Francis is here depicted before old age had thickened his jowls and torso, and before growing the beard seen in all his mature portraits. Slender and handsome, connoisseur of arts and letters, he was already a spendthrift and a favorite of the ladies, the very model of a Renaissance courtier. The original portrait, a miniature described as set about with brilliants and engraved with a dolphin on the obverse of the case, vanished during the French Revolution.
—Lebrun. A HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE
One OF THE FIRST PORTRAITS I DID FOR THE DUCHESS MARGUERITE WAS A PICTURE OF HER BROTHER, ON WHOM SHE DOTED MOST IMMODERATELY, EVEN THOUGH HE WAS WILD AND SPOILED. After all, what would you expect from a man who had Madame Louise as a mother, who was the kind of lady who just had to run everything even if it was all for his own good? Besides, in my experience with the great ones, which grows more every year, they are all spoiled, so it is just a matter of what kind of spoiled. And if they appreciate fine art and write poetry and have an open purse like Duke Francis, why, then, it’s just right. Far better than spending it all on horses and ornamented tournament armor. When you find ones like this, it is important to pamper them and tell them frequently how much higher their thoughts are than ordinary people’s, and that refined appreciation is the mark of nobility of soul, and things like that. It keeps them from getting nasty and gets you invited back.
Twenty-one
FRANÇOIS d’Angoulême and his brother-in-law, the Duc d’Alençon, mounted on a pair of pacing palfreys, were riding the length of the wall of the Parc des Tournelles, inspecting the progress of the construction on the lists. Ahead of them, the row of little watchtowers, flat-topped and gray, vanished among the trees at the end of the park. Behind them, on the dozens of similar ornamental towers of the great palace, the silk banners of the French king flapped dismally beneath a cloudy sky. The shrill cries of the tame peacocks that wandered in the park seemed to augur another storm.
“I don’t like the looks of the sky,” said d’Alençon, looking upward into the rolling gray clouds. He took off his right glove and held up his hand to feel for any stray drops of rain.
“The ladies will not so much as dampen their headdresses,” said Francis with an expansive gesture. “Over here, above the stands, there will be a canopy of canvas, painted with rare designs.” In the cold, carpenters swarmed over the stands, and there was the sound of hammering and sawing. “Then the lists will stand here, when completed. The English will have their pavilions there….”
“That seems an ill-favored place.”
“They would not appreciate better,” said Duke Francis, dismissing the issue with a wave of his gloved hand.
“The Duc de Suffoke, they say, is a barbarian. Entirely untutored. And yet his king trusts him with the greatest affairs of state.”
“I have made inquiries. He borrows his subtlety, such as it is, from the devious Archbishop Wolsey. I plan to disgrace him utterly on the field.” Francis’s tone was easy, confident.
“This may not be so easy. Have you met the man yet? He has arrived with Milord de Dorset, the other English champion. The Duc de Suffoke is built like a bull. What he lacks in brains, he has made up in brawn. The other English knights are buying French horses, but he is shipping in his own. He spares no expense in his attempt to defeat the finest of French chivalry.” They had ridden to the far end of the lists by this time, looking at the green grass which would soon be nothing but churned up mud, mixed with blood. They turned, now, riding back toward the royal apartments. Beyond the stone walls that surrounded the park, they could see the flat towers of the Bastille looming against the gray sky, marking the boundary of the city walls.
“I do not think he will find that as easy as he thinks,” said Francis, his eyes sly. “I have a plan. In the spirit of chivalry and friendship between our nations, I have asked both him and Dorset to be my aides in the sponsorship of this tourney.”
“Aha,” said d’Alençon, “that means if you are unable to take the field…”
“They will have to stand against all comers, even their own answerers to the French challenge.”
“So, should the English do too well, which of course, they will not, then…”
“Then I retire and the English defeat the English.”
D’Alençon’s response was an appreciative chuckle. Then his face grew grave as he thought of something else. “Do you think,” he said, “that there is anything to the rumor that is sweeping the court about the English champion’s true purpose?”
“You mean that he is sent by the King of England to get an heir to the throne of France? In this, he will be defeated, too. My wife and your wife, my sister, are with her every hour of the day. She will never be alone, especially with him. Have you ever yet known my mother to be defeated in women’s business?” Francis laughed. But even as he did, the image of that slender, red-headed, bright-eyed girl rose before his eyes. Too fine a wife for an old man, he thought. Unbidden desire rose in him, the desire for an unattainable woman. Hadn’t old Louis the Twelfth himself put away his ugly, deformed wife, the daughter of a king, in favor of the previous king’s wife, the heiress of Brittany? All things would be possible to him when he became king. He would have this woman. Now. Later. He willed it, Francis of Angoulême, heir of the house of Valois.
“What if it rains?” asked the Duc d’Alençon, looking about him at the field.
“I have planned a series of indoor entertainments,” said Francis, his voice bland. Somehow, d’Alençon knew that feasting and dancing were not all that were meant.
Cold ocean fog rolled through the narrow streets of Calais, the English foothold on the Continent. It was early morning, but the sun was not visible through the grayness. Heavy horses, each ridden bareback by his groom, moved in a column like fabulous monsters through the gloom. Each animal worth a fortune, they were surrounded by armed soldiers, their fodder, tack and armor, blacksmiths, trainers and attendants following in a train of heavy wagons. The duke’s horses, the finest in England, were being transported to the great tourney at Paris.
At the Sign of the Ship, a boy holding a bundle stood in the doorway. “Don’t delay, or you’ll have to run to catch up.” The man leaning in the doorway coughed even making this brief speech. He was thin and gray faced from recent illness, and his eyes were set in dark hollows.
“Master Ashton, it’s the chance of a lifetime. How can I ever thank you?”
“Learn the business, boy, and make a success of it. It’s just your good fortune that I knew Master Denby, and that he needed a boy. Your experience with apothecary makes you valuable; it’s not everyone who’s quick enough to learn the art of horse physicking.”
“But…but I shouldn’t leave. How can I, when you’re not well?”
“Go now, and don’t look back. You’ve stayed long enough already with me here, and it wasn’t always easy, I know. It’s I who owe you, and not the other way around.” The first of the covered carts was rumbling past, and the boy recognized the postillion on the wheelhorse, who waved to him and gestured to the back of the cart.
“Good-bye, then, and thank you.” The boy ran and swung on the back of the cart, and hands inside pulled him up. Since they had been pulled from the floating wreckage of the Lübeck, a strange bond had developed between the two. Tom was no swimmer; it was Ashton who had pulled him to the rope-tangled remains of the foremast and tied him there. And Tom had stayed on when a lighter-headed creature might have fled the near-fatal illness and violent delirium that had come to Ashton from long exposure to the icy water. How curious fate is, thought Ashton. If Susanna had not defied me and smuggled him here, they’d be burying me. And if I hadn’t been brooding over her and courting death on the deck, I would have gone down in the hold. And then, what Tom told me about her…suppose I have been wrong, a fool? He paused, aching inside. Well, for all he has been through, Tom deserved this chance, thought Ashton, and fortune has brought it to him. At least it has been kind to someone. He limped inside to
sit by the fire and stare morbidly into it, refusing to break his fast, despite the temptations offered by the innkeeper’s wife.
“You’ll miss that boy, won’t you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “I know I shall.”
“You’re a woman.”
“Well of course I am. What else?”
“Then you can tell me about women. You’d know all about them, wouldn’t you?”
“I should think I would,” she agreed, taking the dirty mugs and wooden trenchers from the table. She carried them off to the kitchen, and Ashton stared gloomily into the fire again. When she returned to wipe the table, he said,
“Explain to me how you would judge this about women. If a man heard from a gentleman that a certain woman had done an evil deed, and then from another that he trusted that he knew of proof the woman had not done it, would you imagine that the woman was guilty or not?”
“It would depend on how evil the deed was, and what the secret interests of the gentlemen in question were.”
“One is secretly in love with her, but doesn’t know that I know.”
“Then I wouldn’t trust him.”
“The other is a schemer, possibly a murderer. He posed as my friend.”
“Well, I wouldn’t trust him, either. Suppose this schemer fellow had tried to seduce her secretly, and she refused, and spreading an ugly rumor was his revenge?”
“That could be, too.”
“Then there is only one way of finding out. You must ask the woman herself.”
“She could be a liar, but if she is innocent…I have been too cruel to deserve an answer.”
“This is where I will speak to you as a woman, Master Ashton. You may have forfeited her friendship, but she will be glad if you are man enough to erase this stain on her honor.”
“Oh…I’m not speaking of myself…just of a general case, that’s all….”
“Oh, and I’m not speaking of you either,” she said, throwing her damp towel over one arm and taking the poker to stir up the embers of last night’s fire. “I’m just speaking of general cases, too.” She turned and looked at him. “Speaking as a woman, you’re about the worst-looking general case I ever saw. If you like her that much, you’d better go apologize and make good if you’ve been spreading the story. I mean, as a general case, in the opinion of this general sort of female person.”
Heavy rains had fallen, churning the lists into deep mud, and dowsing the bright pavilions and gaily painted stands of the tournament grounds. But at last, the sun had broken through the rolling November clouds once more, and the banners were unfurled and the stands filled with the very cream of the French court. In the place of honor, the king lay on a litter, his beautiful new queen beside him. The dead horses and dead knights from the previous days’ encounters had been unceremoniously hauled away, for there were hundreds more where they came from, and dying brought no glory, only rapid disposal. It was a great pity, the muttering could be heard in the stands, that the English were ahead. It was especially the fault of Le Duc de Suffoke, who had run fifteen courses victoriously, shivering lances, unhorsing opponents, and littering the field with dead and wounded French contenders. It was almost unfair, he who was so uncouth in dinner conversation, and who was incapable of turning a verse in admiration of a lady, to collect so many victories against men of better family and higher chivalry. It must be cheat of some sort. An English cheat. And did you see how he bowed and scraped and preened himself before the queen, as if he were somehow upholding her honor, rather than undermining the glory of her new nation? And the queen applauded his victories. Everyone could tell by her eyes that she followed the victories of her countrymen with undue enthusiasm.
Invisible to mortal eyes, a half dozen little angels, fidgeting with impatience, sat on the canopy that sheltered the royalty of France.
“Where’s Hadriel?” asked one of the little creatures, shaking his blond ringlets.
“Gone to mind the shop. Who are you betting on?” asked the dark-eyed one, smoothing the iridescent feathers on his tiny wings.
“This time the French. I’ll wager three.”
“Only three? I’ll put five on the English.”
“Five? That’s a lot of good deeds for just one day, especially since Hadriel is always so busy, busy, busy! You’ll never have the time.”
“I’ll have the time and more. It’s you who will be busy, because I say the English will win.”
“And I say the French. They are ever so angry. They have a plan. Just you wait.”
“No cheating. Hadriel said so.”
“Oh, I’m not cheating, but they are. Go see for yourself, then come back and tell me you put five on the English.” The first little angel dangled his plump, pink feet over the canopy’s edge, swinging them back and forth. Beneath them, the queen looked up and saw the most curious ruffling motion of the canopy’s fringed edge. The wind’s coming up, she thought. We might have to move the king indoors again. She thought she heard a fluttering but decided it must be the sound of the royal banners flapping above the canopy in the wind.
The dark-eyed cherub flew all around the French pavilions. Beneath him was a confusion of men and horses, litters, surgeons, armorers hammering out dents, squires polishing helms and breastplates, stable boys, masters of the horse, and pages running errands and carrying messages. He flew through the canvas wall into the silk-hung pavilion of the Dauphin and perched on a suit of armor standing all polished and ready in the corner. Francis, dressed in the heavy, quilted doublet he wore beneath his armor, was surrounded by his knights and esquires. Before him stood the hugest man ever seen in France, a veritable giant with a blondish brown beard and large, fierce features.
“Where on earth did you find him, my dear Bourbon?” said the Duc d’Alençon to a tall, dark, rather sour-faced young man, his padded doublet sweat stained from his jousting armor.
“I got him through a contact with the emperor,” said the Duc de Bourbon, “and had him invited as an ambassador of goodwill.”
“Goodwill, indeed,” said d’Alençon with a laugh.
“Take a message to my dear friend, the Duke of Suffolk,” Francis was saying. “The finger I hurt in the last encounter has not yet recovered. I am most grateful that he has agreed to stand in my place to accept the mystery challenger.” There was a flurry, and a page in velvet livery hurried away to deliver the word to the duke. The French knights roared with laughter, and the immense champion chuckled deep in his vast chest.
“And now, we must have a French surcoat for you, my dear chevalier,” said Francis. “And we have here a French helm, so that your German one will not give you away.” As the squires armed the huge German, the French knights commented as if he were not even there.
“My God, he’s a monster.”
“It’s fair. The English are too large. That is how they cheat. It gives an unfair advantage.”
“He’s twice the size of that ox, Suffolk. He’s sure to bring us the victory.”
“A German mystery challenger for France; there’s a joke.”
“Chevalier, you must know Suffolk’s tricks. Remember the sword stroke from below—like this—that was how he tricked me.”
“Are you sure you have it?” The French knights crowded around to coach their ringer.
“I have practiced the defense against this stroke only yesterday. Remember, I have been the emperor’s champion,” replied the immense knight. “The Englishman will surely fall.”
In the corner, the little angel twittered with indignation. It seemed hardly fair, when he couldn’t cheat himself, that the French were cheating so outrageously. With an annoyed sniff, he rose through the ceiling of the pavilion and fluttered off to the English pavilions. Here was the same jumble of horses, squires, armorers, and spectators all picking their way through the muddy grounds beyond the lists. The French messenger picked his way through the crowd past two women, one carrying a drawing board followed by another with a wooden case. Behind the two trailed
an ancient lackey in the livery of the Duchesse d’Alençon, carrying a stool. Aha, thought the little creature flying above, that will be Mistress Susanna, the one who paints funny pictures.
“Mistress Susanna, Mistress Susanna, look ahead of you and go back the other way.” Susanna looked up into the air and saw nothing. She rubbed her ear, wondering where the clear little child’s voice had come from. Then she looked ahead of her and saw two men facing away from her, riding on immense black horses in the direction of the lists. The sight of one of them, a tall, broad, white-haired man in a green velvet gown, made her blood run cold. He was looking away from them. But to Susanna, even his back looked sinister.
“We need to leave,” she said to the older woman carrying the case.
“At last you’ve seen sense,” the older woman replied. The lackey, not understanding English, said nothing.
“No, I’ve seen something worse. Septimus Crouch. The murderer. He’s here.”
“Here? What on earth for? He must be following you.”
“He must be,” whispered Susanna, her face shocked. Panicked, she turned and began to run, and tripped on a tent peg, pitching into the mud. An armorer’s assistant came to help her up, and at the sound of a woman speaking English in this foreign place, several other curious people offered their help, pulling at her elbows and rescuing her drawing board from the mud. Curious, the little dark-eyed creature fluttering above turned back to listen in on the commotion.
“Oh, a picture,” the armorer’s assistant said. “It’s a sketch of our duke, triumphing over those French dandies. See here, you’ve done the engrailing on the tasses wrong. Come in and see the duke’s own armor if you like, then you’ll get it right.” Susanna looked about her, confused, while Nan tried to wipe the mud off her skirts.
“Mistress Dallet, Mistress Dallet!” a boy’s voice called. Susanna looked up at the sound of her name. The voice, cracking between high and low, sounded familiar.
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 36
