The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  But the hardest part of a painting is getting the money for it, which never gets any easier no matter how many pictures you make. So many people are tricky and they think the painting is already painted, so too bad, you’ll have to take what they offer, or maybe wait, or risk getting nothing, and have to bear the cost of the materials. That is why princely patrons are best, because they are not cheap. Also, always try to get an advance, even from princes.

  Four

  THE light had already failed by the time the Frenchmen returned. They were heavily muffled, well armed, and had brought a third man with them, who was incognito in the Italian fashion, in a black velvet mask that covered his entire face beneath his wide, plain hat brim. But the soft leather cuffs of his tall boots were turned back to show red silk linings, and I caught the shine of gold embroidery embellished with seed pearls beneath a brief, inadvertent opening of his black cloak. A man of higher rank than the first two, I thought. Their master. And he must not be known to have been here.

  The first two men set down their lanterns on the bedroom table. Apart from the glow of the lanterns, the room was lit only by firelight. Master Dallet always resented money spent on candles because he had plenty of them when he attended his great patrons and why pay extra for such expensive things at home? Now that he was dead, I was beginning to understand that he did not regard his home as a haven of peace from the cares and false snares of the world. The snares of the world were all he had ever wanted and his haven of peace got in the way. It made me very sad because if you cannot trust The Good Wyfe’s Book of Manners, then what can you trust? Now here I was having strange men in at odd hours and going very far from right things, which shows what happens when you get started on wrong paths. All I could think about was how I intended to be very bold and cover everything up so they couldn’t talk down the price.

  The red, flickering light from the hearth cast great, black shadows that loomed like giants behind the strange men and seemed very frightening. But I was very firm because right is always on the side of widows who need money.

  “Madame Dolet, has it been possible for your husband to finish the painting today?” asked the Frenchman who had first given the commission, the one who spoke better English.

  “Yes, he has it finished. He has entrusted me with the sale, since he has been invited across town on an important commission. Would you like to inspect it now?” I answered him in English, the same language in which he had addressed me.

  “Curious to leave only a wife here,” said the second Frenchman, in French, to the masked man. “It must be a very important commission, indeed. Still, it seems you have not wasted your trip, after all.”

  “I would have said it was impossible to have it finished this quickly—I won’t accept it if the quality is poor,” he answered in the same language. Then in heavily accented English, he addressed me: “Show me the portrait.” I lit a rushlight in the fire and led them into the studio.

  “Here it is, my lord,” I said, handing him the closed case. “You may wish to inspect it closer to the fire. I don’t want to risk spotting it.” I held the sputtering, grease-dipped rush well away from the little case. The lord sat down on the bench by the fire and opened the case. I could hear him take in his breath as the firelight illuminated the little image in the turned wooden case.

  “It is a speaking likeness,” he said in French. “More exquisite than the original. It shows her exactly as I have seen her, even her character.” The man in the mask chuckled knowingly. “Madame can ask for no better.” He studied the portrait again. “Still…how was this done so quickly? Had she a copy made for a lover? Or perhaps the painter had made another to sell to some interested party…” He seemed to be talking to himself, thinking. I let my face look stupid, as if I did not understand him. The second Frenchman, the shorter one, turned to me and said in English:

  “Tell me, did your husband have this already made up?” Oh, dear, who knows what troublesome rumor could come back to haunt us? Why hadn’t I thought of that before? It just goes to show how one little deception about a body hidden in the house can lead to all sorts of other things you might never have thought about. And after all, it is really important to look after the honor of your dead husband if you wish to be considered respectable as a widow and not unworthy of concern due to being connected with a wicked person.

  “My husband is a man of honor. He would never do such a thing. I told him all about your princely offer last night, and he worked on it all day. It’s for the sake of his son that’s to be born, you know.” Now that he was dead, it was much easier to imagine him as a more considerate husband. “He was overcome with joy when he found I was bearing a child. It was the answer to his prayers, his candles burned before the Virgin at Saint Vedast. Oh, he was a pious man, for all that he put on an easy, affable front for his great clients.” Did I imagine that I saw one of them shudder?

  But the great lord turned to me and asked, his voice at once stunned and curious, “Did you see him paint it?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered. “He sat here all day, quiet as a ghost, just working. I didn’t dare disturb him. He didn’t even touch his meal. When he was done, he just vanished, without even taking leave. He is so busy these days.” At this, even the lord stiffened slightly and seemed to turn pale beneath his mask.

  “Tell the woman to tell her husband that this is a masterpiece and well worth the fee he asked,” the lord said in French. He nodded at the shorter man, who told me the same thing in English and produced a purse.

  “I’ll be happy to tell him of your distinguished judgment, my lord. He will be most grateful for your opinion,” I answered. Clutching the money and scarcely daring to breathe, I curtseyed, all ungainly, in farewell.

  “Tell no one about this painting, or by whom it was purchased,” said the short Frenchman with the better English. Was it warning, or fear, or perhaps both, that I heard in his voice?

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” But as Nan showed them to the door, I stood by the fire, wondering why they had not asked me to tell Master Dallet that he must be silent, too? Their heavy boots creaked on the narrow stair. I could hear the front door bang shut behind them. There was the sound of clatter and company rising from the widow’s kitchen downstairs. I thought it must be very amusing company, from the way she was carrying on and giggling and shrieking like some girl instead of a proper old widow who likes disasters.

  I was just hiding the money when I heard Nan shushing them at the foot of the stair. “She’s in a terrible, terrible way. Prostrate with grief. Poor little lamb, so innocent, to see such dreadful things. Why, the sight of it nearly killed her on the spot.” Nan was talking very loudly even for Nan, so I took it as a sign that she was warning me about someone who might be coming up and catching me gloating over money instead of lying in bed like a martyr. So I tucked the money under the straw beneath the featherbed and got into bed and pulled the covers up over my neck so whoever it was wouldn’t see that I was really dressed and deceiving him. I felt especially guilty about deceiving and conspiring when I saw that Nan had brought in a holy person who might well see through all my wickedness—that is, a friar, except that he was fat and out of breath and he had been drinking downstairs, so he might not see through anything.

  “Master Pickering’s confessor, Mistress Dallet,” Nan said hastily, so I’d make no mistakes. “Brother Thomas has come on behalf of the captain.” I could see him looking around our little rooms, which were all darkish and sort of pitiful without candles because rushlights always look so cheap.

  “Oh, Brother Thomas,” I said faintly, “please forgive me if I don’t rise. I have been ill, and am afraid of losing the child.” I really did feel exhausted, and my belly felt all in knots which might have been labor pains but I really didn’t know for sure.

  “Oh, never, never,” he said, looking flustered. “Don’t risk the child. You must stay just as you are.”

  “You are so understanding. Heaven bless you, good friar,” I a
nswered, all soft and weak so he’d be sure to know I was ill from grief and be sorry. Brother Thomas looked unsure of what to do. The only bench was by the fire. So he sat on the edge of the bed, looking nervous, as if I might tempt him to sin which was in fact the farthest thing from my mind.

  “I cannot even describe Captain Pickering’s distress on hearing of your difficulties. Since it was he who first discovered the dreadful accident to your distinguished husband, he takes your own loss almost as if it were his own—” Aha, I thought, you saw the great lords leave and now you are dying to know what they were here for in case they were good friends with designs of vengeance. Well, you should be worried—after all, Captain Pickering didn’t just go and murder a nobody. And he had the gall to deliver the corpse that way—with the arrogance of a lord. I imagine he’s sorry now.

  “How noble of him,” I said, making my voice sound ever so weak and frail.

  “He consulted with me at length concerning the biblical texts on the assistance of widows—”

  “Most devout of him—”

  “—and he has sent this purse to assist you and your unborn child in your hour of need.”

  “How truly charitable of him to take an interest in assisting the unfortunate victims of fate.”

  “He is a good Christian, unwavering in his duty.”

  “But, blessed Brother Thomas,” I murmured through my pale, bloodless lips, “one thing still causes me great agony. Oh, dear God, is that another pain I feel? Just one thing—”

  “What is it, Mistress Dallet?”

  “The funeral. I am too weak to make the arrangements. I can’t bear the thought of Master Dallet being shamed by a poor funeral. He’ll need candles and a coffin—” Brother Thomas looked alarmed. Did you think I’d let you off so easily? You’re not throwing a purse to me and walking out of here, you hypocrite. “I want a lead-lined one—carved—in good taste—no cheap material. Master Dallet was a distinguished court painter, after all.”

  “A coffin, well, yes, a coffin.”

  “You’ll need to send notice to the Painter-Stainers’ hall, to tell the wardens that he’ll be needing the funeral pall. And the procession—he needs more than just the liverymen—a man of his stature must have at least six hired mourners—”

  “Surely, one or two—”

  “Four. How could you even mention two? Two—so shabby—oh, I feel so grieved, the pain just won’t go away. Oh, the pain—it’s just shooting through me at the thought of only two mourners.”

  “Four mourners,” he said, sighing.

  “I need two lengths of black wool, ten yards each, for mourning dress.”

  “Mourning dress, yes, I suppose that is needed. Is that all?” His pale blue eyes, buried deep in his round, red face, began to look at me with a strange new sense of appreciation.

  “Oh, oh, what is it? Yes? Oh, I feel so weak. Ah, now I remember. A memorial brass—not so large as to be vulgar. My poor, dear husband. How ghastly he looked! He must have an engraved brass at Saint Vedast.”

  “Understood—” Looking at his face, I couldn’t resist.

  “With a verse. The finest brasses have verses. Perhaps by you? Some fitting tribute, for the sake of his grieving wife.”

  “A verse seems excessive. They charge by the letter—”

  “A motto, then? Something appropriate.”

  “Why not ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’?” said Brother Thomas, his large red face bland, but his voice ironic.

  “And what is that, my dear Brother Thomas? Latin? Is it sufficiently pious? Oh, my goodness, I wouldn’t want my pains to start again.”

  “Indeed. It means that Art lives much longer than our frail, sinful lives.” A lot longer than you imagine, I thought, reflecting on Master Dallet’s future posthumous career in the religious painting business.

  “That would be perfect,” I answered. “Master Dallet would be pleased, if he could know.”

  “I’m sure he would,” agreed Friar Thomas, rising from where he sat on the end of the bed.

  “Thank you for this visit of consolation, Friar Thomas,” I said, in my best fragile-sounding voice.

  “Blessings be on you and your house, Mistress Dallet,” he said, backing cautiously toward the door, his eyes never wavering from my face. Suddenly he said, “He never understood what he had, did he? A man should put more value on a wife who is as determined as she is shrewd, and as shrewd as she is virtuous. Never fear, Mistress Dallet, I will personally make sure that the inscription is quite elegant enough to uphold your honor.”

  Really not a bad man, I thought, as I heard him puffing down the stairs. And what an interestingly colored face. Very little massicot and more red lead in the carnation, the first shadings of the features in red, the blue of the eye very pale, a most curious contrast…

  “Tap, tap!” cried Widow Hull, in place of knocking at the open door. “Come in,” I called from the bed, where Nan and I were counting the contents of the purse that the holy friar had left behind him. Quickly Nan put away the purse under the straw in the bed next to all that other money, as the widow came in with her candle. “My, you do look awful,” she said cheerfully, holding her light up to inspect my features. Her daughter was behind her, holding a soup tureen, which she set on our table. “I thought you might not be cooking tonight, so we’ve brought what’s left from supper—that is, what I managed to hide from that hungry friar.”

  “You certainly sound cheerful,” said Nan.

  “And why shouldn’t I be? He scattered money about him like a gentleman. And interesting! Why, he goes every day to Saint Paul’s to hear what’s new. What a tale he can tell! How the great Wolsey schemes every day to be made a cardinal, and that the queen in France is now dead, and she without a son, and a most marvelous storm that—oh, and they say women are gossips! You should have seen his face when I told him that those were great gentlemen upstairs, who had come to inquire after Master Dallet. Then I showed him how nicely I had laid out Master Dallet in the buttery, with two candles, and very expensive ones, I might add, all to keep his master’s wicked secret, and he vowed to have him out of here and buried tomorrow, and I said just as well, even in this cold weather, he won’t keep much longer. Oh, yes—a man of the world—What’s this? You aren’t eating?” I had just turned away the bowl of soup that Nan had offered.

  “I don’t feel well. Tell me, what are labor pains like?”

  “You’ll know ’em when you have ’em. That’s something no woman has to ask about. Goodness, your eyes look swollen—I thought you’d been crying for the good friar’s benefit. Let’s see your hand. That’s swollen, too—just look at how that ring cuts into the finger! Tell me, do you have headaches?”

  “Ever so many. How did you know?”

  “Never mind, I know what I know.” Nan looked troubled. “Oh, don’t carry on so,” said the widow to her. “I just want her to look after these talented little hands. Girls shouldn’t fill their heads with worries when they’re expecting. Now, you must try to eat a bit. Send the tureen down later.” But I could hear Nan and the widow whispering at the door.

  “It doesn’t look good for that child, does it?” said Nan.

  “She will be lucky if she loses it now. I know the signs. The infant is poisoning her.” The widow’s voice sank lower. “I lost my oldest girl that way. Newly wed, newly dead. We buried her in her wedding shift.”

  “Should I call Goody Forster?”

  “It’s too late. There’s nothing for it.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Pray, Mistress Littleton, pray with all your might that that girl comes through safe, or we’ll all be on the street.” My head was splitting. One foot felt as if it wished to twitch and jump of its own accord. Was that one of the signs? How dreadful, how unfair. Death, you deceiver. Mother had only felt a little fever, and then the sweating sickness came and took her away and Father, too, only a week later. Who would have thought it, when only a few months before they had been planning my wedding
feast? I could still see Mother in my mind, giving orders to the pastry cooks and serving women in their white aprons who swarmed into our little house, setting down the extra dishes and platters among the drying canvases in Father’s workroom. And then there was Father, his graying hair uncombed, wandering around all grumpy while he surveyed the preparations, for once in his life, useless. Their only comfort was that I was safely wedded to Master Dallet, who said he was rich and promised to take care of me like a queen. And now Death had come again, this time in the form of a baby, making my ankles as thick as tree trunks and my face coarse and swollen in the mirror so that I wouldn’t even look beautiful on my bier and make people sorrow at the great tragedy of it all. No fair, no fair, dying ugly.

  I didn’t want to die. My whole body said it wanted to be alive. I looked into the growing dark and saw a terrible shadow thing, all naked, clammy and cold pressing down on my chest, heavy with wickedness. Then it seemed that it had a very ugly face which peered down into my eyes intently and also long, bony fingers which were very ugly. Even though it was only a vision from fever it seemed very real, and it had greedy little red eyes as if it wanted something I didn’t want to give it.

  Silently, in my mind, with all the strength my soul owned, I cried out, Help me. My eyes seemed to see things all blurry. Through the headache, I could hear the blood in my ears, and a curious rustling sound. There was a flash of light like the glint on armor. Something strong and fierce had come into the room. The shadow thing boiled ragefully above me at it, and I swear I could see the bed curtains, which were pulled back, sway and blow with the hidden tempest. I felt mortally tired, and as my eyes closed to welcome death, something said, We’re here. No, you’re not, I answered in my mind. Nobody’s left here but me and Nan and black, shrouded death. Nobody.