“The English, and not the Spanish, Mother?”
“The Pope has forbidden the alliance with the daughter of King Ferdinand. But the English king then offered his sister, widow of the King of Scots, who is of a likely age, and not barren, as a token of peace. Then my agents told me he considers the Englishwoman too old and too fat. Ah, I breathed again! No Englishwoman should sit on the throne of France. The obscenity! Does he not understand God’s will in this matter? His first wife was barren; his son by the heiress of Brittany has died. It is our François who is willed by God to sit upon the throne. But now the English king has written again offering his youngest sister to tempt King Louis. I swear, that English king is too young and inexperienced to have thought of this; he would never have had the wit if someone wiser were not advising him. Longueville has told me of this Wolsey, this devious priest, who whispers at his shoulder. The woman, they say, is young and healthy, sure to outlive the king. The question: Is she too ugly to please him as her sister was? The subtle priest plots to make an Englishwoman Queen Regent of France, I swear. This shall never happen, not while I have breath in my body. Open this for me, Marguerite, and you shall help me judge whether or not the king will accept this offer.”
Marguerite snipped the threads with a little silver penknife that lay on her mother’s desk. She held out the letter for her mother, but her intelligent eyes lit with curiosity at the round, sealed case that accompanied the writing. Two years older than her brother, she was devoted to his cause and person. Like him, well educated, amber eyed and witty, she had turned to the enjoyment and patronage of the arts to console herself for the boredom of a mismatched marriage. The little case promised amusement.
“This letter, useless,” pronounced the mother. “A shallow description that could fit a hundred girls, and a silly ghost story. At least he has sent a copy of the portrait that has gone to the king. That Longueville is a superstitious fool. Useless. Hopeless. I want to know the dowry, the conditions. Is this the woman that will sit on the throne of France?”
But Marguerite’s eyes had lit up at the sight of the tiny painting revealed when she opened the little case. “Mother, look at this. It is a match for Fouquet. Why, the brushstrokes are invisible!” Handing the letter to her daughter, Louise took the little portrait case in her hand. Involuntarily, she drew in her breath. The golden French sun made the colors glow with new warmth. The ropes of pearls, the jewels had a radiant luster. The princess’s red-gold hair shone like silk; her skin seemed as soft and luminous as if alive; her eyes glinted with boldness, with youth, as she stared out into the face of the bitter, watchful older woman.
At the sign of the neat red head and sparkling eyes, Louise’s own eyes had narrowed. “This is the one,” she said. “He will not be able to resist. The treaty with the English is as good as signed. He will imagine she can restore his lost springtime. Ah, God, what cursed illusion is it that makes old men think they can still sire sons! And the eyes—look at that, Marguerite. What do you make of the eyes?”
“Flirtatious, Mother, and spoiled. This princess has never been a moment without her slightest desire being granted. You must take care, Mother, that she does not provide the king with an heir by some gentleman of the court.”
“You are right, Daughter. I had not thought of that until I spied this picture. I imagined he was being offered some milk-fed pious little thing more suited to an old man. This creature is too clever, too headstrong. Her father was a ruthless usurper, after all. Never forget, it is in the blood.”
“But you must also take into account that her father was old and shrewd, and died in bed.”
“All the worse. This one is at least young. It is best to catch them unhatched.”
“What will you do, Mother?”
“I will begin by planting a rumor at court that she has had a lover in England. This will make the old king jealous and watchful. That, at least, will keep her from making a false heir with a more vigorous sire.”
“Write Longueville and ask if there are any men whom she seems to favor, then you can let that be known as well.”
“I needn’t bother. The king will send his own spies. He will appoint his own guardians. In fear of a cuckold’s horns, he will raise a wall of steel around her.”
Marguerite laughed. In a flash, it was all visible to her. A jealous old man, frantic with rumors, desperately trying to prove himself young, trying to satisfy a demanding girl. “Why, Mother, he’ll exhaust himself!” she exclaimed.
“Exactly,” said Louise, with a thin-lipped smile. “That English princess is too spoiled, too inconsistent of purpose for the task those foreigners have set her. She has not the force of will to be Queen Regent of France.” Marguerite’s shrewd gaze flicked from the miniature to her mother’s indomitable face. A kitten and a lioness. There was no match.
“So, Mistress Susanna, you have been traveling again. What brings you to grace our humble establishment after flying so high?” The white hairs growing out of Master Ailwin’s ears seemed to have gotten even longer in my absence, and he was altogether more eccentric-looking than ever, if that is possible. He bumbled around humming something to himself. “I suppose you’re too grand now to use orpiment made in my poor little establishment. Send to France, send to Italy! I remember a time you were grateful and paid a little something on the side. Now I’m not sure I have the time for you.” He started to weigh out earth of cologne, then forgot he was about and began to put it away again.
“Master Ailwin, just because I was invited to Richmond to paint doesn’t mean I don’t have to come home and buy colors just the same as ever. That Lady Guildford used up everything I had! First she liked her picture so much in small, she had to have it in large. Is it my fault I have a gift for flattering old ladies? It was all wearisome, and the food wasn’t even good. Besides, grand houses wear me out. They treat me just like an oversized chest that is an inconvenience. ‘Oh, yes, put the paintrix there—no, perhaps over here.’ That’s how it is for someone who’s just a servant and not a great lady. I’m lucky to get a decent corner for me and Nan where silly ladies won’t go pawing through my things and getting their greasy fingers on the carnations so the paint won’t stick.”
“So now they cover you in flowers. Laurel wreaths. You have become spoiled.”
“Carnations, Master, those are the parchments ready made for painting,” said Tom, who had come to listen in.
“I knew that,” snapped Master Ailwin.
“Master, if you allow Mistress Dallet to accompany me into the back room, I can find what she wants and weigh it out and save you the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience? You rogue, you were supposed to tidy up! The society meets here tonight, and I see things heaped everywhere back there, and not a bench to sit on!”
“Why then, I’ll go back right away,” he said, gesturing me to accompany him, while Master Ailwin began to rearrange things on the shelf, fretting and fuming all the while about youth and their disrespect in these wicked times.
“Mistress, you must forgive him. He’s having another one of his spells,” said Tom, and I did feel sorry for the poor boy who was so faithful and caring for such a grouchy old master, even if he did sometimes make cow eyes when he delivered things.
“Of course I do,” I said, looking about the room. “How on earth do you find what you want here?”
“Every time he puts something back, it’s in another place,” said the apprentice, “so I just follow him about and replace what I can. Sometimes even I can’t find it. Let’s see, it’s green bice you’re wanting?”
“Oh, say, what are these things lying here?” Amid a jumble of old glassware and half-filled containers on a worktable lay several old parchments covered with queer figures, an open book with diagrams in it, and several antique coins.
“Interesting, aren’t these? They’re very old.” He picked up a medallion of some dead foreign king. “We have a regular customer who collects odd old coins; he has a standing order w
ith us to save anything like this for him to see first.”
“Not a tall, heavy man with a square-cut beard and white streaks in his hair up here?” I asked, gesturing to the corners of my forehead. Just thinking about the man troubled me.
“Oh, you must mean Sir Septimus Crouch. No, this one’s a thin old French fellow with a lined face and gray hair. Now he’s piecing together a rare manuscript. If anybody comes in with fragments, we’re to tell him. Odd that you mention Sir Septimus. He’s doing the same thing. It must be all the fashion these days, not that I keep up with fashion. We don’t like Sir Septimus much—he’s a slimy dealer. But we have our ways of getting even. See here? To him we sell these forgeries as antiques.”
“These parchments? But they look old.”
“If they’re not old to begin with, they look old when we’re done with them. Treasure maps, alchemical allegories for finding the Stone. People bring things in for the master to decode, and if they’re worthless, he buys them and doctors them up. Crouch is such a believer, he’ll buy anything. We even sold him a map to the lost treasure of the Templars. But look here—” The boy dug under the trash and brought out a wooden panel painting, brown with age, or at least aged-looking varnish. Even in its new disguise, I recognized it at once. One of my Eve Bathings, complete with leafy Adam and glowing mountaintop in Eden. In the front of the shop, a bell tinkled, and the growl of conversation could be heard in the background.
“We got it from a tavern keeper who kept it for payment of some monk’s bill. Isn’t it perfect? The old boy will love it. And if he doesn’t take it, the Frenchman will.”
“I thought you only cheated Sir Septimus.”
“Well, after all, a Frenchman’s a Frenchman, isn’t he?”
“What is it, exactly?” I asked, feigning innocence, which was not easy, seeing the wreckage of my nice glazes.
“Well,” he said in a learned, pompous voice that sounded exactly like Master Ailwin when he is showing off, “this is an allegory of the Holy Grail, painted by the dead French master Jean Fouquet. See? Here are Adam and Eve, representing Original Sin, and there is the redemption, waiting on the mountaintop, bathed in golden light.”
“But how do you know it’s about the Grail?”
“It’s the mountain, mistress. All students of the occult know that mountain, even without the fortress on top. Why, Master Ailwin has a woodcut of the very place. It’s Montségur, the heretic Cathar fortress. There has always been a tale that they had smuggled the Grail from the Holy Land and kept it hidden there. But once the Cathars had all been killed by the Inquisition, no one could find the hiding place. Whoever finds the Grail can rule all Christendom, they say. Or if it’s an unbeliever, he can destroy it. We do a great business in Grail secrets. This one will be splendid. See how the vines and the serpent appear to make letters? P, S. Those are occult symbols. So’s this thing here, and the way Adam’s turned around so you can’t see his front. It’s all a code. I tell you, this stuff is nearly as good as the Stone, or invisibility ointment.”
“Invisibility ointment? How can you sell that? The minute people aren’t invisible, they’ll come back and get you.”
“Oh, no. You have to purify yourself with just the right rituals, and say a very complicated formula perfectly, without hesitation. They always hesitate. So—no invisibility. Sometimes Master says there’s a curse on anyone who doesn’t say all those words perfectly. So then they’re sure to hesitate. One little stammer, and zip! Then they’re cursed and have to come buy an exorcism manual. That reminds me, we need some new ones printed up. You don’t know a good cheap printer, do you? I have to make all Master’s arrangements these days, and our old printer’s been arrested.”
“Why don’t you just have them copied?”
“Then they’d be more costly, and you know the master. He says it is unjust to keep all these secrets only for the rich.”
“But they’re false secrets, Tom. You just said so. Wouldn’t he think it better to cheat the rich than to cheat the poor?”
“Well, it’s those meetings of the society. They keep him all roused up. And these days, he can’t keep more than one idea in his mind. ‘All for the poor,’ he says, ‘we must end this damned injustice.’”
“The society? What society is that?”
“Oh, Mistress Susanna, I shouldn’t tell. But I know by your kind blue eyes that you won’t think them wicked. It’s the Society of the True Religionists. They meet to debate the Testament, to determine the date and manner of the Second Coming. But mostly, they argue about the nature of heaven. Does it have ale, as well as milk and honey, what sort of music is played, is dancing allowed, if you’ve been married more than once, do you get to live with all your wives, that sort of thing. You mustn’t tell on them. Even though it’s heresy, it’s a harmless sort, and keeps them occupied.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to meet my husband in the afterlife. I hope he’s properly sealed in hell.”
“Oh, sweet Mistress Dallet, he must have been wicked indeed to ever be cruel to you…. Oh, my, there’s trouble in front.” The sound of shouting and stamping came to us through the open door. “Mistress Dallet, I’ve finished with your packets. There’s the back door, so you needn’t cross through this quarrel. I need to help Master. Oh, why can’t God give him his sense back again?” He slipped the money I gave him into the cashbox, picked up a heavy iron bar, and rushed off to the front to assist Master Ailwin.
“Cheated! I’ve been cheated!” came the howl from the front. I crept closer and hid behind a stack of kegs. Who was cheated? I could see the sleeve of a legal gown gesturing wildly. A lawyer cheated? Good, it served him right. I peered out. Oh, it served him more than right. It was that horrible lawyer, Master Ludlow, who had come and taken away Mother’s bed. But his usually pale face was quite crimson now. “These verses of prophecy don’t tell me where it’s located?”
“No, Master Ludlow, for you have only the end of the book. These are mighty prophecies of the distant future. The fall of the Kings of France will destroy the Kings of the Earth, a great emperor will arise who conquers both Christian and heathen lands alike, then he falls into chaos—this must mean the end of the House of Valois is at hand, brought by the Finder of the Secret….”
“Oh, a curse upon all scribes and clerks! Why couldn’t they have put the Secret at the end of the book? Who cares about the fall of kings? Of course kings will fall to the holder of the Secret! Now I understand it all! It’s the Secret that damned Crouch is after. And it’s in the middle of the book! Why should he rule the world when it can be me? He has the center, the Devil take him! He got to the dead man’s house first!”
“Come, come, now, Master Ludlow, there are other ways to the Secret. We have just purchased from a foreign dealer in curiosities a rare allegorical painting by the famous dead French master Fouquet….”
I had heard quite enough. I tiptoed out by the back way and into the alley. I had waited far too long, and twilight, and with it danger, was sinking over the city streets. Setting my face straight ahead, I hurried into the street toward home. Behind me I heard footsteps. They sounded as if they were following me from the alley. Terrified, I glanced behind me.
“Mistress, mistress, wait.” Puffing, the apprentice caught up with me. He was still holding his heavy iron bar, and his knife was at his belt. “I’ll escort you home,” he said. “You’ve been delayed too long. The streets are full of…” Suddenly, he pulled at my sleeve to stop me. The lawyer was hurrying down the street, his face furious. In the cool violet light, a figure stepped from beneath the overhang of a tall house. We could not make out the features, but that was unnecessary. The large, menacing shape was eerily familiar.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Ludlow. You know I can’t forgive a man who cheats on an agreement. Do you have it with you?” I knew the voice. Who was it? I searched my mind.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“The manuscript. You have brought it to Ai
lwin.” Now I recognized who was speaking. It was Septimus Crouch there in the twilight. “What else would bring you here?” he said. “It was you who sent the letter to the captain. You arrived at the painter’s house first and seized his possessions….” With a rising horror, I realized what I was hearing. It could only be Captain Pickering that he meant. It could only be my house that held the Secret. I thought I could hear something fluttering in the alley, like an immense trapped moth, and felt a coldness, as if some evil being were present. No, it couldn’t be. It must be my heart beating.
“I don’t know what you mean. I was acting for a client, that’s all….” The lawyer seemed to flick his head from side to side, as if hunting for the sound.
“You have it, Ludlow. You have it here. Both parts. The mirror showed me that you had it. It showed you conspiring against me for my part. Do you understand what a fool you are? You can no longer deceive me; no one can, while I own the mirror. And now you will give me the parts you have stolen from me.” In the violet, summer-scented air above, I could hear a suppressed, high-pitched squeak of excitement, like the cry of a bat. Some evil, gloating thing seemed perched above us on the rain spout.
“I haven’t got them. I swear it. It’s the center you want. I haven’t got it. My part’s useless, useless, I swear….”
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 17
