“Oh, no, he’s much bigger. Definitely bigger,” said Hadriel, pouring himself more wine.
“So tell me why a nice boy like you was hiding up in Susanna’s rooms. Really! You could have come in by the door and at least greeted us properly!”
“Wasn’t hiding—come fairly often. Itsh her art, you see. My job…helping out…smallish…but I do like a nice painting. The Adamsh…what a joke! I haven’t had a proper laugh for shimply ages. And she’s got herself a peck of…trouble…yesh. Shushanna, dear girl, you need looking after…there was something…something I was going to do. Influensh shomeone. Prince of the Church. Which one, now? Oh, yesh, the fat one at Brideshwell. You have no idea the trouble the Church given ush. What was it? Oh yesh, must go….” Hadriel staggered slightly as he got up.
“Going so soon? You can’t go out at night. Why, you could be set upon by thieves!” Mistress Hull looked alarmed.
“’S never bothered me. Nothing to shteal…” Hadriel was making his way to the kitchen door, steadying himself on the wall as he went.
“I simply can’t allow you to go out like that!” The old lady was firm.
“Like that? What do you mean…?”
“Just look at your feet! You haven’t any shoes!”
“Whatsh wrong with no shoes? I never wear ’em,” Hadriel said.
“Why, you’ll hurt your feet out there in the dark! Cat, go into my room in the big chest where I keep your father’s things, and bring that pair of shoes I’ve been saving.”
“Mother! Father’s things?”
“Cat, my dear little Catkin, I’ve been saving too long. Keeping his shoes won’t bring him back to me, and this poor boy’s mother hasn’t given him any.” Then she flung herself on Hadriel and wept on his shoulder. “God should have given me a son like you! Poor, dear boy, so lovely, and nothing to eat and no mother, either! Just—sniff—think of me as a second mother….” Hadriel looked terribly embarrassed, all red in the face as he was, and then he gave her an awkward pat.
“Sho shorry,” he said softly. “Haven’t got any of the big bleshings—blessings…jusht little ones…the artsh, you know, not much…”
The shoes looked strangely clumsy on his delicate feet, and as I watched him struggle with the laces, it was clear he’d never worn a pair in his life, which was odd, considering how fine and pale his feet were. I thought about that awhile, and then I thought about the way he kept his cloak on inside the house, and the way he helped me down the stairs. There was only one conclusion I could come to. As he stumbled out into the dark, I was sure of it.
“Look, that Master Hadriel’s left a quill from his pen case. Oh, why have you opened the shutters?” I could hear Nan’s voice behind me. But I was leaning on the sill and didn’t turn. And my eye was following the zigzagging, radiant flight of a tipsy angel making his way up into the night sky.
So powerful was the king’s wrath that the heavy oak paneling on the walls seemed to quake at the sound of his voice.
“I tell you, he has betrayed me! And he has betrayed you, too, sister. Do not deceive yourself.” Henry the Eighth, clad in blue silk slashed with gold tissue and reembroidered with gold thread and pearls, strode about the room with his rolling, powerful gait like an enraged bull. Still young, he was tall and athletic, his muscular frame not yet gone to fat, though there was promise of it for the future. His red-blond hair fell in damp disorder about his ears; his clean-shaven face was bright red with fury. Veins stood out on his thick-muscled neck. His eyes were slits of rage.
“But did he not say he was too ill to receive me, and have I not written him and called him husband, and has he not sent me jewels to show his favor?” The anger terrified Mary Tudor, who had for so many years been her brother’s favorite, his plaything, his pampered and adored baby sister. No one had joined more joyfully in his masques, sung to his accompaniment on the virginals, greeted and amused his friends. Now, suddenly, this terrible storm. Her lord and brother had come to tell her that her marriage, arranged in childhood, was no longer valid.
“His aunt, that wily witch who governs the Netherlands, persuaded him to it, to keep me soft until the blow was struck. A secret treaty they signed behind my back! The emperor has played me false since the beginning. I tell you, sister, you are no longer betrothed to that miserable creature. Prince Charles of Castile may find another bride!”
“But—but my jewels, my trousseau in the Flemish style, my plate…and was the marriage not consummated by proxy? He did kiss me, I do recall. I fear the sin of it.” Mary’s eyes glanced from side to side, like a trapped doe. She wrung her hands. Frantically, she thought of excuses. No one must ever guess why.
“The plate will suit the King of France better, and so will you, my sister. The King of France is a great prince in all his strength and maturity, not a miserable stripling. You will be Queen of France, and he will dote on you. Wolsey, explain again to my recalcitrant sister that this marriage was not truly consummated, and therefore does not exist.”
“Consider, my lady, that not only do you owe your king and brother obedience in all things, but that his wisdom in matters pertaining to the Church is excelled by no one in this land. The Pope himself has commended your brother’s faith and wisdom. Now by all the understanding of those wise in these matters, this consummation was no true consummation, in that a kiss is hardly sufficient, even with the giving of the ring. It is to your marriage de praesenti that the witnesses swore, the consummation to be completed when you and he were of age. I tell you with all the authority granted to me by the Holy Church that your marriage was in name only and therefore no true marriage. True marriage requires true consummation, witnessed in the marriage bed. So you see? Even the Holy Church says you are free to obey your lord’s will. You are most blessed and fortunate to become queen of so great a realm as France due to the great care and concern of that most noble prince, your brother.” Wolsey’s voice was oily and subservient. From the corner of his left eye he watched the red color fade from Henry’s neck. Women, Wolsey’s tone of voice seemed to say, they are hopeless in understanding. One must tempt them with toys and not try their minds overmuch.
King Henry watched his younger sister look at her lap and pick at the embroidery on her dress. Over and over, she rolled a little seed pearl between her fingers. Wolsey is right, thought Henry. Again he spoke, and this time his voice was softer.
“Mary, Mary, you shall be a great queen and the mother of kings. You shall wear the jewels of France; there are none more famous or beautiful in the whole world. A great prince pines with love for you, while that sickly boy will not live to grow up, without a doubt. Think of your great happiness and obey one who is wiser than you.”
“It is my pleasure to obey you in all things, my lord,” said Princess Mary in a low voice, still not looking up. King Henry took the gesture for humility. He could not see her eyes. “But—but is not the King of France old, and a cripple?” Mary spoke softly, hesitantly, as if she were ignorant and possibly misinformed. As sly and willful as her brother, she knew she must play the role of a simpleton if she were to get the one promise she wanted most.
“A cripple?” Henry laughed. “Never, sweet sister. True, he is in the autumn of his life, but virile still. All the better for you to enchant him.”
“Brother, may I ask from you one favor? Then I shall wed the King of France most readily and do your bidding always when I am queen in France.”
“And what is that? What is in my power to grant you?” asked Henry, the storm past and content to see such rapid acquiescence in his strong-willed sister.
“If—if the King of France should die, may I then choose whom I wish to be my husband?”
Henry was taken aback. Unheard of. But deluded by his own word-painting of a masterful king in his autumn years only, and secretly reserving the right to change his mind for reasons of state, which was only proper in a king, he answered his sister:
“Yes, if that is what pleases you.”
“What pleases me will always please you,” she said so meekly that her brother did not hear the double edge in her words. Clapping his hands, he called:
“Ho, Wolsey, bring the paper you have prepared. You must practice this speech, sister, until you are letter-perfect. Then tomorrow, we will hold the formal audience in which you renounce this false and malicious prince Charles.” There was a rustling as the formidable Wolsey brought out a roll of papers from beneath his outer gown. There were documents to sign and a florid speech for Mary to deliver renouncing her marriage vows. Wolsey had outdone himself. As he read the speech aloud, King Henry smiled and nodded. The fault was Charles’s; he had let evil counsel and malicious gossip turn him against her. Having breached faith with her, he had so humiliated her that she now disclaimed any wifely affection for him. The contract was null and void. Of her own volition entirely, she now severed the nuptial yoke. Mary’s face changed from sullen to amazed as she listened to the words she was expected to deliver.
“You must end, of course, by petitioning the king for forgiveness and declare that in all things you are most ready to obey his good pleasure. Now, shall I repeat it slowly, while you speak it after me?” asked Wolsey, assessing Henry’s reaction from the corner of his eyes. The king’s face was a study in contentment.
“Well done, well done, Wolsey. You have served me well in this affair.”
“Your Majesty, my sole endeavor in life is to serve you exactly as you would serve yourself, had you the time for these small details.” Wolsey had prepared the speech and the documents the week previous, never doubting that it would be a simple matter to bring this weak woman to the service of his vast plans.
Bright summer light shone through the narrow, diamond-shaped panes in Bishop Wolsey’s cabinet. Outside in his orchard, birds competed in song while gardeners propped up the heaviest of the fruit-laden branches. Inside, Wolsey had been working since dawn with Masters Tuke and Warren checking lists. The greatest diplomatic coup of his career must not be allowed to founder on a single misplaced detail. Now Wolsey had two weddings to plan for: one by proxy in England, and one in France, graced by the greatest lords and ladies of the land. English horses, English soldiers, English pavilions for the wedding tourney, everything from carriages for the dowry plate to chamber pots must be listed and accounted for. An army of secretaries and clerks prepared the lists for his inspection. Fourteen ships were requisitioned for their transport.
“Plate, yes. The great saltcellar, hmm, serving dishes, candlesticks, all here. And let’s see—two carriages, ten mares to pull each at tenpence a day apiece…Tuke, have you the list of maids of honor to accompany the princess?”
“Here, Your Grace.” Fluidly, with a pleasing graceful gesture, he produced the list. Warren looked irritated.
Wolsey put the list atop the lists of plate, horses, linens, and bed hangings and scrutinized it closely with his good eye. “What is this? You must strike her; her father is not of enough significance. And here…What is Mistress Popincourt doing on the list?”
“The princess has specifically requested her. And you said to favor ladies who spoke good, clear French. Such ones are not as easy to find as you think—”
“The King of France has sent me a letter. Jane Popincourt, he hears, has a light reputation. Rumor has it that she gave her favors to de Longueville before his return from France. He says he would sooner see her burned than serve his queen.”
“He mentioned her by name?”
“By name. And there are others. His espionage service works overtime, it seems. Hmm—I see here Mary Boleyn, Sir Thomas’s daughter. She, too, is mentioned. Strike her. Has Sir Thomas answered my request yet about the other girl? Her French, I am told, is excellent, and the Regent of the Netherlands has had her well tutored in courtly manners.”
“He has written Margaret of Austria to release her from her position as fille d’bonneur at the court of the Netherlands and she is presently on her way to Greenwich.”
“How old is she, did you say?”
“Fourteen, my lord.”
“Not too young, then. And a virgin, doubtless. Yes, Anne Boleyn. She goes. Now, about the white palfreys, let’s see…harness, yes, here it is. Master of the Horse…” Wolsey gestured to the stack of paper. “Which of this is going on the Great Elizabeth?”
“The ladies of honor, the plate, the musicians—”
“Are they all women? The King of France will have no men.”
“All but the musicians of the chapel and the trumpeters. The paintrix goes, too, with her serving woman and a boy to grind her colors….”
“Strike the boy. Who does she think she is, with such a retinue? The Queen of Persia? What on earth gave me the idea of sending her, anyway? I was sure I had decided not to. Then it just came to me in the night, the wisdom of the plan. A sort of voice in the dark. Now, the bed hangings…What is that commotion? I told you I was busy, Ashton.” Wolsey’s other privy secretary, in somber gray, had entered the cabinet as silent as a shadow.
“My lord, I bring a letter that has just come from Rome. From Sylvester de Giglis, at the Papal Court.” Ashton’s eyes seemed sunken, and his face was pale. Why did I ever think him amusing? thought Wolsey.
“From Rome? Why didn’t you say? What says de Giglis about my cardinal’s hat? Does that wretch, Bainbridge, still block my way?”
“My lord, I know not. The letter will tell.”
Wolsey undid the seals and read the letter in silence. Then, after a while, he spoke. “The Cardinal of York is dead in Rome,” he said slowly.
“Your Grace, what a felicitous coincidence,” observed Ashton. Wolsey didn’t like his tone.
“Not entirely felicitous, though indeed a coincidence,” observed Wolsey blandly. “Bainbridge was poisoned by his chaplain. An Italian fellow, I believe. And you know what they are.” As he spoke, Wolsey looked long at Ashton’s silent, drawn face. Just how much did he know?
“Thank you, Ashton. You may go,” he said, briefly enjoying, in the old way, how Ashton’s eyes flicked resentfully sideways to Tuke’s self-satisfied face. An ungracious fellow, thought Wolsey. Skillful, useful, but still unaware of his proper station. Tuke’s right, for once. I think I’ll send him off for a while. Give him something even he can’t do. Then he’ll realize that all depends on my grace and favor, not his own accomplishment. He needs much more humility if he is to be shaped to my needs.
“Your Grace, will you be attending the king tomorrow? It would be well to take the opportunity to press for the See of York.” Tuke’s unctuous voice broke the long silence.
“Why, Tuke, what an excellent idea—the notion had not entirely escaped me. My lord of York. An excellent title. And York House—a most convenient residence, though it wants a bit of redecorating. Oh, yes. And send for the paintrix. No, not through Ashton this time. Tell her it’s confidential. Before she goes, I wish a portrait of myself in profile—the better side. In crimson.”
Thirteen
WHAT did the boy want, Susanna?” asked Mistress Hull as Nan and I crossed through her crowded little storefront on the way to the street. The spring had passed into summer, and my fortunes had risen very nearly as fast as my patron’s, who became ever greater with each passing month. Mistress Hull was knitting busily in a chair beneath the display of green saints, and Cat and Tom were seated on the long bench at the back of the room. Cat was engaged in winding wool into a ball from a skein held on Tom’s outstretched hands. He rolled his eyes at me as we passed, in a look of utter boredom and irritation.
“He wants me to attend the archbishop at York House, for another portrait. What’s that you’re knitting there? It looks pretty.”
“It’s the first of a pair of knitted sleeves. I had an inspiration, the night after that Master Hadriel left, that if I took two colors like this and alternated the stitching—so—I could make a pattern just like slashing. Very fashionable, don’t you think?” I looked closer. Mistress Hull’s stitches had never been as smooth.
“I tell you, I’ve been just ablaze lately. I even dream about knitting. I’ve an idea about alternating rows that will make a pattern just like tiny drops. I can hardly wait to see how it turns out. I tell you, I haven’t been so happy since I lost dear Master Hull. Though of course nothing will ever take his place…still, what was that dye you mentioned, Tom, that Master Ailwin can compound? I think I shall take to dyeing my own yarn to get the colors just right. My mind is full of visions, and I can’t rest until I see them in real life, before my eyes. I tell you, it’s an inspiration from God.”
“Visions of knitting? Mother, that is humiliating. God is interested in higher things, I’m certain.”
“Nonsense. His eye is on the sparrow and His eye is on knitting, too. I’m sure if I could search in the Bible like a priest, I’d find the place. His eye is on surly girls, as well. Why haven’t you finished that ball of blue wool yet? I’ll be needing it next.” We hurried out the door without looking backward. Across the street, I thought I saw a skinny little man in a black cloak vanish into the doorway.
“Nan, did you see that man? I swear I’ve seen him before.”
“At the Goat and Jug? He’s probably just in love with you, like that man who lay in the gutter. You’re rising in the world, Susanna, if your admirers can stand on their own two feet.”
“I think I saw him someplace else, but I don’t remember where. It makes me nervous.”
“Nonsense. It’s the weather making you nervous. Even horses get nervous in this kind of weather.”
The day was cloudy, damp, and close, with the smell of a storm in the air. A curious, sultry wind made the trees rustle. We went by the Strand into Westminster with a crowd of guardsmen, archers, gowned clerks and lawyers on mules. Sure enough, there was a young man in a green gown and high boots having trouble with the mare he was riding. As he struggled to pull her in, a woman with a basket scurried to get out of the way.
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 19
