The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “Tell me, Maîtresse Susanne, if I were your patron, would you keep silent about all that you heard from my mouth?”

  “My lady, even if I did not have that high honor, I would do so. I do not repeat things that are too high for me to understand and also none of my business. And besides, even if I did, who would believe me? I’m already thought to be half a madwoman, for my painting.” I sighed just at the thought of it.

  The duchess laughed again, and said, “I think I am right about you. I have in mind several commissions, when we are in Paris. Tell me, have you a studio?”

  Now I thought about trickery, and how the Devil cozens people with what they want most, but then I thought about the studio, and was cozened. Ashton’s advice flew out of my mind, and besides, he was dead, and what did he know about painting anyway? And then I thought most righteously about how I could paint the queen much better if I had that studio, and it was clear this duchess had money of her own. So I gave the duchess the answer that pleased her and let her know I could be bought, and at a good cheap price, too.

  “No, my lady. I am confined to the miniatures, which are water based, until I have a place of my own. But I am afraid I may never get what I need, in a strange city, perhaps with powerful guilds.”

  “Then you will need me, I think. I am an important patron of the arts in this country. No one will dare cross me if I favor you. I will see that you have your studio.” I could see her studying my face, and I knew she had seen the look of gratitude in my eyes. Her face relaxed, and her smile was genuine. “It pleases me to sponsor a woman in a man’s craft. In The Book of the City of Ladies all creation is sustained by women’s art and virtue, which is most pleasing to God.”

  “There is a city all of ladies somewhere?”

  “There is a book, but not a city,” she responded, in the tone of a governess correcting her ignorant charge. “It was written to celebrate women’s virtues, by Christine de Pizan, a poetess of renown in our country.” What a country, I thought. No wonder it’s so full of sin. Women write books all over the place. Still, I can’t be picky. The vision of my studio warmed my heart. When would the queen have the power and influence to help me this way, isolated as she was, and thoughtless, too, about the requirements of the artist’s craft? It wasn’t as if she ever paid me a penny, even when she had it. Besides, every sou of her attendants’ allowances must now come from the French king, who was very stingy and hadn’t paid anything either. Then I remembered that Wolsey had never advanced anything on that fifteen-pound allowance, and the duchess’s patronage, even if she was a bit too, well, French for me, looked better and better. I could hear the duchess’s chuckle. How annoying. I am used to reading people’s thoughts, but she does it, too.

  “I would have you come and read that book to us, making it into French, that my ladies and I may debate upon its merits,” she said. Debate a work of virtue? I was shocked. What is to be debated about virtue? I felt sucked into the sin of it. I could just imagine how those loose-living court ladies would talk. That was what I got for my wickedness. It had all started the day I first put my foot on that slippery slope, that first step away from being a truly good wife, when I used my husband’s sins as an excuse to do what I pleased. Now I was adrift in an alien court full of schemers. Ashton was dead, and the queen didn’t know I was alive, and everyone had forgotten whatever it was Wolsey had sent me for which he had never bothered to tell me about. All I knew was that he wanted portraits but had never told me whose, and he wanted to know what paintings the king had, which I hadn’t seen yet anyway. I was in a way the queen’s servant, except that she didn’t pay me; I was paid by the duchess Claude, but not her servant; now I seemed almost to have a patroness, but only if I didn’t get in trouble with her or the rest of them. And on top of it all, I was to be not only a paintrix, but a jester.

  “Oh, don’t imagine it,” said Marguerite d’Alençon, picking the thought from my head. “Gaillarde can’t read.” She smiled that knowing little smile she had, the one I was to paint her with later on. Then she looked me up and down, in a much too speculative fashion. “Tell me,” she said, “would you like to marry again? If your work pleases me, I will arrange your marriage to a respectable gentleman of my household.” My eyes widened in horror.

  “Oh, the sheets.” She laughed. “Maîtresse Susanne, haven’t you yet learned that all men are the same? If you are to live in France, you must become more philosophical. Virtue must be tried by reality, or it is only fantasy. That, or hypocrisy. Remember, come tomorrow, and bring your book.” I left wondering at the strange French lady, who seemed odder than anyone I had ever known, except, perhaps, myself.

  On the Left Bank of the Seine, forming part of the stonework and walls of the rambling old Hôtel de Cluny, and beneath the streets and the narrow, respectable houses and garden walls of the still-medieval city, lie the vast and subterranean ruins of the ancient Roman baths of the city, the Palais des Thermes. Here, entangled in a maze of secret tunnels, shrouded in perpetual blackness, are great arched halls and crumbling marble corridors, where the sound of trickling water can be heard, and the black waters of the tepidarium wait to drown the unwary explorer whose candle fails. Portions of the vaulted rooms have become the cellars of some of the old houses; here casks and crates are piled in homely array, and the light sifts in through grated vents in the ceiling. But to those who know the plan of the secret palace below, a web of decayed corridors hollowed out within the buried ruins connects the houses on the surface, all the way from the rue de la Harpe, beneath the Hôtel de Cluny, and the monastery of the Mathurins, to a hidden spot on the riverbank, via slime-encrusted Roman aqueducts which long ago lost contact with the waters. Here and there in the blackness and rubble of collapsed stone and low caves dug in the remains of buried corridors are burned-out candle ends, expired oil lamps, a shoe, a discarded leather jerkin of the previous century. But in this century, the secret of the tunnels has been lost to all but one secret brotherhood.

  Deep underground, in the heart of this rotting mass of stone, there is a door to a tiny room beneath the tepidarium that is new, stout, and well oiled. Inside that room are brass-bound chests in which, wrapped in oiled silk against the mildew, there are genealogical tables, a work of prophecy and secrets, and the records of the coups, the attempted coups, the assassinations, and the plots of the Paris branch of the Priory of Sion. The room is a little scriptorium, with a high, narrow standing desk from the days of Jean le Bon, and a lamp rarely lighted. Beyond it, a narrow service corridor once used by the slaves of the bath leads up through the hypocaust to the vaulted remains of the calderium, where water still collects in an ancient tile pool through lost underground channels. Between the Roman columns of the calderium are modern torch brackets and resin-dipped torches that show signs of recently having been lit. There is a broad oak table with silver candelabra on it and venerable old chairs around it. At one end is a great, cushioned chair with arms, a veritable throne. Drops of water sound, as they fall, one by one, from the mouth of a lion’s-head fountain on the far wall. The waters of the pool lap fitfully in the dark, then catch the glitter of a single candle approaching down a hidden staircase. The man in black has come to light the torches. The Helmsman has arrived in the street above, and has entered by a concealed doorway into the house of the eminently respectable doctor of theology, Maître Bellier. It is here the masters of the Priory will meet.

  “Brethren of the Secret”—the Helmsman, tall and swarthy, his eyes burning and intense, leans forward in the thronelike armchair at the head of the table—“we have here a crisis.” The orange glow of sputtering torches has filled the ancient vault, their smoke rising into the shadowy heights above. There is a smell of pine resin from the torches cutting through the scent of moldy water that hangs eternally in the room. “The astrologers have foretold a favorable conjunction this coming winter. Such signs will not be ours for another century. The king will not live into the new year. The time of the fall of dynasties is u
pon us. But the stars also indicate great danger for the Priory.” There was a stir of worry among the company and a shaking of heads. “Six months ago, outsiders discovered our presence, and our Secret. Maître Bellier, here, informed us that a certain English gentleman had discovered our work of sacred prophecy. It had been, however, divided in three parts between three partners in treasure seeking, and he had only one. The other two parts had been sold before our brother in London had discovered the fact.” Gasps of horror echoed in the watery chamber. At a signal from the Helmsman, Maître Bellier spoke.

  “While in London, I made inquiries; this Sieur de Crouch had discovered the significance of the work and was determined to regain the remaining two portions. One partner murdered the other, and he murdered the remaining one, thinking to collect both missing portions of the manuscript. The central portion, however, eluded him. It was either in the hands of the widow of one of his partners or had been sold by her to one who would appreciate its full significance: the English archbishop Wolsey.” The chill silence of fear fell over the little group at the table as they heard this narrative. The Helmsman spoke again:

  “You will appreciate, my brothers, that there were three possibilities at this point: Wolsey had sent the Secret to Rome, Wolsey retained the Secret for himself, possibly to reveal it to our king in support of the new alliance he seeks, or that the Secret had somehow eluded him and this Sieur de Crouch would get hold of it at last, and attempt to use it to his own advantage with the French throne. Now, what says our brother who has returned from Rome?”

  A young man in the black-and-white habit of a Dominican spoke quietly: “I may tell the Helmsman that no manuscript or message bearing the Secret came from England into Rome during the time that I was there. Secrets there were aplenty, but not the Secret. This Wolsey is an ambitious man, but for himself, not for the Church, which is in our favor. Ah, brothers, he was busy! What letters he sent to his agent, Sylvester Giglis! But not about us.” Bellier raised an eyebrow, and, urged on, the Dominican, or Dominican in disguise, continued. “Wolsey’s appointment as cardinal was blocked by the Cardinal of York, who was resident there. Then, oh how fortunately, Bainbridge was poisoned by Rinaldo of Modena, his chaplain. When questioned, he blamed Giglis, but Giglis claimed Rinaldo was only a poor madman, acting on his own. Then—how odd!—the madman killed himself, as madmen so often do. The pity of it, that so many lone madmen are driven to political assassinations and then commit suicide….”

  “Then we may conclude, brother, that Rome remains ignorant, and we are safe from the Inquisition?”

  “That is correct, brother and Helmsman, at least in regard to this instance.”

  “And now, what news from London?” The Helmsman looked again at Bellier, bidding him to speak.

  “Wolsey has a servant who found and escorted the widow, at his orders. He obtained her confidence. He went through her things. Wolsey then ordered the servant to cross the Channel and join the French court as part of the entourage of the English princess. I came to the natural conclusion.”

  “The king! He would betray us to the throne!” The whisper ran round the table.

  “Twice we made the attempt to assassinate the servant before he could reach the French court. Each time, we were foiled by accident.” There was a groan of disappointment. Even the Helmsman’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed with the beginning of rage.

  “But then the Hand of God intervened in our cause, and the ship carrying him was lost. He is dead, and whatever messages he carried are lost forever.”

  “Excellent.”

  “However, there remains the last possibility. I had the house of the Sieur de Crouch watched. He searched, he searched frantically. He was in and out of Wolsey’s house. He questioned his servants. He followed the widow. He even tried to commune with the dead to find the lost portion of the manuscript. Then, suddenly, all was calm. He, who loathes travel and discomfort, suddenly sent his servant to arrange passage across the Channel.”

  “He has it!”

  “Yes, it must be!” The voices echoed in the stone vault.

  “I took passage on the next ship. Thanks to our brothers at Calais, I arranged for the fastest horses, and have come here ahead of him. It is not the servant of Wolsey but the Sieur de Crouch who comes to the court to betray us to the Valois.”

  “Then you know what must be done.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The Secret must be recovered and his copy of the manuscript destroyed. No outsider who discovers what it contains must be suffered to live. That is the law of the Priory.” The Helmsman rose, and the servant who had lit his way down through the tunnel rose from his haunches beside the pool and relit his candle for the ascent. Silently, the members of the secret brotherhood lit their candles from the great candelabra on the table, then rose and followed him. At last only Eustache, the man in black, remained. One by one he plunged each torch into the pool to extinguish it. With the last fierce hiss, the chamber was plunged again into darkness. Silently, the bobbing flame of a single candle vanished up the hidden stair.

  They say that at the coronation, Dauphin François held the crown over the queen’s head himself, to spare her the weight, and even though I didn’t see it, I could imagine him taking the opportunity of casting many improper looks at her with his sharp little eyes the way I had seen him do before. Then once she was crowned, the queen had a triumphal entry in procession through the Porte Saint Denis, into the city of Paris itself, where Nan and I had already gone to see about the new studio space that one of Duchess Marguerite’s lackeys had rented for us. It was really quite splendid, being the whole third floor of a narrow little house on the Pont au Change, right where the goldsmiths and money changers are—and also several dealers in jewelry, expensive curiosities, and manuscripts of olden times, and galleries for the sale of works of art previously owned by distinguished persons in temporarily impecunious circumstances. There is also a shoemaker who makes very elegant slippers, but they are too fine for me. It was also convenient for me, being not all that far from the Hôtel des Tournelles, the palace where the king stays when he is in Paris, or from the Louvre, the greatest of his city palaces. The floor of my new studio was only a little bit tilted, and there was a fine window to the north, which is the best kind of light, and two fireplaces. It was also furnished, though very simply with a commodious old cupboard, a bedstead big enough to fit a huge family, and a well-scarred worktable.

  “The last man to have this was an engraver,” said the landlady, looking at us suspiciously. “I thought the duchess’s notary said a painter and his household were to move in.” And not a woman of ill fame, masquerading as a widow, her eyes seemed to say.

  “I am a painter, to persons of distinction only. Ordinarily, I live at court. This is to be my studio space. The duchess’s notary assured me it was a suitable place for a respectable woman, but perhaps he did not notice that low establishment across the way. I am not sure my patroness would approve of my staying even a night opposite something called The Giant’s Cask. In England, I would never have suffered such an indignity. I think, perhaps, it would spoil my reputation to stay here.” The landlady’s eyes traveled from my widow’s black, to Nan with her severe expression and neat gown, and then to the lackey in the duchess’s rich livery who was carrying my box. I could see the calculation in her eyes.

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said grumpily.

  “In England, there are many respectable women engaged in trade—and simply dozens of lady painters. Perhaps you have lady weavers here in Paris?”

  “But of course, how else can an honest man’s widow live?”

  “Well, then, it’s just the same with lady painters in England. Only more genteel, of course, from the association with persons of rank.” The fierce old Frenchwoman in the cap and apron shook her head wonderingly. “Disgusting…,” she muttered, “foreign…still, the duchess herself…”

  “What did you tell that woman?” asked Nan, as w
e listened to the landlady’s heavy steps thumping down the outside staircase.

  “That there were dozens of lady painters of the highest rank in England,” I answered.

  “You are a terrible liar,” said Nan, with a fierce frown. That was what Master Ashton used to say, and hearing it made me feel sad, but I didn’t want to tell her.

  “Oh, look out the window,” I said, changing the subject. “There’re three drunk fellows on horseback in front of the Giant’s Cask. Oh…there…I thought so. One of them’s fallen off.” The man who had fallen off lay on his back in the mud. Suddenly he spied me and pointed upward. There was a lot of shouting in French as the other two looked up and pointed and howled things I couldn’t make out.

  “Merciful God, another tavern,” said Nan. “And you a hopeless simpleton in spite of everything. Susanna, what you need is a man to look after you—a proper one, not a drunk or a philanderer—or sure as fate, you’ll not be safe on this earth.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Nan. I had a man, and he didn’t look after me at all, and now I’m just beginning to enjoy myself. Listen, I hear the cheering. It must be the queen’s procession on the way to Les Tournelles.” So of course we had to drop everything and rush away and crowd into the street to see the queen pass by on her litter, the Dauphin François riding beside her very cozily, with all her troops of French attendants, banner carriers, mounted guards, and trumpeters, riding to meet the king, who had skipped most of the festivities to go ahead of her and go to bed. It was a very grand and inspiring sight, and everybody there was talking about nothing but the great tourney between England and France, which would be grander than the queen’s entry. Grander than anything ever seen before. It would be held in the queen’s honor, and it was the Dauphin’s idea.