“Oh, I can hardly keep track! You mean that big, long-nosed fellow over there that you pointed out to me? The one with the ugly little wife, who spends his time dancing and cavorting with other women to show off before others?”
“The very one, Your Damnedness.” Belphagor looked across the room at Francis and then squinted to try to retain the memory. Crouch, who stood close by the demon’s ear, so that they might not be overheard, said softly, “There are many possibilities here, Lord Belphagor. You must be sure to control the man you use to unseat the Valois. Then his power will be your power. The best way to make him strong is to set his followers at odds with one another, then he holds the balance, and you hold him. The art of power is a science too rarely studied, my lord. Rely only on me, and I shall guide you through the maze.” Belphagor gave Crouch a suspicious glance.
“Introduce me to that Bourbon fellow; I like the way his eyes shift. He seems a surly, ambitious sort, suitable to be my king.” Maybe I need a new tutor, the demon was thinking. Someone with a superior social position. Crouch is beginning to bore me. He clings too much. He wants to know too much. He meddles with my imps and spends too much time looking in that silly brass cup of his.
“My lord, it will be difficult now; he has joined the dance.”
“Oh, a pox on all this disgusting festivity! I’ll just have to see him later. Come, Crouch, these creatures swarm all over the place like maggots. No, I’m fond of maggots. Like…like…”
“Rabbits, perhaps, Lord Belphagor?” suggested Crouch, his pale eyes shining with malicious amusement.
“Yes, rabbits. Furry. Brown eyed. Disgusting.”
Across the festive hall, clustered around stubby little Claude, who did not dance, were a group of ladies, who for one reason or another preferred the restful indoor sport of gossip to the more active one of dancing. The frail, crippled little Duchesse de Bourbon, the greatest heiress in France, was there with her redoubtable mother, Anne de Beaujeau, once Regent of France, who would have been queen in her own right if women had been allowed to inherit the throne.
“I say that little filly the King of England has sent the old fool will jog him straight to hell,” pronounced the old lady.
“But she is most gracious. Did you not remark at the banquet how she asked for a portion of the dessert to be sent to the Princess Renée in her nursery?” Claude had forgotten again that Mary was the enemy and had slipped back into her old habits of finding good about others. The ladies intensified their efforts, not only to satisfy themselves, but to reinforce Claude’s too easily forgotten resentment.
“Did you see how your husband danced with her?”
“Yes, they were talking. I could see her blush.”
“He only offers her courtesy; it is the king’s order. He told me so, and I have heard the king himself ask it.”
“Then you are as innocent as a lamb.”
“A lamb going to the slaughter.”
“He speaks to her in private. Did you see him show off at the tournament in her honor? It was not before you that he bowed, but her.”
“But…but he sponsored the tournament, it was the proper thing….”
“But she, she is a filthy thing. Redheaded, you know.”
“Yes, that gross English duke was her lover. She has sent for him.”
“She will make the king an heir. He is incapable, you know. The whole court has heard it. An English heir for the throne of France. What they failed in by force, they will get by trickery. There’s no fool like an old fool, I say.”
“He won’t see the spring, I’m telling you. Look how pale he is, that old man, all dressed in satin, as if he were some twenty-year-old. If he doesn’t have a nap, he becomes ill.”
“Then you’d better beware if your husband becomes king, my dear Lady Claude. It wouldn’t be the first time a King of France has put away a wife to take one he liked better.”
“Remember Jeanne de France. You’d better hurry and have a baby, then he can’t put you away in a nunnery like that poor queen.”
“Stop, stop! It can’t be true. My lord is good to me. He will love me in time; I am sure. Besides, it is I who hold the province of Brittany from my mother. He would never sever Brittany from France.”
“Your marriage has given him Brittany. He’ll hire lawyers, just you see. They’ll find a loophole to let him keep your inheritance without keeping you. You had better learn to look after your own interests better, Madame Claude, or you will spend the rest of your life looking out of an iron grille.”
“Never trust lawyers where a man’s right to property is pitted against a woman’s. I’ve had bitter experience of lawsuits,” announced the old lady who had once been Regent of France. Across the room she spied her son-in-law, Charles de Bourbon. Perfect, she thought. A powerful captain, bitter, proud, resentful. Through my daughter, I will raise him to the supreme power, and he will avenge me. It is my line that will rule France, not the line of that miserable little woman, Louise of Savoy. “Yes, lawsuits,” she said. “Beware when a man sees lawyers. He will—oh, here come two of those English ladies. They should be forbidden to speak together in that ugly tongue! Ah, my dear Mademoiselle Grey and Mademoiselle Bourchier, do come sit here with us. We were just discussing the new alliance….”
“Politics are too deep for us, Madame de Beaujeau. We are speaking of the new Italian fashion, with the waist of the bodice set higher….”
“Yes, with the sleeves gathered up, so, right here above the elbow, and then again puffed below and gathered together…. Do you think it lacks dignity? A full sleeve makes the wrist and hand look more dainty, it does seem.”
“Yes, two things most beautiful, small hands and small feet.”
“That was three things,” replied Madame de Beaujeau, repeating the ancient formula for beauty in a woman. “A small mouth is included.” She pursed up her own mouth, which was surrounded by little wrinkles that proclaimed the expression to be a habitual one. Everyone knew that a small mouth in a woman signified small other things, which were greatly to be desired in any lady. Anne de Beaujeau’s eyes, bright and beady like an ancient bird’s, shifted about the room, as if to signify that the newcomers were not worth giving her whole attention to. She cast a brief look at the dais, where Suffolk had come to address the queen in that ghastly alien language. The queen laughed in response. “A woman must be careful not to laugh too much,” said the old lady. “It stretches the mouth.” Her voice was disdainful. But the two ladies had not seen their queen, who was behind them, so the barb missed them entirely.
The Twelfth Portrait
After Holbein. Mid-sixteenth century. Portrait of an Unknown Man. 7 × 8”. Charcoal on gray paper. Heightened with red and white chalk. Staatliche Museum Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin.
Remarkable for its draftmanship, this portrait depicts a clean-shaven young man in his late twenties, from his plain dress a member of the merchant or middle classes. His frank, amused stare makes it clear that he considered posing for his portrait something of a joke, and the unknown artist has faithfully recorded his attitude. The unfastened collar and stray curls that straggle across his forehead suggest he was caught in some inadvertent moment, possibly after exercise or some exertion. Attractive and direct, the portrait suggests the common humanity that unites us across the centuries.
—Johnson. THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH PORTRAIT
Now MURREY IS A HARD COLOR FOR PAINTING IN SMALL; IT MUST BE MADE JUST RIGHT, YOU SEE, AND IT IS SO VERY EXPENSIVE. It’s best made with a lake from Venice, but this lake here is from Antwerp, and it will do nearly as well.” Master Ashton set down the big sack of plaster he had carried home for me and took up the little packet I had just purchased from the shelf where I had put it, inspected it, and put it back again. Then he looked so curiously about my studio, I thought he might be staring at a foreign country.
“It’s different than before. All those French gentlemen looking down their noses.”
“You mean, you�
�re missing my Adam and Eves, after all.”
“The smell. That can’t be your glue boiling. It’s got pepper in it.”
“Oxtail soup. I had a notion you’d be over.”
“How did you know, when I only ran into you by accident, trying to carry that big sack? And where’s Nan, anyway?”
“Off arguing with the butcher and the grocer about their bills, and trying to get more credit. But I really couldn’t wait for the lake, and if you’re going out to get one thing, you might as well get others, too.”
“I’ve never seen a woman run through so much money that was not for clothing.”
“I just knew it. You were following me! Don’t you trust me yet? I’m buying paints, not seeing lovers. I haven’t got any lovers. Just one suitor, who follows me to see what I’m doing and then pretends to bump into me when the packages get too high.” He looked crushed, or at least pretended to.
“It really was an accident, at first. I thought you’d turn and see me, but no, your nose was in the air the whole time. Too snobbish for an honest woman, I said to myself. Then I saw you were by yourself, and I thought I’d best make sure you’d get home safely….”
“And you thought I just might have a little supper waiting here? And possibly Nan wouldn’t be home yet? Wrong thinkers would see it as not respectable.” He looked embarrassed and changed the subject.
“What did you buy the rock candy for? Surely that’s not for painting.” I got two bowls from the shelf and ladled soup into them.
“These colors here I grind only with gum arabic water, but the black lakes are better grinded with a bit of sugar candy in the gum.” I set the bowls on the table and went to hunt for two spoons. Silently, he took a wine bottle from inside his doublet where he had been carrying it and extended it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked. “I thought it was an accident, our meeting.”
“It was an accident, I told you. But…I had thought of coming over…” I looked at his face and laughed. He turned red. How funny we are, I thought, the way we dance about each other, each afraid of being hurt by the other. He moved onto a safer subject again.
“And all this plaster—what did you get it for?” he said, gesturing to the sack with the toe of his boot.
“I use it fine and slaked for gesso—that is the white ground on that panel, there, that I made yesterday. Also, thickened, it makes molds, like you see on the shelf.” I found a cup for the wine and set it with the bottle on the table.
“Your father taught you all this?” he asked, sitting down.
“Of course. Wisdom like this does not come out of the air, Master Ashton. My father was a great man, a great painter in small and in large. He traveled all over the earth in search of these secrets.” I cut some slices of a loaf of bread left over from the morning. As I ate, I watched him eat. He looked healthier, filling out again, and his color was better. I couldn’t help taking a proprietary interest, since I had fed him quite a few meals lately—always by accident, somehow, but never before without Nan. Suddenly he looked up.
“You’re fattening me up, aren’t you?”
“Me? Never!” Caught. I could feel my face turning red.
“You have that look in your eye. The look of a housewife inspecting a rooster penned up with a full feed dish. Am I less bony? Are my feathers shiny enough now? When do I go into the soup?”
“Robert Ashton! What do you take me for? I’m not making soup!”
“Well, actually, you did already. Oxtail this time. And it’s very good,” he said, looking at me, his eyes speculative and humorous. I looked away quickly and pretended to be slicing more bread. Now he could see that I was embarrassed, so he changed the subject back to art again to spare me.
“The hands cast in plaster, why them?” asked Master Ashton, gesturing with a soup spoon toward the arms, hands, and feet, all casts of mine and Nan’s, hanging from hooks on the wall.
“To see the shadowings and the way the light falls on them, when I am painting a full figure. It spares the sitter.” I poured more wine into the cup and drank off several gulps much too fast.
“Did you love him? Your father, I mean?” I could feel the wine working on me. He picked up the cup and drank.
“Of course. Didn’t you love yours? He gave me everything; he gave me…myself.” I took the cup from him and finished up the last of it.
“Yourself?”
“I couldn’t be myself without drawing, you see. I love the smell of paint, and the quietness, and the images I see in my mind.” Master Ashton looked at me curiously, a new way, as if he saw something he hadn’t expected. The last wintry glow of the sun was spilling through the little circles of glass set in the tall, narrow window of the studio. It caught for a moment on the bright colors of the paintings, lingered in a long streak across the wooden plank floor, and rested at last on Robert Ashton’s battered old leather doublet and pensive features. I loved that light, and the faint golden shine it gave to whatever it touched. And as it touched Robert Ashton, I knew that I loved him, too. All in that moment, I knew that my heart would break without him, that my body ached for the touch of him, and that my eyes rejoiced only in the sight of him. But a little piece of my heart cried, “Hold back!” It was cautious, because it could sense he was being cautious, and I was afraid of being foolish and hurt a second time.
“I am envious,” he said. “I don’t love my trade as much as you love yours. Perhaps it’s because I see nothing from it at the day’s end. All I do is fetch and carry for others.”
“But they are very grand others.” I looked at his hands. They were just right, very strong, with good long bones and veins that showed on their backs. “Master Ashton, would you grant me another favor? It is not so laborious as helping me bring back the plaster.” He looked surprised. “I have no cast of men’s hands. Would you let me take one of yours? You will have the gratification of seeing your hands on every saint and lord that I paint from now on.”
“Is this all you are interested in me for? A pair of hands?”
“They are very nice hands,” I said, reaching across the table to capture one of them, then taking it up in mine. “See the veins here?” I traced the pattern with my finger, looking down as I could feel his eyes battering on me. His breath was coming hard.
“Good God,” he whispered, “you ask more than is human of me.” But the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice had broken something in my mind, a little lock, something tight and careful. All in an instant, it was smashed beyond repair.
“Robert…” He grabbed my hands across the table. The wine bottle, now empty, crashed over. “Robert…” I stood, and he rose, embracing me across the narrow table. Pewter bowls and spoons tumbled to the floor as the little table overturned. There was the crash of glass.
“Susanna,” he whispered. “Save me. I never meant this for you, but I can’t…I have wanted you forever…”
But I was a lost soul. Hinder him? Remind him of duty? I couldn’t. My heart was battering at my chest, waves of heat were moving over me, smothering me; his kisses were explosions that lit my mind with unquenchable fire. What was this thing that he did, that I had never dreamed of, never felt before? Not Master Dallet’s obligatory, boring proddings in the dark. This was transformation, shining, liquid like quicksilver, in the full glow of northern daylight. His face was transfigured; his sweat dripped onto me, mingling with mine, his scent enveloped me like a blanket. Ah, God, I was a widow. How had I not known everything? How had I not known this? There we were fully clothed among the fallen dishes and broken glass, before the fire where the soup kettle boiled dry, but we could have been in heaven or in hell, and never noticed.
At last, limp and ruined, I came to myself. “Oh, God, Robert, what have we done?” I whispered. I looked at his face. Tears stood in his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive me for loving you so much. We must marry. I’ll marry you. I’ll make it right. I can’t live without you. Swear, swear, you’ll marry me
and forgive me, Susanna.”
“Marry? Robert, marriage? You will be ruined. You’ll be put out of your place for marrying without permission. The archbishop will never forgive you. We’ll starve. Oh, what are we to do?” I began to cry and shake.
“You regret it that much? You won’t have me? What have I done?” he cried.
“N-no. It’s—it’s that I love you, God forgive me, my body lusts for you, Robert, even now. And I’ve sinned, and can’t regret it. What does that make me?”
“I’ll wipe the stain away. We’ll marry. I’ll win the archbishop’s permission. I know I can’t marry without his consent, but I’ll win his approval. I’ll make a great success and then approach him subtly. He’ll think it was his own idea that it’s all for the best—you’ll see.” I smiled at him as I sniffled and began to pick up the dishes.
“You, subtle? Oh, Robert, when have you ever been subtle, even now?” But the afterglow was in me. I would have done anything for him. Anything. Jumped out the window. Married without his master’s consent, and walked barefoot begging after him. But I could hear him beginning to plan, then I could hear him calculating. As my love became wider, broader than comprehension, I could feel him trying to push his love into a box. The box of “career saved, marry anyway, get a nice wedding gift from the archbishop.” Have it all. Sacrifice nothing. I could feel my love bleeding. But as it bled, it grew, even there.
“I must find the Helmsman,” he said. “Only that will do. Everyone told him it was impossible; that’s why he sent me. Tuke had a hand in it, I’m sure. He wanted to ruin me, but I won’t be ruined. They say the Helmsman’s in the south; I’ll go and find him, and when I send the news of my success, I’ll ask permission to marry. It’s always best to approach the archbishop in a mellow mood. That’s how to win him over. And Crouch is in this, I swear. What’s he doing here, oozing around and currying favor everywhere? God, I hate him now. He’s come, you know, and works in company with some false Italian charlatan passing himself off as a gentleman. It’s the secret paper they’re after. I swear, I’ll have the paper for the archbishop. I’ll tell him I have it and hold it from him until he gives his consent. Susanna, I swear here and now I’ll marry you when I have made a success of things. It won’t take long at all. Everything will work out.”
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 39
