The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (41 page)

“My lord, your horse armor is not large enough for him,” said the master of the horse.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Belphagor. “I told you they can’t be killed.”

The duke had a sudden shudder of superstitious awe. What on earth had he bargained for? What was the source of the mysterious inspiration he had had? What were the two big black things, anyway? Horses, just horses, he said to himself, shaking off the mood, and sure enough, there they were, contentedly taking a handful of grain from a stable boy’s palm. This is for the honor of the king, my master, he said firmly to himself. He would not go creeping back to Henry the Eighth a failure. The negotiations for the secret treaty were going hard. The old king wanted money, he seemed devious and wary. With his gray-white face, his wheeze, his slow and deliberate language, he was stifling and frustrating to deal with. The tourney, on the other hand, was refreshing. Francis’s trickery, to the degree that it had been explained to him, seemed easier to deal with than the old king’s craft. It was straightforward and French. He, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, would conquer by force of arms. He would cover the French with humiliation. Just thinking of it, he breathed hard and clenched the muscles in his massive jaw. He didn’t care what he was riding. They were damned good horses.

Above him the little cherub laughed aloud and clapped his tiny pink hands. The wicked trick was all the fault of the demon Belphagor. Hadriel couldn’t blame him, even if he found out. He hadn’t broken the rules at all. “Three for five,” he shouted happily, as he shot away from the duke’s pavilion as swiftly as an arrow.

“Bandage it heavier,” said Duke Francis. “I can’t be seen watching unless the bandage is visible from the stands.” His surgeon obligingly added another wrapping of white linen and a dark silk sling.

“There, my lord. You must be careful to hold it thus, to avoid engorging it with blood and attracting ill humors.”

“Exactly,” agreed Francis. “In this moment I would avoid ill humors.” He laughed. A boy held his white palfrey outside. With great content he mounted and ambled to the lists. There carnage was being done in foot combat. Damn, he thought, the slain are all French. We must do something about that. Even behind the barrier all the way across the field, he could feel the eyes of the ladies on him. One waved her handkerchief. He just knew that they were saying, “What a hero. Why, even wounded, he would not fail to appear to direct the queen’s tourney. What a fine figure of a man.” There was his sister. There was his mother. There was his ugly little wife. There was his king, and the English princess who had become queen. God, look at that ape, Suffolk, ride up at full gallop, stop so fast he splattered mud in every direction, and then bow until his plumes brushed the saddle! And his horse was unarmed. He must be very sure he would unseat his opponent without a struggle. This time, Suffolk, you will get what’s coming to you.

There was a great cheer from the stands. The French challenger, astride a mighty gray stallion from Francis’s own stable, came and made his bow. Seated, the German’s immense size was not easy to discern. Wait until he dismounts to finish off Suffolk, thought Francis. Then they will see something. But the two knights had closed their helms and were rattling down the field directly at each other. There was a crash as both lances landed square on the mark, and a terrible squealing of horses as the gray went down. But the huge man in the French surcoat had kicked aside the stirrup, and as the gray struggled to rise, then sank again, he managed to dismount. Well done, thought Francis, who had seen many a man killed beneath a falling horse, unable to disentangle himself from the high, embracing jousting saddle.

Suffolk had thrown aside his shattered lance. So far, the match was his. There was a roar from the French in the stands as the challenger stood. Suffolk looked as he dismounted to face him on foot and saw the reason. The man was a giant. That’s no Frenchman, thought Suffolk, as they advanced on each other with drawn swords. He could feel his rage rising. It was as if, through the slits in his helm, he could only see the world washed in red. Rage drove him; he could hardly feel the blows that passed his guard. He was too furious to use the stroke from below for which his opponent had prepared so assiduously. Shouting his battle cry, he smashed past his opponent’s parries, landing blow after blow. The man stumbled and fell. “Stop!” came the cry, and he saw that blood was gushing from his opponent’s helm. Then the man was surrounded by French esquires, and he could hear Francis shouting in the background, “Get him off the field before they open his helm.”

No Frenchman, thought Suffolk as he stepped past the dying gray stallion and saluted his queen, giving the victory to her and to England. He could see her face was flushed with excitement. Ah, good, he thought. She will give a good report of me to my king, her brother. A faint flutter of regret passed briefly through his triumphant heart. There was a time when he had thought he might approach her, but now she was as far above him as the sun in heaven. But I shall have her favor, he thought. He looked again at her admiring eyes. Yes, definitely, her favor. It made the triumph double.

Twenty-two

N
OW
that I was in Paris, I made a plan to improve myself by trying to see the important works of art that were in the king’s palaces and in the churches of the city, and make copies where I could of the work most excellently made. But it was not always easy because women aren’t allowed everywhere and Nan said my plan of sneaking into the priory of Saint Magloire dressed as a man was a bad idea and she wouldn’t allow it at all, and besides, she would tell on me, which wasn’t fair. But the palace of Les Tournelles is a school for any artist lucky enough to be in the city of Paris, for there are valuable paintings in nearly every room. In the chapel among the rare carvings and statues are ancient devotional works by now-anonymous masters, gilded and without depth, in the antique style. Then there are the paintings of hunts and mythological scenes and the portraits of long-dead kings that hang in the long galleries.

The good word of Marguerite, the Duchesse d’Alençon, got me access to many of the rooms that might otherwise be closed to me, and also to her private collection, which included a book of portrait drawings of her friends, mostly made in the atelier of the master Jean Clouet, who had the biggest portrait studio in Paris, and with his many assistants and apprentices was busy all the time. Luckily for me he did not know the secrets of painting in small, which I kept for myself. It was easier because I was a woman and people thought it was some kind of instinct or magic, and not from hard studying.

Not only did I learn much from studying all these different paintings and drawings, but some of them cheered me up because they were really awful, even if they were famous. That made up for the ones that made me despair of ever equaling them, like some of the new ones from Italy. Besides, it turned out that the king did not have a Leonardo. That was just talk. He had a copy of a Virgin with angels, but I could tell from the composition that this Italian painter was a real master and probably had seen angels himself because one of them looked rather a lot like Hadriel.

Also, I had not forgotten Archbishop Wolsey’s command to send him a list of what the King of France had on display, so I was making the list but was not very far on it yet. True, Wolsey had never paid me any part of that fifteen pounds a year he had promised, but that is the artist’s lot. At least he had given me plenty of business, especially by sending me into France, and some of those people had paid me, and since I was thrifty, I still had money in my purse. Besides, the names of my high clients were useful in getting materials on credit, which is especially hard for a woman. That is how it is with those who serve the great. First you have to borrow to get the materials to deliver what they want, and then everyone is in debt to everyone else and waiting for payment, which may or may not come someday when the great lord or lady remembers it. But now I was better off than before because I had free meals with the English servants of the queen as well as a studio with the rent paid ahead by the Duchess Marguerite and the prospect of a handsome fee from the Duchess Claude when her angels were done.

So it was that I was busy in the long gallery just after Saint Nicholas Day looking at a painting of King Charles the Seventh’s mistress as the Holy Virgin in a scandalous state of undress done by that Maître Jean Fouquet they all spoke so highly of. It was when I was thinking that if he’d known more about female anatomy, he wouldn’t have painted her right breast in the shape of a large cannonball practically on her shoulder, that I heard footsteps behind me in the gallery. Nan was dozing out of pure boredom on a bench, with her mending almost sliding off her lap, and a couple of ugly cats had come to rub their heads on my skirts as if I could give them something to eat, which I couldn’t. I had my magnifying glass in my hand to look at the brushstrokes on the draperies, and my attention was very concentrated, so I didn’t look around.

“Not as undressed as
The Temptation of Eve
and not as pink, either,” said a voice behind me. Outside, the rain was rattling on the lead roofs, pouring down the steep towers in sheets. The long gallery was cold and stank of urine. I turned and saw Robert Ashton standing there, in a damp gray cloak, as thin and pale as a ghost.

“Master Ashton! They told me you were dead, and then I saw Tom, and he said you had lived. But…but I thought you’d gone back to England.”

“They told me I’d find you here.” Ashton came closer, and I could see that he limped. He looked wan and frail, and his eyes were sunken in dark circles. He could have been a ghost, except that he made my heart jump. I wanted him to embrace me again; I wanted to put my arms around him, but there was something in him that said I couldn’t. And oh, he was thin. I felt the strangest urge coming over me. The urge to feed him. Joints and cheese and heavy English ale and thick pottage laden with parsnips and onions and carrots came all unbidden to my mind. I was never much of a cook, but I could feel it all rising inside me. He needed feeding up.

“Tom is a good boy. He stayed with me, when I…he stayed. We talked. You were right. There was a man who did murder, and he is one that I knew and whose word I trusted. I trust him no more. Did you know that Tom was in love with you?” That odd gesture again, the stiffened shoulder, the nervous unrolling of one hand with the other.

“Always. But I didn’t lead him on. I knew he’d grow out of it and find someone more suitable.” Ashton paused, as if thinking.

“While I was…lying ill…they gave me up, you know…while I was at Calais, one thing haunted me. There is something I must hear from you alone. Then I’ll go and not bother you again. How did…how did your husband pass from this life?” What was wrong with him? He looked as if he had some disease of the soul. Why come so far, to ask a thing like that once more, a thing he already knew? Had I just imagined the magic of that night before we left Dover? Was it just some wistful dream hatched of solitude and disappointment?

“Master Dallet was murdered in bed with another man’s wife. Why do you want to bring up old things that cause me pain?”

“I need to know…how the husband knew to return home at that very instant.”

“You mean that Captain Pickering? That I never knew myself until later. Someone sent him a letter. I found out from Sir Septimus Crouch that it was a man called Ludlow—a dreadful carrion crow of a lawyer who wanted to get his hands on something my husband had and wouldn’t give him.”

“Ludlow. And Crouch. Jesus! It fits. It all fits. You didn’t rejoice when he died?”

“Rejoice? My God, you think that? What do you imagine me to be? A ghoul? He left me without a penny, and I found the man his funeral money. Ask anyone! He was buried like a gentleman, even if he did live like a whoremaster.
I
did it! I paid his debts with my parents’ wedding bed, which they died on! What do you imagine I did? Carouse in some tavern with all the money he left me? Every penny, every gift, went to his mistress!
She
had a fine big son who looked like him, and
I
had a dead baby! Ask Nan what he left me! Nothing! Less than nothing! Everything I have, every debt was paid, with the arts my father taught me. He took everything and left me with nothing. And I was married in church with God’s blessing! Where was God’s blessing then?” I burst into tears, and he stepped back, aghast.

What with all this shouting in English, Nan woke up with a start, and her mending dropped on the floor. The cats went and hid in the gallery fireplace, which was piled with wood, but unlit. Ashton’s face had turned sheet white, and his jaw dropped.

“Your father taught you?”

“Of course. He was a great master. How do you think I learned? Out of the air? Do you take me for a freak? Master Dallet only married me to find out my father’s secrets when he wouldn’t sell them. Once he had become great with my father’s wisdom, he left Nan and me to starve.”

“Wrong. I was wrong on every count,” I could hear him mutter to himself, as he shook his head. He seemed torn between fleeing and speaking. I suddenly realized that whatever it was he believed about me, it was far worse than being Wolsey’s doxy, which in itself was insulting enough.

“What was it you heard? Who told you?” He hesitated a long time before he answered.

“Sir Septimus Crouch. He…he said…you’d sent the letter.” He hung his head down. I was cold all the way to my heart.

“That monster,” I whispered. “That lying monster.”

I remembered him now, all disheveled and crazy. I remembered Crouch, standing by his side, so confidential and cozy. I thought of his fits and starts, his silences, the way he watched me when I was in company. He must have been in love then, maybe always, as much as Tom. But what kind of love is it that hurries to believe the worst? Bad love. He looked at my face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not your minder anymore, so I’ve no right to speak. I’ll go now. I’ll write to Wolsey about you. I’ve been put on another task anyway….” Stiff and pale, he turned and limped away.

“Master Ashton, you stop now!” said Nan, barring his way. “You should be ashamed.”

“I am.” I could hear his voice respond, even though it was low.

“And proud, too. Too proud to see what you’ve done to my darling. Turn around and look at her face, you selfish man.” He looked over his shoulder, but I couldn’t see him very well, on account of the blurriness caused by the tears. It was so stupid standing there in that cold, urine-soaked gallery, and sobbing so; the rain was crying down out of the cold, gray sky, and my face was all wet and my heart broken open in a hundred places and dripping away all my joy. It all matched, me and nature, which is not original. As a work of art, it should have been better composed.

“You’ve made too much of a mess to walk away without a word. You haven’t the right,” Nan said firmly. He stopped. “Oh, I always knew you were no good for her. Do you think I didn’t try to keep you apart? But since you’re here, I expect you to make good on what you’ve done. You go back. You go back now and make it right with her, or I swear, my ghost will haunt you until the end of your days.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“You mean, you can’t make it right with
you
,” said Nan. “But you owe it to her to make it right with her. You apologize, and beg forgiveness, as Our Lord says you must do, before you just dance off into a cloud of self-pity and start preening yourself for being such a tragical, lonely figure.” He looked shocked and horrified.

“You know I’m right, don’t you! Let me say this. I may be old, Master Ashton, but I am not stupid. Speak now, before you lose your chance forever.” The gallery seemed very long at that moment. The uneven sound of his boots as he limped the length of it seemed to echo unnaturally in the silence. Outside, the rain gusted against the stone wall and roared like waterfalls from the mouths of the gargoyle rainspouts.

“Mistress…Dallet. I believed…what no man of honor…should believe of a woman…I…I beg your forgiveness,” he said.

“I never would have done such a thing. You were wicked to believe it….” I rubbed my knuckles in my eyes, but they just wouldn’t quit being wet.

“Susanna, you have not forgiven. You must.” Nan’s voice was firm. Just as when I was ten years old, and my brother, Felix, spoiled my drawing of the Virgin, just because it was better than his. I didn’t forgive for a whole week. But then he grew ill, and after I forgave him, he died, and things were never the same. I should have forgiven sooner, even though I didn’t want to. I looked at Master Ashton’s pale face. He didn’t like apologizing either. He would rather make excuses for himself. So would I. He could die. We all could die. Life is no good with a hard heart.

“Master Ashton, you are…forgiven. I forgive you.”

“I
truly
forgive you,” prompted Nan. I could see a little spark of something, something faded but humorous, in Master Ashton’s hazel eyes. The gray light from the window picked up a hidden chestnut tint in his dark brown curls. He’s one, too, I thought suddenly.

“Did she have to do this often, when she was small?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Nan.

“So did I,” he said in a small voice.

“Two of a kind,” said Nan. “It’s the hair.”

“My hair is
not
red, Nan, only a little gingery.”

“And mine is really brown. A dark brown, almost black, if you look at it right. Not red a bit,” said Robert Ashton. I couldn’t help smiling. I touched his curls.

“Your hair’s caught fire, then,” I said.

“And how long has yours been smoldering?” he asked, running a finger along one of those little bits I can never get to stay under my headdress.

“Since birth, Master Ashton, since birth,” announced Nan.

“Do you always have to be right, Nan?” I asked.

“Always. Who is older and wiser?”

“You,” said Robert Ashton and I together, and Nan nodded happily.

“Mistress Dallet, may I have your permission to pay you court? I am only a younger son, without prospects. I inherited ten pounds and a horse when my father died, but the horse died and the money is spent. I rise no further in the archbishop’s service because Brian Tuke blocks my way. Say yes or say now that you scorn me, and let me go. I will feel none the worse for it. I have been scorned by ambitious women before, and I am hardened.”

“Master Ashton, I have only the work of my hands as my dowry, and should any man take my work from me, then he shall have no marriage portion at all. Consider that, before you pay me your addresses, if they be honorable. And remember that for all your wicked imaginings I am a reputable widow, and will accept no dishonorable propositions.”

“Then I fear we are well matched, in fortune as well as hair.”

“In hair? Never,” said I. “But as for fortune, I have never bothered much about that. God makes our fortunes.”

“Then you are different from all the women in the world, for which difference I am grateful,” he said.

“Then I take it you still plan to address your suit to me?”

“I do, for as long as it takes to convince you that I am not a hateful villain and a gossip. I rue the day I ever let that odious Septimus Crouch twist my mind with his venomous calumnies.”