“Oh, the painter downstairs used to do them before he died. So when Mistress Hull said she needed some more, I obliged.”
“So you were actually two dead painters.”
“I guess so,” I said, sighing regretfully.
“You should be ashamed,” he said.
“I would be, but I hadn’t time for it. It’s not easy, trying to make a living, you know. Everybody says good Christians should care for widows and orphans, but I guess they just overlooked me—and I’m both.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said and looked away. And I knew he wouldn’t be saying more, even though there was more inside. I couldn’t help wondering what it was. But I thought I might know because the edges of his ears turned red in a way that would have been almost endearing except that he was promising to be such an interfering burden in my life.
Gusts of rain blew down Seacole Lane, rattling the house signs and rushing in noisy torrents from the leaden-faced downspouts at the corners of the steep tile roofs. Beneath the overhanging second stories of the houses, a slight man wrapped in a heavy black cloak and hood made his way toward the Saracen’s Head. Hurriedly, he pounded up the outside staircase in the courtyard to a little room under the eaves and threw open the door without knocking.
Maître Bellier sat at a table lit by the feeble light and warmed by the even-feebler heat cast by a charcoal brazier that stood on a tripod in the corner. He was wearing a heavy, fur-lined robe and hat with earflaps. On the table before him lay a series of curious antique medallions, which he was inspecting with the aid of a glass. The room filled with the smell of wet wool as Eustache threw off his long black cloak.
“Well?” said Maître Bellier. “What is the news?”
“I began by making inquiries. This man Crouch is a well-known occultist, given, they say, to the most dangerous practices of diabolism and necromancy.”
“Hmm. Interesting, but not unexpected, given the nature of the manuscript he was in search of.” Bellier’s face was calm, as he inspected the agitated servant who stood before him.
“More to the point, last winter he engaged a dowser called Blind Barnabas, who lived with his widowed daughter, a midwife, in Chicken Lane, to assist him in finding a treasure. Two gentlemen went with him, but Blind Barnabas never came home. He was found with his throat cut the next day, outside the walls, at a building site in the ruins of the Old Temple.”
“Aha, Eustache, our lost treasure. A determined man, this Crouch.” Bellier looked quietly amused.
“Some time later, a roof tile fell mysteriously on this Goodwife Forster, the daughter, and killed her. But not before she had told everything she knew to her gossips, one of whom is called Mistress West, the wife of the proprietor of a sordid tavern in Fleet Lane called, hmm, the Goat and Bottle, I believe.” Eustache rubbed his hands together to warm them at the brazier.
“The two outsiders who knew of his discovery conveniently dead, eh? He might as well have written us a letter saying that he has our book. His tale of sharing it was an invention.” Bellier was now listening intently, his chin sunk in his hand as he thought.
“No, wait, I think not. Two men accompanied him on that midnight expedition from which Blind Barnabas did not return. One was some sort of painter, whom the tavern keeper’s wife knew by sight, since he lived across from her establishment; the other was a lawyer, she thought, but she didn’t know his name. There was a great scandal in the neighborhood when the painter’s corpse, as full of holes as a dovecote, was delivered to his widow by a man who claimed he had been beset by robbers. Shortly thereafter, the lawyer appeared and searched the house, taking away all the furniture, leaving the painter’s widow bereft and lunatic.”
“A charming trio of adventurers,” said Maître Bellier, and an infinitesimal, pale smile crossed his face.
“But wait—a little while after that, the occultist Crouch came and made inquiries, offering to assist the widow, but when he found that the lawyer had taken away everything in the house, he was beside himself with rage.”
“Aha. Then we must find this lawyer. He is the one who has what we want. He obviously got hold of the manuscript when he took possession of the painter’s goods.” Bellier tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. Eustache was so often slow to perceive the obvious.
“That is what I thought, but hear what I have just heard this past hour and you may come to another conclusion. The widow of the painter, the lunatic, has been given a position and pension by Bishop Wolsey, the King’s Almoner and closest advisor, who had, before this time, no previous connection with this family. They were all abuzz with it at the tavern. No one can understand how it happened. They say she must have become his mistress. She has new dresses; her debts are paid; she has bought new furniture…”
“Mon dieu,” whispered Maître Bellier, turning linen white. “This could only happen if she had provided him with something of great value…”
“Or it could be to buy her silence.”
“If that is so, then our worst nightmare is fulfilled. The Church is on the trail of the Secret. Our mortal enemy…We are all dead men when this news reaches Rome…” Bellier stood, bracing himself by placing his hands on the table. They were trembling. To be burned alive for heresy was a fearful fate.
“Master, you must examine all the possibilities logically…”
“Yes, logic, logic…” muttered Maître Bellier, now pacing the room, his eyes desperate. “We must see whether the lawyer experiences a similar turn of fortune. Do we have anyone in Wolsey’s household?”
“No, but we can warn our agent in Rome to watch this Wolsey’s correspondence…”
“Good, good. But wait—the King’s Almoner is an ambitious, worldly man, they say.” Bellier’s face looked suddenly hopeful. “What good would our Secret do him in Rome? None! No, he will serve his king before his Pope. There is a good chance he will keep the Secret to himself, if he has it, and bide his time…” Bellier paused, looking back at where his servant was still trying to warm himself. He was nearly wet through, and shivering. “I want you to discover, Eustache, how much this woman has revealed. Or if, pray God, it is only a carnal relation that brings her this good fortune. Follow her. We must know. In the meantime, I myself will make subtle inquiry about this lawyer. I will pretend to have legal business, perhaps a land title, yes…we may have to end by silencing them all. If it is not too late…”
Ashton sat alone at a narrow scribe’s desk in the antechamber to Bishop Wolsey’s cabinet, his even-featured, pale profile intent on the papers before him. With an oddly precise motion, the quill in his big hand traced across the pages, recopying and then translating annotated drafts of the King’s Almoner’s latest letter to France. A few coals glowed in the grate, and dismal gray light shone through the narrow window onto the page. He paused and with one hand brushed his unruly dark curls back from his forehead. The flickering firelight caught on his intent face. He frowned, bringing his brows together almost across his nose. His whole face managed to look truculent and grief stricken all at once.
Spring, cold and damp, had made his heart melancholy. Once again, it was Master Tuke who had followed Wolsey to the council, but for once Ashton hadn’t minded. He wanted to be alone, to hide his confusion. It was the very season two years past when Mistress Lucas had sent the letter breaking their engagement in favor of a betrothal to a wealthy older neighbor. Putting down his pen, he saw the whole scene again in his mind; still yellow with fever, his future shattered by an Italian crossbow bolt, he had stood in front of her father’s door, to find it barred against him. There on the steps, with the birds singing, he had read the cutting words, penned in simple girl’s handwriting.
“I did not know my own heart well enough,” she said, but then she had listed his faults, so many faults! He could see her father’s hand in that list. He had called him a “little man of no estate.” He ground his teeth with the memory of the insult. His left hand began to draw inward, his fingers folded in, half par
alyzed, as it had been before his recovery. Unconsciously, he unfolded them with his right hand, pushing them straight again. He had willed his hand well again, willed it with pure rage, and the determination to be avenged. Ha! He wished he could show them now the rewards open to the servant of a great man like the bishop. How poorly they had calculated, that ambitious chit and her father. They had made one mistake. A man of intellect can go anywhere. Too bad a humble country esquire wasn’t worthy of being received at the great bishop’s court. He felt aching and feverish, as if the surgeon had cut away the bolt a second time. Damp weather, he ruminated. The damp brings it back.
But something interrupted his annual season of bitter musing. He kept seeing in his mind a freckled face with a smudge of green paint right across the bridge of the nose, and hearing a droll little voice explaining the truths of life out of a book of manners. Just as he had fixated his rage on his memory of the narrow features and neat blonde braids of Mistress Lucas, he could hear someone saying, “I suppose every dancing bear needs a keeper,” and found himself looking down at an oddly sympathetic pair of blue eyes and a buxom little figure tightly laced into solemn black. A curious pain seemed to radiate from his heart. Food poisoning, he thought. It often begins like this. He tried to recall what he had eaten. He hadn’t eaten anything. Not for a day and a half. It must be a different illness. But not food poisoning, after all. Something more dangerous, perhaps. Well, never mind. Maybe a fatal disease was the best way for everything to end, after all. There wasn’t even anyone to feel sorry for him….
She wasn’t neat and well kept, he thought, remembering the random drops of white he’d spotted at the hem of her second-best dress. I can tell at a glance that she’s willful and spoiled. And a widow, too. She’s no innocent. Then he found himself wondering what lay beneath that dress and hated himself for falling into the lures of an undoubtedly practiced temptress. She probably put the paint there on purpose to draw my eye to her ankle, he thought. A deceiver. She is no better than the rest. If anything, worse. A practiced deceiver. At least Mistress Lucas had never deceived anyone before, and you could blame a good bit of it on her greedy parents. But the paintrix was entirely different. A bad character, a liar, a schemer, a climber, and filthy minded, too. First she deceived everyone with that ghost story. Then she and that woman sent me packing, looking for an apprentice that didn’t exist. And just look at how she painted those lurid Adam and Eves and passed them off as the work of a dead man!
But in spite of himself, somewhere inside, a fountain of amusement began to flow. Not one, but two dead men! How did she ever keep it straight? Beneath those innocent-looking blue eyes, her mind must be whirling like the gears in a windmill. She certainly wasn’t dull…Roughly, he pinched off the new feeling. A widow without substance or family—not respectable, not worthy. But wait? Aren’t you playing the hypocrite, using the arguments old Master Lucas used against you? No, it couldn’t be. The facts showed that this woman was just another of the same kind, a user, a shrew with a false, designing front. Only bolder and cleverer than the last one. Again his mind fastened on her, this time on the memory of agile, short-fingered little hands, so neat and careful, but with blue under the nail of the forefinger. And hadn’t he seen a bit of curly, reddish hair escaping from her gabled headdress? That proved it. The woman was trouble; people with that color of hair always are.
Again he picked up the quill and began to write. The smooth, diplomatic phrases soothed his mind. But still something ached and bothered him inside. A touch of fever coming on, he said firmly to himself.
“Master Robert Ashton?” At the sound of the voice, Ashton looked up and saw someone he had dealt with before, a lesser magistrate in one of the courts over which Wolsey presided, who from time to time showed up to cultivate the great man’s favor with a rare coin or ancient medallion for his collection. Quickly, he sprinkled sand across his work, dried it, and put it away in a drawer before he looked up and answered.
“Good day, Sir Septimus. May I be of assistance? What brings you here?”
“Ah, Master Ashton, busy, busy as usual. What admirable devotion to duty!” Crouch’s eyes had an oddly malicious glitter. “I have found a little oddity or two that might interest the bishop. I would be most grateful if you would bring it to his attention that I have a rare Byzantine medallion to offer for sale. The profile is exceptionally well preserved. The next audience—could you assure me a place?” Ashton nodded silently. “Ah, delightful. I knew I could count on you. But, Master Ashton, why so grim and silent? I hear your latest assignment is delicious. Looking after a randy widow, what could be a more pleasing task for a young man like yourself? Have you got under her skirts yet?” Ashton drew his mouth into a disapproving line. Another simpleton, thought Crouch. He has betrayed himself. He wants her. And I have him.
“Word of my disgrace seems to get around quickly these days,” Ashton said. Crouch smiled. And now, a double purpose. Dig out a bit of information and plant the poison. He will come running to me with his confidences, and in the end, I will discover to whom she has sold it through him.
“Ah, my boy, gossip travels on wings. But all will soon be mended. It’s really just a backhanded recognition of your talent. There will be more and better to come after this, I am sure, knowing the Bishop as well as I do…”
Ashton looked up at him, pleased and almost grateful at the praise.
“But tell me, since you have dealings with her now, has the widow offered any little rarities for sale? Say, an old manuscript or some other antique treasure? I am always on the lookout for things of that sort.”
“She doesn’t seem like a collector. Her rooms are very bare.” Interesting, thought Crouch. Does she know its value, so she has it hidden, or has Ludlow got his hands on it?
“Ah, but her husband was. He possessed a number of rare treasures. Enough to keep a widow comfortably, if she could free herself from him before he poured it away on other women.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ashton, and Crouch smiled knowingly, leaning close to the young man’s troubled face.
“Why, dear boy, we are men of the world. How does a clever, vengeful woman get rid of a husband who troubles her? She sends an anonymous letter to the husband of his mistress, and the next day, the husband’s murdered body is found in the street.” With pleasure, Crouch watched Ashton turn pale. Well, well, he was falling in love with her, he thought. How fortunate I got here in time. Proximity would have done its work, and the manuscript would have been beyond my grasp. Young men, so predictable, so inflammable, so simple. A few more little confidences, and I will own him, too. “You seem upset. Live as long as I have, Master Ashton, and you will see that there is no end to the deceptions practiced by women. Look at history! The evils of the world have been brought about by temptresses: Eve, Helen, Messalina. Beautiful forms hide evil hearts.” Pleased with the effect he’d caused, he watched Ashton shudder. “Don’t blame yourself, my boy,” he added, his voice oozing confidence. “We have all been shipwrecked by the Siren call at one time or another. It is a grief no man escapes. It is through pain that the Lord would instruct us.”
“I’ve been blind. It was right in front of me all the time. And I thought I was so perceptive,” Ashton whispered, almost to himself. He looked as if something had cracked inside. His shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head, turning it away so Crouch could not see his face. Crouch beamed and put his arm around the crushed younger man.
“Don’t be ashamed to weep, my young friend. It is women who bring us to this pass. Remember, you always have a friend in me.” Crouch was a man who delighted in creating human wreckage. But this job was so simple it almost failed to please him. What was a single man? The destruction of a family was better, and to bring down a dynasty a worthy challenge. Yes, I’ll soon have the rest of that book back, he thought with satisfaction as he summoned a page at the front door to call his servant and fetch his mule.
Within the week I went to Bridewell to attend my new patro
n like all his other courtiers. The good part was that it was not so very far from our house, so I did not have to get up early in the cold, and also that they had very good food in the bishop’s kitchen. What with all the comings and goings on estate business, church business, and the king’s business, the house was always abuzz with visitors and knights and foreigners and priests and musicians and servants going to and fro carrying things. So I just fit right in as one more novelty except that people came to annoy me by staring as I worked and also some big hunting hounds with brass-studded collars started following me about because that’s how it was with me and dogs.
My first portraits were a kind of test because I think they still weren’t sure it was really I who did the paintings I had showed the bishop. Everybody came to inspect the things I brought out from my box that Nan carried, even Master Ashton, looking all pale, with dull, red-rimmed eyes, as if he were coming down with the ague. Well, you crowd, just watch this bear dance, I thought. You’re going to see something.
But the surprise was that Mistress Dorothy and Master Thomas Winter were children, and it made me very impressed to see that the bishop was such a good Christian as to give such kindly care to two orphans even to having their portraits taken, which is far more than the Bible says, I am sure. I began with Mistress Dorothy because she was quieter and less fidgety, and I did want to make a good impression. Then all those nosy liverymen and knights and priests goggled while Nan helped me put on my silk smock and exclaimed over the tininess of my brushes and my strokes as if they had never seen a miniature taken. But I just painted on without paying them any attention and didn’t even notice the time pass.
“Aren’t you done yet?” I could hear Master Ashton’s voice behind me as I was rinsing out my brushes. His ague had certainly made him surly. Maybe I’d been mistaken in what I had thought I’d seen in him. His eyes weren’t full of interesting hidden thoughts anymore. They were dull and hard. His face seemed like a mask.
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 15
