourself, had you the time for these small details.” Wolsey had prepared the speech and the documents the week previous, never doubting that it would be a simple matter to bring this weak woman to the service of his vast plans.

Bright summer light shone through the narrow, diamond-shaped panes in Bishop Wolsey’s cabinet. Outside in his orchard, birds competed in song while gardeners propped up the heaviest of the fruit-laden branches. Inside, Wolsey had been working since dawn with Masters Tuke and Warren checking lists. The greatest diplomatic
coup
of his career must not be allowed to founder on a single misplaced detail. Now Wolsey had two weddings to plan for: one by proxy in England, and one in France, graced by the greatest lords and ladies of the land. English horses, English soldiers, English pavilions for the wedding tourney, everything from carriages for the dowry plate to chamber pots must be listed and accounted for. An army of secretaries and clerks prepared the lists for his inspection. Fourteen ships were requisitioned for their transport.

“Plate, yes. The great saltcellar,
hmm
, serving dishes, candlesticks, all here. And let’s see—two carriages, ten mares to pull each at tenpence a day apiece…Tuke, have you the list of maids of honor to accompany the princess?”

“Here, Your Grace.” Fluidly, with a pleasing graceful gesture, he produced the list. Warren looked irritated.

Wolsey put the list atop the lists of plate, horses, linens, and bed hangings and scrutinized it closely with his good eye. “What is this? You must strike her; her father is not of enough significance. And here…What is Mistress Popincourt doing on the list?”

“The princess has specifically requested her. And you said to favor ladies who spoke good, clear French. Such ones are not as easy to find as you think—”

“The King of France has sent me a letter. Jane Popincourt, he hears, has a light reputation. Rumor has it that she gave her favors to de Longueville before his return from France. He says he would sooner see her burned than serve his queen.”

“He mentioned her by name?”

“By name. And there are others. His espionage service works overtime, it seems.
Hmm
—I see here Mary Boleyn, Sir Thomas’s daughter. She, too, is mentioned. Strike her. Has Sir Thomas answered my request yet about the other girl? Her French, I am told, is excellent, and the Regent of the Netherlands has had her well tutored in courtly manners.”

“He has written Margaret of Austria to release her from her position as
fille d’bonneur
at the court of the Netherlands and she is presently on her way to Greenwich.”

“How old is she, did you say?”

“Fourteen, my lord.”

“Not too young, then. And a virgin, doubtless. Yes, Anne Boleyn. She goes. Now, about the white palfreys, let’s see…harness, yes, here it is. Master of the Horse…” Wolsey gestured to the stack of paper. “Which of this is going on the
Great Elizabeth
?”

“The ladies of honor, the plate, the musicians—”

“Are they all women? The King of France will have no men.”

“All but the musicians of the chapel and the trumpeters. The paintrix goes, too, with her serving woman and a boy to grind her colors….”

“Strike the boy. Who does she think she is, with such a retinue? The Queen of Persia? What on earth gave me the idea of sending her, anyway? I was sure I had decided not to. Then it just came to me in the night, the wisdom of the plan. A sort of voice in the dark. Now, the bed hangings…What is that commotion? I told you I was busy, Ashton.” Wolsey’s other privy secretary, in somber gray, had entered the cabinet as silent as a shadow.

“My lord, I bring a letter that has just come from Rome. From Sylvester de Giglis, at the Papal Court.” Ashton’s eyes seemed sunken, and his face was pale. Why did I ever think him amusing? thought Wolsey.

“From Rome? Why didn’t you say? What says de Giglis about my cardinal’s hat? Does that wretch, Bainbridge, still block my way?”

“My lord, I know not. The letter will tell.”

Wolsey undid the seals and read the letter in silence. Then, after a while, he spoke. “The Cardinal of York is dead in Rome,” he said slowly.

“Your Grace, what a felicitous coincidence,” observed Ashton. Wolsey didn’t like his tone.

“Not entirely felicitous, though indeed a coincidence,” observed Wolsey blandly. “Bainbridge was poisoned by his chaplain. An Italian fellow, I believe. And you know what they are.” As he spoke, Wolsey looked long at Ashton’s silent, drawn face. Just how much did he know?

“Thank you, Ashton. You may go,” he said, briefly enjoying, in the old way, how Ashton’s eyes flicked resentfully sideways to Tuke’s self-satisfied face. An ungracious fellow, thought Wolsey. Skillful, useful, but still unaware of his proper station. Tuke’s right, for once. I think I’ll send him off for a while. Give him something even he can’t do. Then he’ll realize that all depends on my grace and favor, not his own accomplishment. He needs much more humility if he is to be shaped to my needs.

“Your Grace, will you be attending the king tomorrow? It would be well to take the opportunity to press for the See of York.” Tuke’s unctuous voice broke the long silence.

“Why, Tuke, what an excellent idea—the notion had not entirely escaped me. My lord of York. An excellent title. And York House—a most convenient residence, though it wants a bit of redecorating. Oh, yes. And send for the paintrix. No, not through Ashton this time. Tell her it’s confidential. Before she goes, I wish a portrait of myself in profile—the better side. In crimson.”

Thirteen

W
HAT
did the boy want, Susanna?” asked Mistress Hull as Nan and I crossed through her crowded little storefront on the way to the street. The spring had passed into summer, and my fortunes had risen very nearly as fast as my patron’s, who became ever greater with each passing month. Mistress Hull was knitting busily in a chair beneath the display of green saints, and Cat and Tom were seated on the long bench at the back of the room. Cat was engaged in winding wool into a ball from a skein held on Tom’s outstretched hands. He rolled his eyes at me as we passed, in a look of utter boredom and irritation.

“He wants me to attend the archbishop at York House, for another portrait. What’s that you’re knitting there? It looks pretty.”

“It’s the first of a pair of knitted sleeves. I had an inspiration, the night after that Master Hadriel left, that if I took two colors like this and alternated the stitching—so—I could make a pattern just like slashing. Very fashionable, don’t you think?” I looked closer. Mistress Hull’s stitches had never been as smooth.

“Why, those are very clever. Everyone will want some.”

“I tell you, I’ve been just ablaze lately. I even dream about knitting. I’ve an idea about alternating rows that will make a pattern just like tiny drops. I can hardly wait to see how it turns out. I tell you, I haven’t been so happy since I lost dear Master Hull. Though of course nothing will ever take his place…still, what was that dye you mentioned, Tom, that Master Ailwin can compound? I think I shall take to dyeing my own yarn to get the colors just right. My mind is full of visions, and I can’t rest until I see them in real life, before my eyes. I tell you, it’s an inspiration from God.”

“Visions of
knitting
? Mother, that is humiliating. God is interested in higher things, I’m certain.”

“Nonsense. His eye is on the sparrow and His eye is on knitting, too. I’m sure if I could search in the Bible like a priest, I’d find the place. His eye is on surly girls, as well. Why haven’t you finished that ball of blue wool yet? I’ll be needing it next.” We hurried out the door without looking backward. Across the street, I thought I saw a skinny little man in a black cloak vanish into the doorway.

“Nan, did you see that man? I swear I’ve seen him before.”

“At the Goat and Jug? He’s probably just in love with you, like that man who lay in the gutter. You’re rising in the world, Susanna, if your admirers can stand on their own two feet.”

“I think I saw him someplace else, but I don’t remember where. It makes me nervous.”

“Nonsense. It’s the weather making you nervous. Even horses get nervous in this kind of weather.”

The day was cloudy, damp, and close, with the smell of a storm in the air. A curious, sultry wind made the trees rustle. We went by the Strand into Westminster with a crowd of guardsmen, archers, gowned clerks and lawyers on mules. Sure enough, there was a young man in a green gown and high boots having trouble with the mare he was riding. As he struggled to pull her in, a woman with a basket scurried to get out of the way.

Behind us was a boy driving pigs. The stifling smell of them hovered over us on the wind. Something heavy seemed to be oppressing me. At Charing Cross we paused, and I looked all about us. I thought I saw that same man slipping along in the crowd, but there are so many people with black cloaks, I couldn’t be sure. To the south on the right were the tilt yards, and we could hear even there the clatter of noblemen practicing fighting at the Barriers. On the left were the great tenements and wealthy houses that gave way to the walls, gates, and towers of the archbishop’s great palace, York House. I could feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck. Yes, it had been the same one. I was sure we were being followed.

“Oh, what dreadful air! I’m sure there’s a storm coming, and as far as I’m concerned, it will be a relief.” Nan tugged at her headdress with one hand, while with the other she held the case with my paints. A sudden gust tugged at my skirts. I stopped and pulled at them, turning suddenly. There seemed to be an ugly muttering in the air above us. Could it be distant thunder? The gray clouds were moving swiftly now. Behind us, I thought I saw the figure in black vanish into an open doorway. Was it that ghastly murderer, Septimus Crouch? Who was it, trying to find me alone?

“Nan,” I whispered. “I swear I saw him—that man. He’s following us. Suppose it’s a hired bravo from that murdering lord?” Nan looked suddenly horrified. We were near the gatehouse to the great courtyard of York House now. He won’t bother us inside, I thought. There are servants everywhere. There are guards at the gate. I began to run, frantic with blind panic. Nan followed, as best she could, the heavy case bumping and rattling as she ran. The first drops of rain had begun to fall. Warm rain, not yet enough to clean the air. We were nearly there now; the gatehouse loomed before us. I put my head down and ran toward it. But, unseeing, I had bumped into someone. A man’s heavy arms grabbed me. I regained my footing and tried to pull away, screaming. The man in black had caught me.

“Quiet, be quiet there. Look before you scream. Would you have the guards on me?” He put his hand over my mouth, and I could feel him pulling me through the little wicket gate.

“Susanna, you goose, it’s Master Ashton. He’s in front of you, not behind you. Shut your mouth and open your eyes.” I did open my eyes and found myself looking directly into the angry, confused ones of Robert Ashton, Wolsey’s secretary. His arms were still tight about me to keep me from struggling, and I realized with some embarrassment that I had kicked him in the shins. I could feel my face turning hot.

“And what new mischief have you done, that you flee as if the Devil himself were chasing you?” I could tell he regretted his shin.

“There’s a man—all in—black,” I managed to croak out. “He’s following me. I—I thought you were he.”

“I saw no man in black,” he said. “Mistress Dallet, could it be that at last your conscience pursues you?” He paused a long time and looked very odd indeed. “Search your heart. Have you not…been a part of a man’s betrayal to his death?”

“Death? You know? I saw him do murder in secret. A—a great lord—” Suddenly I realized Robert Ashton would never believe me. Crouch was his friend, a gentleman, received in Wolsey’s house. Who would believe a woman nobody? And telling would betray me to Crouch. What could he do, an important man like that? Have someone else arrested for the crime? Tom? Master Ailwin? Ashton’s face seemed to collapse and sink inward.

“He was right,” he whispered, though I didn’t understand why. “You are quick to invent a story,” he said, his eyes bitter and sorrowful. “Clever. I always knew you were clever.” He shook his head. “And what makes you think, Mistress Dallet, that a great lord who had done murder would bother to follow you around? A great lord would send his retainers to wait for you at your door, or perhaps have you arrested on some false charge.” As he spoke, he seemed slumped, as if he had taken on a great load. Now, straightening himself up, as if determined to show nothing, he accompanied us up the steps and through the winding corridors and public chambers of the archbishop’s great palace. What was wrong with the man? “No, admit now that you lie, in the name of your own salvation.” He still had my arm. I looked up at him, puzzled. He waited for my answer, then turned away. “God, twice a fool,” he muttered to himself. Then he turned again to me and said, “Yes. Here we are. Past the antechamber, there, where you see the workmen hanging the tapestries, is his new cabinet. He’s waiting for you.” He pushed me through the arch into the antechamber and vanished like a shadow.

Oddly enough, I found Wolsey by himself. Even Master Tuke, the lapdog, wasn’t there. But outside the open door, I thought I heard footsteps, as if some man were lingering outside, trying to listen in. Wolsey was seated in a heavy oak chair, all carved and cushioned like a throne. After I had kissed his ring, he told me to send Nan away into the outer chamber and ask her to leave the door closed but for six inches, so people would know he was occupied. Oh dear, I thought. This is a dreadful proposition that he is going to make. And I don’t dare refuse him.

“Mistress Dallet, I want you to vow on this holy book here that you will never reveal what has transpired in this chamber.” Now I was really frightened. Suppose he changed his mind someday about how well I could hold my tongue and decided I could hold it better in the bottom of a dungeon?

“I’ll swear, Your Grace. I’ll beg that God will strike me dead if I utter a word.” The oath was not short, and by the end of it I was thoroughly frightened.

“Now,” said the Archbishop of York, leaning forward in terrifying intimacy and smiling in a way that made me almost certain what he wanted was dishonorable, “now, I want to have you paint a portrait of me, for my own private closet. No one is to know it exists. It is for myself alone.”

Oh, dear, I thought. As if Adam weren’t enough. I was sure he wouldn’t be satisfied with vines or a large lake of water. Well, at least it isn’t an indecent proposal.

“Do you see this material, the weight, the shine of it? Can you paint it?” Wolsey had taken out a sample of crimson silk, glimmering with light, approximately two hands’ breadth in size.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I want you to paint me in profile—the good side, the left, wearing a gown cut as the one I have now, but in this color.” A flood of relief went through me. I can paint anybody dressed.

“Of course I could do that. But why profile?”

“My right eye—I would not have you paint that.”

“If I may beg your pardon, Your Grace, if I can paint you in a gown you are not wearing, I can paint your right eye as fair as your left. Three quarters is very distinguished. It is the new fashion in portraits. Profiles look antique.”

“I doubt that you can paint this in three quarters. This is what I wish upon my head. The same color as the gown.” Now it was all clear. He had brought from his desk drawer an old medallion bearing the profile of some ancient cardinal. It was a cardinal’s hat he wanted painted on his head. In the privacy of his winter nights, he would stare at this picture to gather his ambitions like troops to scale a city wall. He would be cardinal, no matter what.

“Then you wish it like the medallion?”

“Exactly like it.” I began to set out my colors. “I am a busy man,” he said, “I want it done quickly.”

“I’ll begin it here and finish it in the studio,” I said.

“I don’t want you taking it to the studio. Who goes to your studio? I hear travelers make a stop there to see the wonders, these days, exactly as they pay a visit to see Paul’s jacks beat the hour in the steeple clock. No, you’ll stay here until it’s finished, where no one can see you.” Outside the window, there was a rattle of thunder and the sound of battering rain, as if a sluice gate had been opened. I hurried to close the window. Suddenly I was frightened.

“I will need candles, Your Grace, if the clouds make it darker. I can finish before nightfall…I think…”

“If the rain has stopped, I’ll send you home with an escort. If not, you can remain here with your maidservant until it is finished,” he said, folding his hands in his lap and settling his chins while I sketched in the profile on the carnation.

“Hold your head so…yes, that’s the most becoming,” I said, trying to stop him from moving.

“You will need to be packing soon, anyway,” he said.

“Your Grace, what do you mean?”

“Why? Didn’t Tuke or Ashton tell you? I’ve made arrangements for you to travel to France with the Princess Mary’s wedding party. You are to paint a pair of commemorative miniatures for His Majesty and divers portraits of the court of France for my private collection. I have made you a list. Ashton has it. Have you seen the portrait in large of the King of France that Perréal has made? No? Well, we English must show them that we are not backward in the arts. No, not at all. Even our women paint better than Perréal. Are you sure you didn’t see the portrait when you were at Greenwich?”

“Your Grace, I have not yet had the honor of seeing the paintings at Greenwich.”

“Oh—well, then, it must be arranged, it must be arranged, so you will be able to compare them with those of the King of France when you are there. The King of England has asked me what paintings in the new style the King of France possesses. He would have greater ones. Masterpieces. England must not be backward in paintings. You will subtly inquire, so that no one will know, and you will send me an inventory. My agents fail me in this. They write, ‘a fine great nativity,’ but not how great, or in what style, or even who has painted it. Yes. That you will send me. Then our king will have a bigger one, in better style, hanging more favorably. Then, casually, you understand, casually, I will accompany the French envoys on a stroll in the gallery, past the paintings. And when they say, ‘What a provincial, piquant charm this little nativity has. Have you nothing by Leonardo?’ I will know they lie, lie!”

As I painted, I began to wonder about the negotiations with France. Clearly, arranging to marry off a princess was more complicated than I imagined.

“You look downcast. Why do you not rejoice at this honor?” asked the great man.

“Your Grace, it is my pleasure to obey you in all things, but I was thinking what I would do if some French courtier said my paintings had piquant provincial charm.”

The mighty Wolsey chuckled. “I have imagined that myself,” he said. “Let me see the sketch.” Silently, I held up to him the portrait of his secret desire. “Very good,” he said, nodding. I stayed the night, and by the light of the next morning, in a secret chamber, finished the glimmering red and jewels of the secret portrait.

“I have been ordered to escort you home.” I looked up quickly from the basin of water in which I was scrubbing up my brushes and the little mother-of-pearl palette. Robert Ashton stood in the doorway, looking disheveled. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he stared at me with a long, haunted look.

“And what makes you think I want escorting? Especially by a man who has clearly been up all night drinking and even now can scarcely stand? Go back to bed until you can enjoy the day again.”