“Oh, Robert, Robert, can’t true love win out? Tell me all these plans are as nothing compared to our love.”
“But, Susanna, my darling,” he said in a soft voice, “can’t you see I’m doing all this because I love you?”
Again, icy rain was falling in sheets from the leaden sky. The English ambassadors had returned, the court had left Paris for Saint-Germain-en-Laye. It was the season of Advent, with the great feast of the Nativity of Our Lord only two weeks away. That powerful courtier, the Duc de Bourbon had packed away his wife and mother-in-law and horses with the court, remaining alone in Paris on the “legal business” that seemed to eat up so much of his time and leave him so embittered that even the most suspicious soul knew that his “legal business” could not be an excuse to visit a mistress. Bourbon had removed himself from Les Tournelles to the house of one of his lawyers, one Maître Bellier, the better to deal with this mysterious business. Men came and went, bearing messages. And the great vaulted chamber beneath the ground resonated with the sound of men’s voices arguing, as the torches burned low, night after night.
“I tell you, I have seen him in the past week. He has been everywhere. He provided the English duke with horses when his cause was lost.”
“There is no doubt he has come to deliver the manuscript, then.”
“But to whom? The Valois? Or has he another plan?”
“And yet he claimed it had been divided in three, and he possessed only two parts.”
“A lie. Unless the third part is here, in other hands.”
“Impossible.”
“This means he uses the manuscript to conspire for his own power.”
“No. I believe he has come to betray us to the king. The complete book reveals our secret and our aim of destroying the Valois to restore the Merovingians to the throne. We must act now, or we will be executed for treason.”
“No, if we move early, before the conjunction of Jupiter, all is lost. Our forces are not gathered, and the day is not ripe, according to the prophecy. Consider this, the king is too weak, too busy with his new bride to deal with the manuscript. No, Monsieur Crouch plays a waiting game. Why else would he travel about the city like a tourist, purchasing a few antiquities, ingratiating himself, introducing that foreign prince he travels with as an Italian? Protected by the English, he whiles away the time, waiting for the king to die so he can deal with Francis. A new and vigorous king could exterminate us.”
“Then he must never deal with Francis.”
“We cannot move early. The time is not ripe.”
“It is easy. All we have to do is prevent Francis from taking the supreme power. The English queen must have a son and be made regent to protect him until he comes of age. Francis cannot then ascend the throne. But she will be unable to rule without assistance. The Helmsman can insinuate himself into her good graces, become her advisor. It will not be easy. The kingdom will be thrown into turmoil, with Francis opposing the Helmsman. But in this time of divided power, the emperor can gather his forces and bring them to our assistance.”
“Impossible. The king can sire no more children. That I have had from his closest advisors.”
“But the king has given out that he can.”
“The king fades daily. When he is dead, the queen will be forced into mourning, confined to her chambers until they can discover whether or not she will give birth to a posthumous heir. We will take control of her there. We will smuggle a newborn child into the chamber, proclaim that an heir has been born, and make her regent, in our power.”
“What if she refuses to claim a child smuggled in to her?”
“She will not dare. She will seem the author of the conspiracy. She will be ruined. Better to be queen regent, under our control, than imprisoned for life by Duke Francis.”
“Since Crouch delays as part of his strategy, why not simply assassinate him before he can make his move?”
“We do not know how many are in his conspiracy. Perhaps the English dukes, perhaps others who are pledged to act for him should he disappear. Certainly, that Prince Belfagoro is one of them. We would have to assassinate them both, and the English dukes as well.”
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” There was a puff of smoke, a whiff of brimstone, and Belphagor stood at the head of the table, at the left hand of the Duc de Bourbon, who shrank back in sudden horror. The torches in the iron sconces flickered in an invisible wind, then sprang up brighter, as if fed by some infernal force. The unpleasant stench of sulfur began to filter into the ancient chamber. The black waters in the calderium splashed, agitated, as a thin, yellowish vapor spread over them. One of the conspirators began to cough. Maître Bellier took a large handkerchief from his sleeve and put it to his face.
“Oh, I beg you, do not be disturbed. No, no, keep your seats, gentlemen. There is nothing I love better than a conspiracy, except perhaps a mass murder. And one often leads to the other, doesn’t it?” But the Duc de Bourbon, who was as polished as he was hotheaded, had regained his suavity.
“My dear Sieur…ah, Belfagoro, to what do we owe this honor? And from whence have you arrived so suddenly? Surely, we will do all that is in our poor power to be of assistance.”
“Monsieur de Bourbon, you may call me by my true name. I am Prince Belphagor, Lord of the Underworld, Ruler of Demons, and Commander of Legions of Imps, come to assist you in your cause.”
Maître Bellier and the others looked horrified. “But—but our cause, it is a sacred trust,” the old theologian said.
“It is ordained by God Himself….”
“The true blood…”
“Someone has cursed us with this visit of the Tempter. Who could have done it? It is the others, the fallen ones.”
“The Splitting of the Oak. The Templars. Avaunt, demon.”
“Avaunt yourself, you silly old man. Don’t avaunt me, or you might make me angry. Our cause is the same. I heard you want to get rid of the Valois. So do I. I don’t care what house you put in power afterwards. Just so there’re no Valois.”
“Why are you against the Valois?”
“A little disagreement with King Philippe.”
“I told you it was the Templars. They have set this devil loose.”
“So what if I’ve know a few Templars in my time? I’ve been sitting in this room with you for quite a while. I gather you are a conspiracy against the ruling house of France. No, no—don’t bother to leave; I have no intention of betraying you or your delicious little meeting place here. I have a personal grudge against the king and his heirs. I wish to make common cause with you. Now, the idea of a false heir, that is excellent. A scheme with many brilliant facets.”
Belphagor made himself comfortable, sitting on the table, crossing his legs over the edge. He looked quite the gentleman. A velvet hat with an egret plume affixed by a great jewel was tilted rakishly on his head. He had a ring on every finger and a great pearl as an eardrop. His doublet was heavy crimson velvet, reembroidered in gold and silver, and his immense boots were Morocco leather as soft as silk. His voice, contrary to his natural uncouth instincts, was suave and modulated. Crouch had done his work well. Belphagor, though somewhat incorporeal in spots, and giving off an unmistakable aura of evil, seemed every inch a creature of their own set. Never, thought Belphagor, have I had such an attentive and cooperative audience. No troublesome magic circles, no protective amulets. I’ve moved right in with them. How splendid; I can make an agreement and they won’t think to bind me to it with some dismal little grimoire oath. Then I can betray them at my leisure. For a moment, he gritted his pointed, demonic teeth, remembering the chicken. When I’m free, he thought, I’ll avenge myself. Then he remembered that the demon masters were probably all dead by now, and that irritated him further. It must have made a bit of sulfurous smoke boil out of his ears, because it clearly unsettled the men at the table.
“Lord Belphagor, how may we be of service to you?” Bourbon was speaking. Splendid. They wanted to be of service to him.<
br />
“This little group of yours, you are truly dedicated to removing the descendants of King Philip from the throne of France?”
“But of course.”
“For centuries, we have been dedicated to restoring the True Blood to the throne.”
“True Blood? And just who may that be?” The conspirators looked at one another.
“The Merovingians, the true rulers of France, who are destined by the prophetic text to create a great, well, um, Christian empire in all the known world, including the lands of the pagan Saracens.” But despite the slip, Belphagor did not spout fire; he simply replied in the mildest of tones.
“Oh, Christian? Why, excellent. Some of my best friends are priests. And monks. What splended, overripe souls some of those monks have.” The conspirators breathed a sigh of relief. Belphagor noticed it. He had lulled them, the better to deceive. What fun conspiracies were! He could hardly believe he had ever been so simple. Now that he had risen to dealing with these more elegant circles, he was beginning to become embarrassed that a mortal like Crouch could know the secret of his uncouth origins. As soon as I find another convenient mortal, I simply must get rid of him, thought Belphagor. Why should anyone ever know I was not a demon of the highest fashion?
“So, gentlemen, I plan to assist you in your endeavors. If I ensure the death of the king within the next month, I wish to make sure that you will play your part and interrupt the succession with the false heir. What do you say to a contract?” Mortals loved contracts. It was a bit of a problem that he couldn’t read, but Crouch had taught him to write a fiery B that glowed with unearthly light. It was a nice touch, he had assured the old demon. He watched the commotion about the table. Some of the old gentlemen seemed shocked. One of them began to protest that a sacred cause cherished for centuries should not be tarnished by compromising with evil. Then there was a muttering about deals with the Devil in a good cause being basically moral, and the protesting old man was quieted. I must remember this argument for next time, thought Belphagor. I imagine it will be quite useful for convincing others.
“Who signs for you?” asked the demon.
“I do,” said Bourbon. “I am the Helmsman.”
Twenty-three
WHEN all the jousting was done, the Duke of Suffolk went home, the king went to bed, and winter set in for good, with frost and the first snow. The tourney had been set for five days but lasted nearly a month, what with all the delays for bad weather. The feasting and entertainments in between had left all the courtiers exhausted, and also the cooks and musicians and banner painters and servants who picked up and swept and polished and brought in enough loads of wood to fuel hell itself.
Before the English left, Tom came to see me in my studio, where I was finishing up Madame’s angels and also laying out a number of dead-babies-in-heaven pictures, because several ladies who saw the drawing for the angels said it would be a great comfort to have pictures like that. I knew what they meant, so I would sit with them and they would cry and tell me how their babies looked and I would draw until they said, “That’s right,” then take that baby home to put wings on it and some clouds until it was all lovely again. A Holy Virgin or special saints cost extra. It was a big change from Adam and Eves, but the same kind of idea, making people happy, though in a more respectable way. Also it took fewer materials, because these were small so the ladies could carry them around and weep, but getting fine enough little wooden cases and panels and folding frames was a big problem until I found Maître Julius the tabletier who was really Flemish like my father and so we came to an understanding.
“It’s warm in here,” said Tom. He looked bonier than ever because he’d been growing again. “But it smells. Are you boiling rabbit skins again?”
“I’ve got some panels from Maître Julius. I’m doing angels these days. That and the portraits.”
“I could be finishing up that glue and gessoing those panels for you,” he said. “You have so much custom, you’ll be needing help now.” He looked about him. The studio was bare and cluttered all at once. I still didn’t have proper shelves, but I had a chest and a cabinet. My mirror that I use for looking at things backward was propped on top of it. There were a couple of little panels, half finished, propped up drying, a sketch laid out on the table for copying, and several that looked not quite right pinned to the walls for me to look at and think about. I saw Tom’s eye fix on a drawing of Robert Ashton on my worktable. Nothing special, just charcoal with a bit of red and white chalk, but I’d drawn him with his shirt open and his dark hair tumbled about his ears, and when Tom saw it a look of bitterness passed briefly across his face.
“I guess I will be getting someone if this keeps up. But I’m thinking that you plan on going home. I think I did too good a job when I bribed them to take you with the horses.” He looked down at his feet, embarrassed.
“I’m learning about physicking horses. It’s a good trade, and they like me, for all that I learned about compounding remedies from Master Ailwin. Besides, the language here tangles my tongue.”
“You’ll be safer in the household of a great man.”
“He’s the king’s own Master of the Horse, and a great hero,” said Tom.
“I know,” I answered.
“And besides it’s hopeless!” Tom burst out. “Mistress Susanna, you are so beautiful and good, and as far above me as the stars! What is the use?”
“I’m much too old for you, Tom,” I answered. “But I care for you like an elder sister.”
“That Master Ashton, for all he saved me, is not good enough for you. At least I told him so. Not good enough at all. He doesn’t deserve to love you, not as I do. I saw you first….” He turned on his heel.
“Wait, Tom, wait!”
“Don’t think to embrace me again. It’s only a cruelty,” he said.
“No, no. I won’t hold you here. But I want you to take a letter I’ve written to Mistress Hull and Cat. I was wondering how to send it.” I had a sudden excellent idea. “And I’ve something else. A gift for them. Tell them I think on them often and to keep my things yet a bit longer. I am doing well painting angels for French ladies.” I hunted in the chest in the corner and found my portrait of Cat. “This,” I said. “Keep it next to you; don’t let it get damp.”
“But…but you need it, to show your work.”
“I have others now.”
He opened the case. “I always thought you made the hair too yellow,” he said. But I could see the picture was working on his mind. He glanced sideways at me, then back again at Cat’s pretty face, barely out of babyhood. Not so different from his own. A boy with a trade, the servant of a great man—she’d be impressed. She’d wait for him to become a master, and while she waited she’d say pridefully to all the neighborhood gossips, “My Tom, the duke’s man, they can’t do without him.” I saw him seeing all of that as he stared at the little portrait, and Cat’s impatient blue eyes. He shut the case and looked up at me again. “That fellow Crouch is staying, you know. He’s all the rage, along with that ugly Italian, since they assisted the duke in the tourney. He says he has business here, but I told Master Ashton that I thought he was following you, trying to find you alone. Be careful when you attend the court. You’ve been clever to keep your studio hidden, but you need to attend the court to take the likenesses. And at court…at court you are exposed. Be sure to keep a lackey with you there. Nan’s not enough. We saw him murder once. I…I feel like a traitor, leaving you like this.”
“It’s better that you go. But we can be friends always. I regard you kindly.” His eyes looked resentful.
“I always knew it was hopeless,” he said, as he left, barely managing to nod farewell.
After that I thought about how it is that women don’t even have to lead men on, they just follow anyway, and what a problem it could be, only luckily Tom had turned out to have very gallant manners, unlike some of these Frenchmen who just try to push a person into a corner, like that Bonnivet, Dauphin Fran
cis’s friend, who I saw just grab some serving maid and vanish into a dark corridor even while he was paying court to another lady and also proclaiming that he carried the pure white banner of adoration for that clever Duchess Marguerite, who was already married and not to him.
That afternoon, I went all bundled up to Les Tournelles to see the Duchess Claude and take her the angels, which were all finished and very handsomely mounted in a little three-part case that hinged on itself made by Master Julius and all gilded by me with gold leaf that I had gotten on credit. I had worked very hard to get it done because of needing the money. Even with all those new commissions I had, nobody had thought to pay me anything on account, and even when the work was done I couldn’t count on money coming, because in general ladies are the worst payers of all. If it weren’t for Duchess Marguerite, I would be in very bad trouble indeed, I mused. Then I thought of my experiments in dissolving the ink on that old but extremely fine parchment and decided that people who didn’t pay in advance would get their angel pictures on the used part with an extra-heavy base coat so the last of the stains from the writing didn’t show through. After all, portraits require clear, unused parchment, but with the angel pictures I could put heavy drapes or dark lines over the parts that show through, and people who aren’t good payers deserve that. But it was very hard, because I had expected a little something from the Duchess Marguerite before she left and now I didn’t have much hope of her for the next several months because once the feasting was done, she had left town with her mother, just as so many other of the great families had done once there was nothing more to do in Paris.
When I was shown in to see the Duchess Claude, she was sitting with the queen and several other ladies both English and French and Mistress Nan Boleyn was playing the psaltery with some new music that she had propped up in front of her. Duchess Claude and the queen were embroidering a monstrous great cope, and the queen was looking very irritated. I had heard all about this cope, which was for the Pope, and that old Queen Anne had died before it was finished and it was her chief regret in leaving this earth that it was not done. So nothing would do but that royal hands would finish it, which meant that Queen Marie as she was now called had to stitch away even though she hated embroidering. Also Claude was helping and she didn’t think much of Claude, either, for being all squashed-up-looking and squint-eyed and not very clever. But Claude said it was all right for her to work on it because she was Queen Anne’s daughter, and Queen Marie was glad someone else had sacred-enough hands to touch it because she wanted it done and gone. When you are in the business of painting angels, you hear a lot.
The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley Page 40
