The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “Do you know her?” someone asked.

  “Why, it’s Mistress Dallett. She is the most wonderful paintrix in the whole world,” said the familiar voice. Susanna looked up amazed.

  “Tom! Oh, Tom, you’re not a ghost, are you? I dreamed of you drowned so many nights.”

  “I’m not a ghost; just ask anyone here. I—I meant to come looking for you, but they’ve kept me so busy.”

  “Tom, they told me you were lost with the Lübeck and Master Ashton.” Susanna flung her arms around the angular, freckled boy, who blushed horribly.

  “Say, mistress, I was almost drowned on the Lübeck, too,” said a wag.

  “And me!” cried another.

  “How did you get here, Tom?”

  “Master Ashton lashed me to a spar with his own belt. He saved me, Mistress Susanna.”

  “Then he died a hero, as they said.”

  “He didn’t die, Mistress Susanna. He’s getting well in Calais, with the others. The water was too cold and gave most of them that were pulled out the lung fever. He got me a place here with the horses. He’s too sick to come now, and he says he’s waiting for a letter from the archbishop.” Susanna turned pale and put her hand to her heart. Her eyes were huge.

  “Alive,” she whispered. “He’s alive.”

  “He says he keeps turning up, like the bad penny, much to everyone’s annoyance.”

  “Then he’s the same as ever….” Tom looked at her face and was suddenly angry and envious, all at once, even though he felt guilty for it, and for not being grateful enough. But in that moment he realized that Susanna’s face had never looked like that for him and never would. Jealousy pricked him. He stuck his thumbs in his belt and cocked his head to one side.

  “No, not the same. He’s all thin and wore-out-looking. Limps, too.” And not handsome anymore, even if I am plain, he thought with satisfaction, thinking of Ashton’s sunken, dark-rimmed eyes and skeletal, gray face. “He got very sick with coughing and talked nonsense a lot. A lot. He’s full of suspicions, you know. You wouldn’t like what he said. He’s not a true friend to you, for what he believed, even for all you’ve done for him. It’s me who’s been faithful to you, Mistress Susanna. It’s me.”

  “Will he come, Tom? Do you think he’ll come?”

  “Hey, Tom, you rogue! You’re needed to assist in compounding a poultice. The duke’s best horse has gone lame, and he is beside himself.” A tall stranger with a bridle thrown over one shoulder came to pull Tom away.

  “I suppose,” said Tom grudgingly, as he turned away from Susanna to follow the stranger. Above them, the little angel who had been hovering close to listen in was transfixed with a sudden look of joy, then sped away with a flash of iridescent wings.

  Susanna watched Tom go with a pang of guilt. She had been cruel, without meaning to. She wanted to run after him and say she was sorry, but she knew that would make it worse. She couldn’t hide from Tom what she felt, and it was not for him. Robert Ashton. He was alive. I’m bound to see him again, she said to herself. He’ll come. It was all meant to be, after all. But then she thought: What if I was wrong? What if I felt nothing in him, and what I thought I felt in him was only in me? What if he steals kisses like that from all sorts of ladies and counts them all the same? What if I really don’t like him when I see him again? What if he never comes? Her heart in a turmoil, she turned to trudge back through the mud to Les Tournelles, where she and Nan could wash out her dress. Suddenly, the tourney had lost all its charm for her.

  “Nan, do you think we could go to Calais?”

  “Nonsense, Susanna. You get giddier every day. Stick to your work, and what will happen, will happen.”

  The cherub spotted the French page at the entrance of the grandest of the pavilions and followed him in.

  “What’s this?” said the duke. “Duke Francis asks me to stand for him? Bigod, the man’s a weakling. That finger is something only a lady would cry over.” The knights around him laughed. But then Suffolk’s face grew serious. His best horse had gone lame, and the one he had counted on as a spare seemed to have become ill from eating French grain. He needed a fresh horse, a good one. He was about to ask Dorset, when a child’s voice, as clear as clear, seemed to speak from a point just above his ear:

  “Look outside, my lord, and take your purse with you.” He felt something like a fly somewhere near his shoulder and tried to swat it off, but there was nothing there.

  “Come outside a moment, my lord of Dorset; I have had an idea,” said the Duke of Suffolk. Striding out of his pavilion, surrounded by his followers, he spied a pair of preposterous horsemen, so overmounted as to appear ridiculous. One of them was white haired, a man more suited to a sweet-going gennet than a warhorse. The other sat all crouched up, his stirrups too short, his reins dangling as if he had never ridden anything before. Yet his mount, a great, shining black stallion so spirited that he seemed to breathe fire, was as docile as a lamb. Perfect horses, shining blue-black, the biggest he had ever seen. Horses to take a real warrior to victory. Quickly, the duke said to one of his knights, “See there? Go and ask those knights if they will come here. I would buy one or both of those horses.”

  Septimus Crouch was gratified by the attention paid to him. Once dismounted, with the plentiful aid of several of the duke’s retainers, he practically simpered.

  “My lord, I cannot sell these horses, even for the honor of England. They do not belong to me, but to my companion, the most noble foreign prince Belfagor-o.” Crouch had been quick to realize that a fellow like Suffolk would recognize any name claimed to be of a great English or French house. And he was desperately angling for the coveted invitations to the festivities that he had promised Belphagor he could easily obtain.

  “Belfagor-o? What kind of name is that?” asked the man who had helped him from his horse.

  “Oh—ah, Italian. Belfagoro is a mighty prince in his own state.” Belphagor bowed his head slightly. The duke bowed his head equally slightly.

  “What state is that?” asked Suffolk, who was very rigid about precedence.

  “Oh, why, um, Tartarus. Yes, Tartarus. He is an archduke.”

  “Tartarus? I’ve never heard of the place.”

  “Oh, one of the smallest Italian states. In the…ah, mountains, very isolated. The archduke is unvanquished in war, but he…hum, concentrates his efforts these days on horse breeding.” Belphagor was enjoying himself. There was a time when he would have sprouted up fifty feet high, spouting fire, just to terrify the man, but now that he was learning civilization, he delighted in the game of jockeying for precedence. What fun, for a being who must usually sift through walls, invisible, to be instead invited in by his victims, in full infernal form! Belphagor felt intoxicated with the new game.

  In the meantime, the duke’s master of the horse was inspecting the two mounts, who were being held by one of the duke’s pages. Amazing creatures. Their hooves seemed made of solid steel, rather than horn, and there was no soft spot in the middle. A soft, hot, orangeish glow seemed to come from their nostrils, as if they were stoked by some internal furnace.

  “Why should I help the English in the victory when I favor no side?” Belphagor asked the knight who had made the duke’s offer.

  “Because, Most Noble Lord Belfagoro, our lord the duke is undefeated in the lists. Now the French have used his own chivalry to betray him, they know his horses are done, and they expect the victory. So if you sell us these horses, you can place bets at very favorable odds in the French camp and then trick the trickers, collecting a large sum in addition.” The imps grumbled to each other in their own language, and the boy holding them felt the hair going up on the back of his neck.

  “Ah, I see. A double betrayal and wealth in the bargain. Agreed,” said Belphagor, nodding agreeably. “But the horses can’t be sold. They belong to themselves. However, I can rent you out their services for the length of the engagement. I would, however, expect handsome payment.”

  “A hundred
pounds.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “And two seats in the stands.”

  “Where in the stands?”

  “In the middle, with the ladies.”

  “No good,” said Belphagor. “I’m not a lady.”

  “In front then, next to the princes of the blood.”

  “I suggest, Most Noble Lord Belfagoro, that you accept this offer, since you may enhance your esteem in the eyes of others by sitting next to the princes of the blood.” Crouch, smooth and politic, stood by Belphagor’s elbow.

  Belphagor nodded affably at Crouch, whose face was a study in disdain. How curious, thought some of the onlookers. We have never seen an uglier lord. His trunk hose, what a huge cut, and his shoes, as big as boats. And what curious eyes, all sunken and red beneath beetling brows of never-before-seen hairiness! White powder like a clown and—is it possible? No neck at all. Still, a man who could own horses like that must be respected, no matter what his appearance, even if it is rather dim in places.

  “Will you require an indemnity, if the horses are killed?”

  “The horses will not be killed,” said Belphagor, and the master of the horse silently nodded his head. Not those two hellhounds, he thought.

  “Let me try them first,” said the duke.

  “Of course, Illustrious Duke,” agreed Belphagor, and then he spoke softly to the two imps in their own language. “Go with this fellow. Don’t give him any trouble. Give him the victory. I, Belphagor the Great, require it of you.” The imps grumbled, but the nearest one allowed himself to be mounted by the silly mortal with almost no fuss at all. Then the duke put the horse through his paces: tight turns and figures, cantering on both leads, a stop from a full gallop. Pleased, he tried the more complex maneuvers that require the most perfect training; the piaffe, the levade, and the other movements used in parade and war.

  “Perfect,” he breathed. The immense black thing beneath him was not even damp with the exertion.

  “My lord, your horse armor is not large enough for him,” said the master of the horse.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Belphagor. “I told you they can’t be killed.”

  The duke had a sudden shudder of superstitious awe. What on earth had he bargained for? What was the source of the mysterious inspiration he had had? What were the two big black things, anyway? Horses, just horses, he said to himself, shaking off the mood, and sure enough, there they were, contentedly taking a handful of grain from a stable boy’s palm. This is for the honor of the king, my master, he said firmly to himself. He would not go creeping back to Henry the Eighth a failure. The negotiations for the secret treaty were going hard. The old king wanted money, he seemed devious and wary. With his gray-white face, his wheeze, his slow and deliberate language, he was stifling and frustrating to deal with. The tourney, on the other hand, was refreshing. Francis’s trickery, to the degree that it had been explained to him, seemed easier to deal with than the old king’s craft. It was straightforward and French. He, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, would conquer by force of arms. He would cover the French with humiliation. Just thinking of it, he breathed hard and clenched the muscles in his massive jaw. He didn’t care what he was riding. They were damned good horses.

  Above him the little cherub laughed aloud and clapped his tiny pink hands. The wicked trick was all the fault of the demon Belphagor. Hadriel couldn’t blame him, even if he found out. He hadn’t broken the rules at all. “Three for five,” he shouted happily, as he shot away from the duke’s pavilion as swiftly as an arrow.

  “Bandage it heavier,” said Duke Francis. “I can’t be seen watching unless the bandage is visible from the stands.” His surgeon obligingly added another wrapping of white linen and a dark silk sling.

  “There, my lord. You must be careful to hold it thus, to avoid engorging it with blood and attracting ill humors.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Francis. “In this moment I would avoid ill humors.” He laughed. A boy held his white palfrey outside. With great content he mounted and ambled to the lists. There carnage was being done in foot combat. Damn, he thought, the slain are all French. We must do something about that. Even behind the barrier all the way across the field, he could feel the eyes of the ladies on him. One waved her handkerchief. He just knew that they were saying, “What a hero. Why, even wounded, he would not fail to appear to direct the queen’s tourney. What a fine figure of a man.” There was his sister. There was his mother. There was his ugly little wife. There was his king, and the English princess who had become queen. God, look at that ape, Suffolk, ride up at full gallop, stop so fast he splattered mud in every direction, and then bow until his plumes brushed the saddle! And his horse was unarmed. He must be very sure he would unseat his opponent without a struggle. This time, Suffolk, you will get what’s coming to you.

  There was a great cheer from the stands. The French challenger, astride a mighty gray stallion from Francis’s own stable, came and made his bow. Seated, the German’s immense size was not easy to discern. Wait until he dismounts to finish off Suffolk, thought Francis. Then they will see something. But the two knights had closed their helms and were rattling down the field directly at each other. There was a crash as both lances landed square on the mark, and a terrible squealing of horses as the gray went down. But the huge man in the French surcoat had kicked aside the stirrup, and as the gray struggled to rise, then sank again, he managed to dismount. Well done, thought Francis, who had seen many a man killed beneath a falling horse, unable to disentangle himself from the high, embracing jousting saddle.

  Suffolk had thrown aside his shattered lance. So far, the match was his. There was a roar from the French in the stands as the challenger stood. Suffolk looked as he dismounted to face him on foot and saw the reason. The man was a giant. That’s no Frenchman, thought Suffolk, as they advanced on each other with drawn swords. He could feel his rage rising. It was as if, through the slits in his helm, he could only see the world washed in red. Rage drove him; he could hardly feel the blows that passed his guard. He was too furious to use the stroke from below for which his opponent had prepared so assiduously. Shouting his battle cry, he smashed past his opponent’s parries, landing blow after blow. The man stumbled and fell. “Stop!” came the cry, and he saw that blood was gushing from his opponent’s helm. Then the man was surrounded by French esquires, and he could hear Francis shouting in the background, “Get him off the field before they open his helm.”

  No Frenchman, thought Suffolk as he stepped past the dying gray stallion and saluted his queen, giving the victory to her and to England. He could see her face was flushed with excitement. Ah, good, he thought. She will give a good report of me to my king, her brother. A faint flutter of regret passed briefly through his triumphant heart. There was a time when he had thought he might approach her, but now she was as far above him as the sun in heaven. But I shall have her favor, he thought. He looked again at her admiring eyes. Yes, definitely, her favor. It made the triumph double.

  Twenty-two

  NOW that I was in Paris, I made a plan to improve myself by trying to see the important works of art that were in the king’s palaces and in the churches of the city, and make copies where I could of the work most excellently made. But it was not always easy because women aren’t allowed everywhere and Nan said my plan of sneaking into the priory of Saint Magloire dressed as a man was a bad idea and she wouldn’t allow it at all, and besides, she would tell on me, which wasn’t fair. But the palace of Les Tournelles is a school for any artist lucky enough to be in the city of Paris, for there are valuable paintings in nearly every room. In the chapel among the rare carvings and statues are ancient devotional works by now-anonymous masters, gilded and without depth, in the antique style. Then there are the paintings of hunts and mythological scenes and the portraits of long-dead kings that hang in the long galleries.

  The good word of Marguerite, the Duchesse d’Alençon, got me access to many of the rooms that might otherwise be
closed to me, and also to her private collection, which included a book of portrait drawings of her friends, mostly made in the atelier of the master Jean Clouet, who had the biggest portrait studio in Paris, and with his many assistants and apprentices was busy all the time. Luckily for me he did not know the secrets of painting in small, which I kept for myself. It was easier because I was a woman and people thought it was some kind of instinct or magic, and not from hard studying.

  Not only did I learn much from studying all these different paintings and drawings, but some of them cheered me up because they were really awful, even if they were famous. That made up for the ones that made me despair of ever equaling them, like some of the new ones from Italy. Besides, it turned out that the king did not have a Leonardo. That was just talk. He had a copy of a Virgin with angels, but I could tell from the composition that this Italian painter was a real master and probably had seen angels himself because one of them looked rather a lot like Hadriel.

  Also, I had not forgotten Archbishop Wolsey’s command to send him a list of what the King of France had on display, so I was making the list but was not very far on it yet. True, Wolsey had never paid me any part of that fifteen pounds a year he had promised, but that is the artist’s lot. At least he had given me plenty of business, especially by sending me into France, and some of those people had paid me, and since I was thrifty, I still had money in my purse. Besides, the names of my high clients were useful in getting materials on credit, which is especially hard for a woman. That is how it is with those who serve the great. First you have to borrow to get the materials to deliver what they want, and then everyone is in debt to everyone else and waiting for payment, which may or may not come someday when the great lord or lady remembers it. But now I was better off than before because I had free meals with the English servants of the queen as well as a studio with the rent paid ahead by the Duchess Marguerite and the prospect of a handsome fee from the Duchess Claude when her angels were done.