The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “Work is not done until the tools are put away,” I said, which is what my father always said when I wanted to leave things and play.

  “I hear you put away things very well indeed.” His voice sounded bitter. Well, Susanna, I thought, once again you let yourself be misled by a pair of interesting eyes. You just imagined you saw a light glinting in them, because you wanted to.

  “Good brushes are a lot of work to make. I don’t want them spoiled for no reason at all.”

  “You made them?” His voice softened, curious. Watch yourself, Susanna. Quit imagining. I found myself looking at his big hands. Like bear paws.

  “Of course. They aren’t found on the lawn after a heavy rain, like mushrooms, you know.” Words put a wall between us. Bears can be dangerous, after all.

  “They seem well done…practiced.”

  “Of course. I made my father’s brushes. I made all my husband’s brushes, too. I suppose that’s why he married me. It saved the cost of an apprentice.” He shuddered, though I didn’t know why. Since darkness was falling, he escorted me and Nan home, but he didn’t say a word, even when he left us at our own front doorstep, under the sign of the Standing Cat.

  Master Thomas I did another day, and he turned out very well, too, although he had a spoiled look to him that I wasn’t able to hide without losing the likeness. When I brought the two miniatures to the bishop, he stared at them a long time and then harrumphed and said they were well done, and no less than he’d expected. As Master Ashton brought me away from my audience, he looked more annoyed than usual, and at last, when we had left the house at Brideswell by the side door, he broke the long silence that had lasted for days, and said, “You are a bold hussy. You are lucky you got away with it this time.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, stepping over the gutter ahead of him.

  “You know you gave them both the bishop’s features,” he said, catching up with me in one big stride.

  “I paint what I see, no more, no less,” I said. “Besides, he’s their uncle. Why shouldn’t there be a strong resemblance? It’s only natural.”

  “Oh, right,” Ashton agreed in a sarcastic voice. “You think you can get away with anything, don’t you? Either you are an idiot or the slyest, most willful woman in the world.”

  “I think maybe I am a painter and you are too sly for your own good, whatever you are trying to say,” I said, and he was silent all the way to my door.

  But on giving the strange conversation thought, I supposed that perhaps I deserved suspicion about my paintings because of already having been two dead people, which is rather deceptive and would tend to give a person a bad reputation. But all those snoopers and watchers that had been there while I painted those children went about with the word that I was a prodigy and a freak and then there were twice as many watchers when I took my next likenesses for the bishop, and they prodded each other to get a good view, and other rude things. They also spoke about me as if I weren’t even there, saying such things as, “She hasn’t very slender fingers, I’m surprised she can make it so tiny,” or “What’s she doing there? I say there’s entirely too much blue,” or worse, “Damned fine bosom, eh? What’s she doing painting? It’s like teaching a good hunting mare to jig.” It must be boring, waiting around as a courtier, I think, if all you have to do is goggle at novelties to pass the time. Of course, sometimes Wolsey went hunting with the king or attended him when he was far from London, and then those courtiers and petitioners and hangers-on just swarmed after him like a hiveful of bees after the queen, and I had peace and quiet.

  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 in
to 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. JOURNAL DE LOUISE DE SAVOYE

  In MY TRAVELS I HAVE PAINTED MANY LADIES BUT NONE SO FIERCE AS MADAME LOUISE OF SAVOY, WHOSE LIKENESS I TOOK IN THE WINTERTIME IN THE PALACE OF LES TOURNELLES IN PARIS, WHEN I WAS AT THE COURT OF THE KING OF FRANCE. 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

  LOUISE 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.