The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  An old crane ruffled its feathers and took flight. At a signal from the king, two falcons were loosed, to which he added his own. With shrill cries, they flew at their prey. Perfect, thought the king, it will be perfect. The crane slashed at the first falcon with its sharp beak; the second, and then the third joined in the attack. But behind him, the king heard the clatter of hooves and the whinny of a badly trained horse. Loud voices drifted to him in the wind, and laughter. The young lords of the court, careless, unconscientious. The noise had startled the feeding cranes. Their great wings flapped and they rose into the air to join their battling comrade. With high, keening cries they flew at the falcons, bombarding them, battering them. The king’s mouth closed in a tight line of rage, and his complexion grew grayer at the sight. How dare those careless oafs destroy the cast! It was rare that cranes could be alarmed like this. It was the rattle of harness and voices that had aroused the birds to their danger and spoiled the kill. Already, sensible of what they had done, the younger men had brought their horses to a walk. The king did not even need to look to see who it was. Their voices had told him. François of Angoulême and his friends Bonnivet and Fleurange. Noisy, troublesome, brash.

  But like a general on the field, the king must look to the battle at hand. “The hounds,” he said, and as the struggling crane fell to earth, still slashing, with two falcons perched on top of it, the harriers, freed at his orders, seized it by the feet. But his own falcon had fallen, wounded. His best, his dearest. The king’s chief falconer rode to it at a gallop. Could she live? The king’s face, usually so somber, was frozen with a rage that he allowed to show itself only in his eyes. The escaping cranes were already blobs of white against the pale blue morning sky.

  “Your Majesty, a terrible pity…” said the Comte de Guise, leaning toward the infuriated king.

  “That gross infant,” the king hissed between his teeth. “For the sake of France, there must be another heir.”

  Once again they were together, brother and sister, almost like the old days before her marriage to the Duc d’Alençon had taken her away to isolation in Normandy. The family had gathered at Blois at the beginning of the summer to celebrate the long-awaited wedding of Francis to Claude of France, eldest daughter of the king and his second queen, Anne of Brittany. It was the penultimate step toward the supreme power, but one bitterly contested. Unlike the kingdom of France, the vast lands of Brittany could be inherited through the female line. The king had wed Anne, his brother’s widow, to maintain the territorial integrity of France. But the threat of the marriage of her daughters, the heiresses of Brittany, abroad led the Parlement to beg that Claude be betrothed to Francis, her cousin, the male heir to the throne. The old queen was furious. She knew that to place the fate of her frail, deformed daughter in the hands of this brilliant, careless, and ambitious family would doom her. She loathed the tenacious, scheming Louise of Savoy, and until death struck her down, she prevented the marriage. Now that she was in her grave, everything she had once feared had come about: her beloved child, deformed and sweet tempered, had fallen deeply in love with a husband who considered her only a convenience. Once again, Louise had triumphed. Her son was now Duke of Brittany. Quietly, Louise informed her son that if he ever allowed the younger daughter, Renée, to wed, he would lose half of Brittany to her future husband. Francis resolved that his infant sister-in-law, should he become king, would never be allowed to marry.

  “I have taken your knight, my lord,” announced Marguerite, her eyes still fixed on the ebony-and-ivory chessboard. Her chestnut hair was nearly entirely hidden under her peaked matron’s headdress and black velvet hood. Two of her favorite little white lapdogs lay at her feet. Francis, at twenty still slender and clean shaven, looked up. Their faces were nearly indentical, with long noses, shrewd, intelligent eyes, and a glint of humor about their mobile, narrow mouths. Louise had spared nothing on their education, and their accomplishments, since childhood, had been near legendary. Already, Marguerite, accomplished with her pen and bored in exile from the court, was collecting stories for a book of naughty, humorous tales; her brother wrote poetry and pursued women in his leisure hours. Their fates had taken them on different paths, but they understood each other perfectly.

  “Then my rook will avenge me,” answered Francis, making the move. He was clad in pale lavender satin, and on his head was a flat, brimmed hat of crimson velvet. Already it was twilight, and a servant came to light the candles in the long gallery. The great tapestries undulated with a stray summer breeze that came through the open windows, and the candles flickered and smoked in the newly raised chandeliers. At the end of the gallery, one of Claude’s ladies of honor was playing the virginals, while another sang. Claude’s needle passed up and down through an embroidery hoop that contained an altar cloth. At sixteen, she was swollen as if by a strange disorder, hugely fat, her face round and puffy. A rich gown in pale blue satin only emphasized her pallor and desperate plainness. Every so often, she raised her eyes from the cloth to cast adoring eyes at the marvelously handsome, dashing man to whom she had been wed. How far from her he sat, and how engrossed he was, talking with his tall, elegant sister. Francis was playing chess, a game that she could never hope to master. How clever he looked, sitting there, engrossed in things that were beyond her. If only he would turn and look her way!

  “I knew you would do that. Check,” said Marguerite.

  “Is this just? You won last time. I should win this time. After all, I am the dauphin.” Francis evaded Marguerite’s queen, but he knew the respite was only temporary.

  “You know if I let you win every time, you would have no sport,” answered Marguerite. “Check and mate.”

  “Bah, chess is boring tonight. Call your ladies to dance for me, and I will give a prize to the fairest, like Paris.”

  “Paris caused a great deal more trouble than he thought with his prizes. And you, my lord, must be more circumspect. The king looks to replace you.”

  “Ridiculous. An impossibility. He’s far too old.”

  “What if his blood were stirred by the English princess?”

  “She would have to be a miracle to raise life in that old hulk.”

  “She’s not bad, brother. And you must quit playing and lay plans. If she bears a child, you must be sure to be made regent. An English Queen Regent would destroy France. You need to go to court. Speak to the old ones, de Guise and La Tremoïlle and the others who bore you. Flatter them. Show yourself wise and mature.” Francis had paled. The throne, so close, could be snatched away. He, the lone male heir of the Valois, the only son, his mother’s adored Caesar. In his vast self-confidence, he had never thought it possible.

  “Who has spoken of this? Has Mother concurred in this plan?”

  “It was she who thought of it. But I warn you, you must go to her and act as if it had come over you as your own idea. She frets so, these days, that I am worried for her health. The king thwarts her at every turn. He rages at the orders she gives the cooks, the laundry maids. Only he shall command in his own house, he says. Have you not seen how bitter, how resentful he looks when he spies her among the ladies of the court, or even you, these days? Show Mother that you are changed, serious. It will relieve her. She loves you above all things and lives only for your happiness.”

  “It won’t happen. It can’t,” said Francis, shaking his head.

  “It could happen easily, and you must not let things go by until it is too late,” she said. “The negotiations are far advanced, and encouraged by his closest advisors. They, too, despise you. They have whetted his appetite and encouraged him in this fantasy.” Francis shook his head in disbelief.

  “A child heir? France would be torn apart. Brittany would be separated from the crown. Unless—would they wed this infant heir to Renée? Shameless—divide my inheritance? Then Bourbon would be as great as I…. Yet, no, no—it makes sense. Until the infant’s majority, they would need a puppet regent. A foreign queen, a weakling who could be ruled. In a regen
cy, those old men would prolong their power, cost France what it may.” Even Francis, whose young mind never lit on one subject for very long, began to see the path of destruction that hung on an old man’s whim.

  “Just see this,” said his sister, “and you will understand all. Only don’t tell Mother I showed you.” From a reticule at her waist, she took out a tiny, round wooden box and laid it in the middle of the chessboard. Artfully, she blocked the view from the others in the gallery by her body. “There is the most curious story about this painting. De Longueville said it was painted in London by a ghost.” As his sister launched into the story, Francis undid the lid of the box and stared for a long time at the fresh, willful face. A great beauty, not a deformed, fat little woman such as he had been saddled with for the sake of having Brittany. Suddenly he was filled with anxiety. Anxiety for the boldfaced heirs this woman could put between him and the throne. And in the midst of anxiety, something else. Desire.

  The Great Banquet Hall at Greenwich was hung with arras of gold, laced with an embroidered frieze emblazoning the royal arms of France and England. It was already mid-August, and the bright sun of midsummer glinted on gold and silk, steel and cloth of gold, as the gaudy assemblage of English lords, foreign dignitaries, and Papal envoys waited for the arrival of the bridal party. Wolsey was there, resplendent, beaming, along with Norfolk, Dorset, Buckingham, Suffolk, and the principal earls of the realm. A huge lace collar and a massive gold chain set off Suffolk’s broad bull neck. His complexion was reddish from the indoor heat. Sweat ran from beneath his rich, jeweled and plumed hat, gluing his dark hair to his temples. His gait, as he mingled with the crowd, was the rolling strut of a man who enjoys the highest favor. His face was a study in self-satisfaction. For his part in the wedding negotiations, the French king had awarded him a pension of 875 livres tournois a year, an extraordinarily handsome sum for a man of “petite famille” who had risen on the King of England’s friendship alone.

  Wolsey’s French pension was three times Suffolk’s, but for him it was only pocket change. Even at a celebration, he was full of business. With one of his mind-compartments, he was taking note of who talked to whom in the crowded hall. Aha, said this part of his brain, I know who is missing. The Spanish ambassador. He seethes with envy; a sign of our triumph. Simultaneously, with another mind-compartment, he was calculating how soon the backing of the Pope would get him his cardinalate. Very soon, very soon, it whispered. You have bribed everyone so handsomely. Go cautiously, go cleverly, Thomas Wolsey, and you will be the first English Pope. In one of the lesser mind-compartments, he was deciding whether he should spend King Louis’s money on redecorating Hampton Court or save it for York House. So much to do, so little time to do it in. Perhaps I need a larger staff, this brain-compartment was thinking.

  At last the royal party arrived. King Henry the Eighth and Queen Catherine of Aragon led the bridal party. Mary, stiff in her immense bridal gown, accompanied by her ladies, immediately preceded the delegation that represented the French king. Two ministers sent for the peace conference that had preceded the wedding walked in state; the French general, Thomas Boyer, and the President of Normandy, John de Silva. But most resplendent of all was Louis d’Orléans, Duc de Longueville, who glittered in a heavily jeweled velvet gown as the proxy of the French king. The Archbishop of Canterbury opened the ceremony, speaking in Latin. As the long Latin speeches rolled on, the Princess Mary, her face pale beneath her shining red-gold hair, cast her eyes first on the glorious embroidery of the archbishop’s vestments, then wider, hiding her gaze beneath her lowered lashes. Her heart was pounding, and her knees shaking. It was the greatest day of her young life. She would be queen in France. In her mind, she reviewed the many honors and advantages Wolsey had recited to her. She must be careful, careful, not to make an unlucky slip in speech as she let de Longueville take her hand for the espousal per verba de praesenti. Her French must be perfect. How she had practiced for this moment!

  Precisely, slowly, she repeated her wedding vows in French. She could feel the hundreds of eyes on the back of her neck. They were watching her face, her gown, her hands. They see that I am beautiful, she thought. De Longueville put the gold ring upon the fourth finger of her right hand, and then kissed her. Almost, almost complete, she exulted secretly, and not a slip in her French so far! Then her ladies took her from the hall and changed her into a magnificent nightgown for the public consummation. Her breath came short; she could feel her heart battering at her ribs as they brought her to the immense, ceremonial bed. Already, the priests had finished sprinkling and blessing the place where she would lie. De Longueville stood beside it, waiting. He had removed his gown; beneath it were a bright red doublet and hose. Carefully, her ladies helped her up into the tapestry-draped bed. De Longueville stripped one leg to the thigh and lay down beside her.

  Mary, propped up by richly decorated pillows, lay as stiff as a statue, gazing out into the crowd of dignitaries that filled the room. More speeches in Latin droned above her. She could see those nearby straining for a better look. A tall, heavy man’s head, dark haired beneath a green-velvet, egret-plumed hat, showed above the crowd. Suffolk, glittering with gold and success. Everything a man should be. Bold, brave, randy, young. And English. And she was going to a foreign old man’s bed, for the sake of jewels, for the sake of clothes, for the sake of power her brother craved but she cared nothing for. Unknown to any in the room, this bull of a man, whose eye was kindled by any woman of wealth, had, in the months before her engagement, sent her a letter, whose violent misspellings, once decoded, spoke of love. And she had answered it. Hidden away, she had a marvelous, tiny portrait of him, his face most admirably fierce and warlike, that he had sent to her. But the king’s sharp gaze had caused Suffolk to flee. Still, she thought, wasn’t he her brother’s closest friend? What could a dried-up old man know of love? Her eyes lit, for a brief moment, and Suffolk studiously looked away, his face vaguely alarmed, as if he didn’t understand. How dare he not understand! Would it always be this way, when she was queen in France? Her youth and beauty poured away in empty ceremony, and no man ever again daring to speak to her of love?

  But then her mind flitted to her French wedding jewels. Grander than Queen Catherine’s they would be, Wolsey swore it. There would be gowns, and dances, and masques. She was very fond of these things, of dancing, of playing, of being admired in company. Surely this would sweeten the burden of being an old man’s bride. And couldn’t a widow do as she wanted, especially if she were a queen? Wolsey had said it, and he must know. Queen. The word had a good sound to it. Queen of France.

  The droning in Latin had ceased. As the crowd waited, the French lord touched his leg to her body in symbol of sexual relations. A ripple of approval traversed the crowd, necks craned, and Suffolk’s face disappeared. The archbishop declared the marriage consummated. The princess’s ladies dressed her again, this time in a checkered gown of purple satin and cloth of gold, and the entire party, dukes, lords, and delegates, processed to the palace chapel to hear mass. De Longueville walked with King Henry, whose satin clothes shone with gold and appliquéd jewels. Mary now walked with Queen Catherine, their heads covered with identical caps of cloth of gold.

  The hundreds of dishes at the wedding banquet passed by Mary in a kind of daze. Compliments and gallantries swirled around her, leaving her feeling dizzy with gratification and the sense that from now on, all her days would be like this. She would be the center, the queen. To the music of the flute and harp, the dancing began. Henry excelled at dancing, and stripping off his gown, he and Buckingham danced in doublet and hose with such enthusiasm that it infected the entire company. The center, Mary thought. I am the center. It is for me he dances. My brother, the king, celebrates for me. All thought of Suffolk flew from her head. I shall be queen, she thought, and all things will come to me. I will forever be the center. Men will worship me. Women will envy me. Forever. The thought dazzled her.

  “So, Master Tuke, report to me ever
ything that transpired at the reception of the Sieur de Marigny.” Once again Wolsey was in bed, trapped by his old recurring illness, a bloody flux of the bowels. Pale and flaccid, his great bulk propped up by pillows in his canopied bed in Brideswell, he was annotating reports on a lap desk propped on his commodious stomach. About him on the coverlet was stacked correspondence from all over Europe. Tuke, usually repelled by illness, was quivering all over with the glory of such intimacy with the great man. Closer even than Ashton. Greater trust, greater honor. It almost overcame his revulsion at the unpleasant smell.

  “Your Grace, the Sieur de Marigny brought with him on a white horse two coffers of plate, seals, devices, and jewelry. Most unctuous he was, bowing and scraping in the French fashion before the princess, offering compliments to the bride. The jewels were magnificent. I have the inventory here….” Tuke handed a scrap of paper to his master, who nodded.

  “The valuations, Master Tuke. How came you by them?”