The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “There’re two of you again. No, three. Will you paint three Eves? I thought there was only one….”

  “Susanna,” Nan’s voice was urgent. “Look at the dog.” The dog had fallen on the hearth in convulsions.

  “That’s not wine—it’s poison,” said Susanna. Shocked, the three of them watched the dog shudder and stiffen in the ashes, oblivious to the sparks that lit on her yellow coat.

  “You bastards, you’ve poisoned my master!” Will cried. “Who did this? I swear, I’ll have the law on you!”

  “You must get a purge immediately,” cried Nan. But Will had already run out the door in search of an apothecary.

  “The man in black,” whispered Ashton, his pupils huge. “I’m seeing him. He’s small, with a white, wrinkled face, and little black eyes like raisins. Now I’m seeing a devil, all green and naked, sitting up there on the rafters in the smoke. My dreams are floating in the room like colored clouds.” Susanna shook him frantically. “Don’t close your eyes, Master Ashton. Open them, open, I say! You’re not dreaming. The man in black’s real. You’ve been poisoned by him, I swear.”

  “Poison,” he said, his voice weak. “I thought it was…an evil spell.”

  “Cast by my mistress. Hmph. Men! When have they ever believed any but the worst about a woman?” Nan said with a sniff, surveying the scene.

  “Belladonna,” said the physician, when the purging was done and he had inspected the contents of the bowl to his satisfaction. His severe, dark gown rustled as he stepped into the great fireplace and touched the dead dog with his toe. It lay there as stiff as a poker, covered with ashes, before the fire irons. “Enough for ten dogs in that cup, I’d imagine. It sets up a thirst. In a place like this, everyone would assume he was drinking himself to death, the way the others all are. I imagine someone decided the lower doses were not killing him fast enough, so they made this last cup much stronger. The eyes tell the story. The pupils. And the hallucinations. Who is this man, anyway?” Master Ashton, feverish and disheveled, lay on the bench, his eyes huge and staring, a fine tremor shaking his arms and legs.

  “A secretary of Archbishop Wolsey’s privy cabinet,” answered Susanna, her face twisted with worry.

  “Hmph. No surprise there. Probably carrying messages. There’s always intrigue where the great ones gather. He’ll live. I want him carried from this house. You’re his man? Are his things upstairs? Go fetch them. You two—yes, you, you stout oafs with the earrings. I’ll want you to carry him. Of all the dens in this town, this is the worst. Landlord, I see you skulking there. If there is any talk of a bill, I’ll report you. You deserve to have this place burned down around your ears.”

  As the two sailors slung him up between them, the physician turned to Susanna. “Just as well there’s someone with sense around here. Whatever possessed you to pour away the cup? Never mind. I’ll have him up and about in a few days. Once the poison’s gone, it’s gone. Wolsey, did you say? I hope his gratitude takes the form of something metallic. Clerical blessings are skimpy sustenance.”

  But Susanna was trembling all over. The next morning, news came that the Great Elizabeth had been lost on her way to rendezvous with the wedding fleet at Dover. The king would not sail on the Great Harry after all but return home, and the princess set out on her wedding journey without his escort. Evil omens, they increase, thought Susanna. We should have bought the candle, even if it was too expensive. She could not purge her heart of the feeling that the wedding fleet was doomed.

  “What think you of the new Flemish style of trunk hose, Master Arnold?” Crouch was standing on a low wooden dais in the center of a small, paneled room in the most fashionable tailor’s establishment in all of London. Fog swirled against the narrow, diamond-paned windows, but the chill had been taken off the room by a handsome brazier that stood smoking in one corner. At Crouch’s feet knelt the master tailor himself, his mouth full of pins, setting the hem of a nearly finished brocade gown at a dignified knee length.

  “Ump,” said the tailor, then, transferring the pins from his mouth to the pincushion, answered at greater length. “My lord, the largeness of the padding is to set more in fashion the spindly shanks of the Flemish gentlemen. Good Englishmen’s legs, being always more handsome, are better set off with moderate padding at a shorter length, and more elegant slashing. His Majesty has lately ordered a most regal pair of trunk hose in cream-colored silk, with slashings in crimson, embroidered around in gold. They are none so wide and long as the Flemish, or, God forbid, the Germans which are most uncouthly huge, for His Majesty shows the handsomest leg of all. I would say, do as His Majesty does, for his is the finest judgment. Here, my lord, you will see that the murrey and silver sets you off marvelously well.” An apprentice removed the pincushion and handed his master a burnished silver mirror to hold before Sir Septimus for his approval.

  Handsome still, he thought. Septimus, you bravo, you are a handsome figure of a man. Fuller than in youth, but fullness lends gravity. The silver that streaked his square-cut, dark beard harmonized elegantly with the silver embroidery at his collar. The great, curling streaks of white rose in the dark hair that stood up from the corners of his brow pleased him, with their hint of the diabolical. You are a splendid-looking fellow, he said to himself. But at the very moment of the thought, the sound of a sarcastic laugh seemed to split the mirror. Crouch started back with shock, but the tailor never moved. Had he heard the raucous, smoky laugh? He couldn’t have.

  “Crouch, you are one vain old bastard,” came a malicious voice from the mirror, and Crouch, to his horror, saw his own reflection gradually fade and a new set of features begin to take its place.

  “No, no don’t move it,” he said to the impatient tailor. “I’m still looking.” Quelling his rising panic, Crouch sent out a silent thought. Who are you?

  You know me. A ghastly green face, with a huge nose full of bristly hairs, tiny red eyes, and a mouth full of pointed teeth began to form up in the mirror. Watching Crouch’s face gradually change from horror to covetousness, the face in the mirror laughed again. You seek me here, you seek me there, you’ve been hunting everywhere.

  My lost demon, thought Crouch. But how do I imprison him in the mirror here, in the middle of a fashionable shop, without my grimoires, my black candles? He knows it. He taunts me.

  I mock you for a mortal fool. Do you hear me laughing? I have just collected the soul of your goldsmith. One by one your servants vanish.

  You want to be mine, too. Crouch turned a soothing, caressing thought on the demon. You wouldn’t be here to taunt me if you didn’t crave it.

  And now you try to seduce me like a women, eh, Crouch? Ha! You have to offer me something better than that.

  I swear, I’ll catch you.

  As you’ll catch the Helmsman? At this, Crouch’s wide, sagging mouth compressed into a thin line of fury. I saw your trick, Crouch. You told Wolsey the conspirators of the Priory menaced his precious treaty, and he sent his man Ashton to find the Helmsman.

  Ashton will return to me first, and I will know all.

  No he won’t. Say good-bye to your scheme. Ashton is no longer yours. Sir Septimus’s heavy, hairy eyebrows lifted. When had a man ever escaped him, once his claws were deep into his soul? Rageful pride seized him. Impossible, he thought.

  You’re losing your touch, Crouch. Ashton belongs to that busybody round-faced widow now.

  “Never!” shouted Sir Septimus into the mirror.

  “My lord, is it the set of the collar that displeases you?”

  “Oh—oh, that. Yes, it’s too wide. Entirely too wide. Perhaps it needs to stand up more. Stiffening. That’s what it wants.” Crouch sounded rattled. The mirror once again reflected only his own face. But in his mind, he could still hear the infernal spirit’s rusty laugh. Rising fury stained his face. No demon will mock me, he thought. I will destroy Ashton.

  “Is next week soon enough?” With concern, the tailor saw Crouch’s face redden and the veins stand out, blue a
nd throbbing, on his neck.

  “Oh, yes, by all means. Next week. Sooner, if possible.” The terrified tailor ushered Sir Septimus out of his cutting room with a thousand bows, collapsing onto a bench once the door was safely shut behind him.

  At last the weather broke, and the fresh breeze blew apart the gray clouds in the sky. I made myself cheerful by wishing it and delivered to Suffolk the nine fine drawings in ink and wash that he had ordered for his master and companion, the king. Thanks to the purse he gave me, I was able to do my duty for Tom, who had made himself so useful to me with carrying and minding my things. I paid a hefty bribe to the mate on the Jesus of Lübeck to smuggle him over among the horse boys and counted myself very clever that he should escape the great dangers we had seen so handily. Besides, I really could use a boy to help me, and I’d a thousand times it would rather be Tom than some sly foreign creature who would try to steal my secrets.

  By the time the news came that we were to sail with the tide at four in the morning, I had arranged for everything to my satisfaction except for Master Ashton, about whom I had heard nothing even though I had sent two messages by Tom to him but had gotten no answer. Tom said he didn’t want to answer, which struck me as very ungrateful of Master Ashton, considering that I had in a way saved his life, even though I hadn’t told Tom the story of it.

  So it was that we went down to the docks by starlight, in the hour after midnight, in the company of the attendants of the maids of honor. The great fleet had been loading all night, by the light of torches. For plate could sit in the hold until the weather broke, but living creatures could not. Squealing palfreys were lowered into the hold in slings, while servants, attendants, and lesser fry staggered laden up the gangplanks. Flame glittered and danced in the black water as little boats ferried back and forth to the fourteen great ships, bringing late soldiers and sailors clad in green and white, the King’s colors, from the shore out to the ships that were standing in the harbor. Huddled on our baggage among the clatter and shouting, we were waiting our turn to be loaded from the dock, when I saw Ashton pushing his way past the crowds of navvies and torch bearers to meet us. He was dressed in his dark traveling clothes and plain, flat hat, so different from the brightly dressed household officers who were traveling on the princess’s ship. Even in the ruddy glow of the torches, he seemed wan and pale. Silently, he escorted me and Nan to the gangplank. Laden footmen, household officers with last-minute instructions, and musicians who carried their shrouded instruments on their backs were struggling past us up onto the immense ship. I saw the princess’s chaplain and priests on the deck above. The flickering torchlight caught the gilding and carving on her forecastle as it loomed high above us. Henri, Grace à Dieu. Above it, the towering sails and their web of rope faded into the endless dark. The greatest of the great king’s fleet. Ashton’s face was somber and shadowed in the dark beyond the torches.

  “Well, I suppose this is farewell,” he said.

  “I suppose it is,” I said, “though I am glad to see you well again.” He looked puzzled.

  “I thought…you were too disgusted to inquire after me.”

  “You think me that rude? I sent Tom twice to ask after your health.”

  “Twice? I only saw him once. I sent a message to you, and he returned to say you never wanted to see me again. I thought it only right, after…after all that has happened.” I could see him folding and unfolding his left hand in that curious gesture.

  “He told you that? He told me that you didn’t want to answer my message. I thought it very rude and ungrateful of you. Possibly ruder than you are.”

  “That little devil. If I catch him, I’ll strangle him. To show me no gentleman in front of you…” Something about him seemed so right and natural now. The dulled look had gone from his eyes, his emotions were quick, strong, and honest, not warped and strange as they had been in the bishop’s palace. It was as if a spell had been lifted. I couldn’t help thinking how well made he was. The facial bones were very good, a nice proportion of bone to muscle…

  “They’ve put us on the lower deck, with the cannons,” I said, a bit quickly, to cover my thoughts. “I doubt we’ll see anything, but I’m going to try to stay on the main deck.”

  “You’ll be in the way. They won’t let you,” he said.

  “That’s what you say. You’re just jealous I’m going to the King of France’s court and you’re not.”

  “But I am,” he answered. “I have orders from the archbishop.”

  “To escort us, then?”

  “No. I have a few…errands. I don’t know…if we’ll meet again over the water. I came…to give advice.” I looked at him, puzzled. “Don’t stray from the princess’s suite. Don’t be cozened by the French, no matter what they offer. Take always a good English escort with you. You often run errands for the gentlefolk you paint. Don’t carry any letters for anyone, especially…Norfolk and his suite.” He had lowered his voice with these last words.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing…but…there are those who do not like the treaty, for it advances my master and yours at the expense of others, both in France and in our own king’s favor.” Silently, I stared at his face. I could tell he regretted he had told me even that much. I nodded, trying to look very clever and wise, as if I understood it all. Politics are not for me. They tend to be nasty and dangerous, and lead to the executioner’s block. Painters should stay away from politics.

  “Will you sail with us, then?”

  “No, on the Lübeck,” he said, and his eyes were distant. Oh, dear, I thought, suddenly guilt stricken. I hope Tom stays well out of the way.

  “I am sorry for what Tom did. I think…”

  “…that he is as desperately entangled by you as I am,” said Robert Ashton, his voice low.

  “Entangled?” I said, looking up at him, my eyes opening wide.

  “Enmeshed, tied, captured. I see you…day and night. There was a time I prayed to be freed, but it only grows stronger, and I have given in….” I could feel something warm, something desperate, coming off him like a scent. Something I had never felt before from any man. It called me and pulled me even though I didn’t want it to. I came closer. I could feel his warm breath on my face, and his hazel eyes, all dark in the torchlight, became somehow transparent, showing me the depths of him. Something was burning there, something close to madness, that made my skin prickle and my mind melt as if drunk. What woman could see such forbidden things and ever hope to free herself again? I turned my face upward and suddenly felt his lips on mine, his warm, heavy-scented embrace around me. Something like molten silver shot through all the nerves in my body, hot, powerful, full of white light. My skin felt detached from my body, alive and crackling. Every hair on it felt as if it were standing up. My mind melted away. Never in my life had I dreamed that such a transformation were possible in my own, plain, earthly being. It was he, he had done it, and the forbidden stuff was shared between us now, like some pagan curse.

  “Doomed,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again if I have to walk through the gates of hell itself…” I was terrified at what I had felt in me. I stepped away to stare at him, my eyes wide with shock. Can a man do that to a woman? Is that what it’s about, those songs and stories? Why him, why me? Why disgrace and death and loss? I looked up and saw that great patches of black were once again eating up the stars above. The wind was cold. “May God attend us all,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving abruptly.

  “Well,” sniffed Nan. “There goes the strangest, rudest man I ever did see. Twice you have saved his life and not a word of thanks. But he steals a kiss like a ruffian. The man’s no gentleman…I swear, he’s not for you.” Her voice sounded distant, and I felt the strangest floating sensation. When I looked down, I realized I was shaking all over.

  Together we mounted the swaying gangplank and managed to stay on deck long enough to see the king himself bring his sister to the waterside and kiss her farewell beneath the smokin
g torches before the trumpeters welcomed her on board.

  High up in the rigging of the Henri Grace à Dieu sat a lovely, translucent figure in a blowing gown of dappled colors and the ugliest shoes imaginable. Invisible to the ordinary human eye, Hadriel stretched his iridescent wings to the blue sky and joyfully let the brisk, cool ocean wind ruffle the feathers on them. The sails of the Great Harry had been painted with lions and the Tudor rose, and her linen pennants, over a hundred feet long each, had been replaced by ones of embroidered silk. Far below the joyful angel’s seat, the deck of the galleon heaved crazily on the swells. Around the ship, white sails spread and pennants flying, the wedding fleet dotted the gray, whitecapped ocean like goslings following their mother. Hadriel was so pleased with the sight that he began to sing, but no one beneath him could hear it. A curious sound of the wind in the rigging, they thought.

  Gray clouds began to gather in the sky, and Hadriel stopped his singing and looked up, annoyed, when a drop of rain fell on his nose. Impatiently, he shook his curly head at the dark clouds, and they blew on, then gathered again. This time, he pointed firmly at them with his slender, pale hand, and again the wind parted them. The sailors below looked impatiently at the sky, and the admiral of the flagship, still wearing his green-and-white damask dress livery in honor of his royal passenger, gave orders that sent them scurrying. The clouds, now black, began to gather anew, and there was a distant rumble of thunder.

  “Stop this at once,” called Hadriel, furling his wings and looking irritated. “Belphagor, I know you’re there. Do you think I haven’t noticed you following me? Quit blowing up these clouds. You have been absolutely insufferable since those fools let you out of the box.”

  “Get your ridiculous little nose out of my business,” growled a surly voice. “Go flutter home, you hymn-singing flatterer. You’re not wanted here.” A greenish, smoky figure was forming up, crouching on the yardarm below Hadriel’s perch: Belphagor the demon, red eyed, long nosed, and sagging of stomach.