The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “I can’t argue with an angel,” growled Nicholas.

  “But you’d try, wouldn’t you. Humans!” Hadriel laughed, and the silvery chiming sound made Nicholas forget his grumpiness and the horrible lump of fear that had been sitting in his stomach for days, and came back even now as he looked at the little box, and heard the squeaking, raging sounds coming from inside it.

  “What do I do with that?” he asked.

  “Why, take it with you and it will make your reputation! Just think of the inspirational sermons you can give! How many theologians are so mighty in thought that they have boxed a demon?”

  “Well, I had help…” said Nicholas, looking at the toes of his worn-out shoes.

  “Don’t you all? But not so many of you take time to give thanks.”

  “Thank you. I do thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Ha! Thanks at last! Lovely, lovely.” Hadriel laughed as he threw open the garret shutters, and, with the powerful sound of wings, flew into the heavy, snow-laden winter sky.

  “Wait! Come back! I have more things to ask…” called Nicholas out the window, but all he saw was a vanishing flash of iridescence in the grayness over the tall, pointed towers and high slate roofs of Paris.

  Twenty-five

  IN the long, stone hall of Belphagor’s rented mansion, the conspirators awaited word of the success of their operation. Signor Belfagoro himself, in an expansive moment, had invited them for a bit of a celebration, and in deference to their demonic partner, they had agreed to meet aboveground. The house, after all, was guarded by infernal forces. What could be more secure than that? Some of the conspirators sat at the great oak table and ate nervously from the supply of little cakes and dried fruits that Septimus Crouch had laid out for them. Others poured wine from the silver flagon on the sideboard. In a special place of honor, on a linen-covered stand almost like an altar, stood the curious goblet-mirror on its little pedestal, winking in the candlelight. The wonderful thing had been consulted by everyone who had crossed the threshold, from Signor Belfagoro himself to the sinister Duc de Bourbon, who had come furtively, at night, to spy out the moving figures on its face. With shining fidelity, the golden surface had reflected back to them the ever-more-fantastic desires of their own minds. Only Nicholas, who had taken it for a rather inadequate and overpriced cup, had left it alone.

  Maître Bellier, tall and dignified, paced back and forth, irritated by the demon’s absence and fearing some new plot. The Priory, reduced to commerce with a demon! And one of such low rank, such crudeness. And treacherous, too. One need only to look at him to see that. It was Crouch, that infernal, ambitious, betraying Crouch who had entangled them with this wretched Belphagor. How could the Helmsman be so blind? The mission protected for centuries, sold away in a moment by brethren dazzled by infernal promises and the shining image of their desire fulfilled in a demonic mirror. Where did it come from? What created the images it contained? Suppose the mirror was as treacherous as the demon? What could it end in but disaster?

  “Monsieur Crouch, your, ah, partner Signor Belfagoro has not returned yet?”

  Crouch, presiding at the head of the table, leaned back in Belphagor’s great chair, a faint, superior smile on his lips, his pale eyes crackling with triumph. Nicholas and Belphagor had vanished at the same time, leaving him in command of the infernal household, of the immortal imps of diabolical powers, of the strange treasures of the earth heaped in the cellar. All. At first, Crouch had moved with caution, barely believing his good luck. Surely Belphagor would be back, as petulant and treacherous as ever. Then he had attended a mass at which he heard that the sensation of the university was a poor student who had passed his oral examinations in triumph by carrying to them a demon imprisoned in a box. Nicholas, thought Crouch, and now I am master.

  “Oh, Prince Belphagor?” Crouch said smoothly, “he has been called back on important business by the Prince of Darkness. I do expect him back shortly, but you know how it is with demons—they just can’t keep track of time. Eons, you know, are a moment to them. And he tends to get distracted with the pressures of business. But I assure you, he has left me as his deputy. Any rewards you might offer him may be offered to me instead and I will, uh, relay them to him.” Ah, you fools, thought Crouch. The mirror has shown that I will soon take this conspiracy for my own.

  Maître Bellier, his eyes dubious, looked down his long nose at the gentleman who sat beside him with such visibly greedy, triumphant eyes. Crouch smiled back at him condescendingly. He glanced at the table. The candles were burning low, and the food needed renewing. The air was thick with nervousness and anticipation. Crouch waved an indolent hand at the imps. He was a lord now, a lord of hell, and would let them all know it.

  “You there, more fruit-o and wine-o, quick, quick!” Crouch was one of those who believed that he could speak any foreign language, even impish, by simply adding vowel syllables to the end of English words. It was a habit that infuriated the imps, who had for some weeks suppressed a powerful urge to disembowel him. They hesitated; Crouch fixed them with a commanding stare. They squealed and grumbled to each other and vanished toward the kitchen.

  It is fortunate for the world in general that imps are so abominably lazy that they rarely use their unusual powers unless forced to by the lords of the underworld. These imps resented every shape change, every little personal service, each domestic duty that was required of them. Only Belphagor held them in check, and every day, as they swept out the place, emptied the slop jars, made the beds, and cooked up the gargantuan repasts that Crouch required to keep body and soul together, they got angrier and angrier. Now little flamelets showed almost continually at their ears and nostrils, and their grumbling sounds were almost constant. As Belphagor had gone out the door on his ill-fated trip to the tailor’s, he had told them, “You boys listen to Crouch while I’m gone.” That, and the icy glare of Crouch’s compelling, pale eyes, grown nearly equal to the demon’s in pure evil, held them to their duty. They, like the others, were under the impression that Belphagor would return.

  There was a rattle at the front door, and one of the imps went from the kitchen to open it. A tall, dark, young aristocrat with smoldering eyes was shown in.

  “The Helmsman, the Helmsman is here at last.” One man ran to help him off with his cloak and shake the dampness off it in front of the fire. Another showed him a seat. A third poured him the last of the wine.

  Crouch’s pale eyes took in the scene with a certain distant malignance. Why should the Helmsman be treated like a God? Why shouldn’t he be Helmsman? Didn’t he rule the very imps of hell? It was time for Crouch to rule this conspiracy. Wait, wait, an inner voice counseled. You will be greater than he.

  “There is no report as yet,” Maître Bellier told him, leaning discreetly near his ear. Bourbon looked up at him, his eyes arrogant.

  “No report? It is well past the hour. Did all go as planned?”

  “I procured the boy from the Hôpital de la Trinité only this morning. Fine, healthy, and the very image of the king. He was delivered to the secret entrance as the sun set this evening.” Damn, thought Crouch, I still haven’t found their secret meeting place. If I am to take control of them, I need to discover their hiding place. How that Bellier sets himself up! Who is he? Not even a knight.

  “Then something has delayed them. We shall be hearing soon.” There was a sort of scratching at the front door, and again, the imps opened it. The disheveled man who entered stared, awestruck, at the two great, fiery creatures.

  “Th—those,” he said, pointing a finger. “They’ve got flames coming out of their nostrils.”

  “Well, of course,” said Crouch, smoothly. “What did you expect? We’re not amateurs at conspiracy, you know. When you joined us, you obtained the aid of the infernal.” Trembling, the man knelt at the feet of the seated Duc de Bourbon.

  “My lord, we are ruined,” he said in a frightened voice. “The pan was opened. The infant was stopped at the door
.”

  “Impossible! Are you certain?” asked the duke, glancing at the mirror on its stand.

  “Yes, my lord, we have failed.”

  “Who has been caught?” inquired the duke in a voice accustomed to command.

  “No one, my lord.”

  “No one? How could this be?”

  “I assure you, no one. There is no accusation. Someone substituted a large, live bird for the infant. It flew out with great fluttering, and now everyone is laughing.”

  “Laughing? Laughing at me? I’ll show them laughing. Where is the woman who carried the pan?”

  “She vanished and cannot be found.”

  “Then it was she. She did it. They bribed her. Or she grew cowardly, like a woman. Yes, it makes sense. Never admit a woman to a conspiracy.”

  “Clearly, my lord, she betrayed us to the other side,” said Maître Bellier.

  “Yes, and in such a clever way that the White Queen could not be implicated, no matter what anyone said.”

  “Then she betrayed us not to the Valois, but to the White Queen’s people. Someone coordinated this. Which of them could it have been? That damned English doctor? Who has been admitted to the White Queen’s chamber?”

  “Not him, my lord, he has been forbidden entrance. He and all the other English, even her ladies.”

  “Then I must seek among the French, surely the Countess of Nevers…”

  “Wait, my lord. There was one. Sent by Queen Claude. A widow who does religious paintings of consolation. I have heard she is English, though some say she is Flemish from her accent.”

  “Susanna Dallet…damn her! That woman is always in the middle of everything,” said Crouch.

  “What name did you say?” asked the Duc de Bourbon.

  “Mistress Susanna Dallet, paintrix, from the City of London. She has thwarted me at every turn. Maître Bellier, she is the possessor of the third portion of the manuscript you so desired.” Crouch’s eyes were glittering with the rising insanity of absolute rage.

  “She has the third portion? Then that explains everything. The allegorical code in the pictures of Adam and Eve. It was not the lover, but she herself who read it, and she has deciphered the Secret, and is toying with us. The Priory of Sion is betrayed. Betrayed by a woman.” The mutter of shocked voices filled the room.

  “The secret of fifteen centuries.”

  “The Sacred Blood—destroyed. Treachery. We will be burned alive. She must be eliminated.” The unnaturally calm voice of Bourbon penetrated the babble.

  “But she is surrounded by friends at court. An assassination would never be secret.”

  “There are other means.”

  “My lord of Bourbon, I have tracked the creature to her den. She has a workplace, where she is alone, except for a maidservant, who goes out with her. I have already bribed the landlady to search it most subtly, but she found nothing.”

  “But surely she does not do this alone. What man uses this vicious and clever woman as his agent?”

  “There is only one mind diabolical enough, masterful enough, in all these two kingdoms. Let us make sure.” All heads turned toward the source of truth, the mirror of the ancients that had guided them to this moment. Crouch stepped before it, passing his hands over it and muttering the words of the spell. Those closest to him could see movement on the glittering surface, figures like reflections, but not of this place. Crouch bent his head closer, peering at the flickering shapes, then drew back with an exclamation. “Him! Again him! It is as I suspected. Archbishop Wolsey, the evil, plotting monster. She is in his pay. I see it here. He has trained her and used her.”

  “The archbishop—yes.” The waiting men nodded at one another in agreement.

  “And his agent, Ashton, has conveniently returned from the dead to guide her. He has been seen with her. Diabolical, this woman.”

  “And how do you know she is a woman? Strip her, I say, and you will find no woman, but a male agent of the scheming archbishop.”

  “That treacherous Wolsey. The treaty. Yes, it all fits. The prince of the Church supports the prince of the Valois. He wants to keep the Merovingians from returning.”

  “And keep the Secret from emerging. He has discovered the Secret and knows it would destroy the Church.”

  “Then we can count on his silence. He will protect the Church at all costs. Our Secret is safe with him.” The Helmsman’s cool calculation broke through the babble.

  “But is it safe with her?”

  “Safe with a woman? Never. As long as the manuscript remains, and she knows where it is, we are menaced with discovery.”

  “Then we are agreed,” said Bourbon. “We must force the woman to reveal the hiding place of the manuscript, and then silence her.”

  “Agreed,” said Crouch.

  “It should not be difficult,” said the Helmsman.

  King Francis the First was seated in his audience chamber surrounded by his old friends, his gentlemen in waiting, all in the process of being elevated to new honors in consequence of their closeness to him. Bonnivet would become Admiral of France, Bourbon would be Constable of France, his sister, Marguerite, given a county, her husband governorship of Normandy, and his mother the title of Duchess, two counties, and the hidden power behind the throne. All day, Francis had been receiving embassies from the rulers of Europe, congratulating him on his accession, seeking favors and the renewal of treaties. But Francis’s mind was busy with other thoughts, thoughts of a redheaded woman sealed in a room in the Hôtel de Cluny. She had rejected him. She had mocked his ardor. He was king, now, and could do what he liked with her. Kings could do anything they pleased, couldn’t they? At first, he had contemplated setting aside his ugly wife and taking her instead. But his mother had caught him in an unwary moment and lectured him until his ears rang. No wife, no Brittany. Don’t be a fool.

  He thought about how rude the White Queen had been, even through her cautious words, and how little she appeared to appreciate his well-turned legs, and said to himself, she’s not worth it, the dirty thing. She’s not worth half a kingdom. Then he pondered how amusing it would be to make her his mistress, and then palm her off on some other European prince once he was done with her. But once again, Mother had turned up, with a story of a conspiracy to produce a false heir to unseat her glorious Caesar. Mother had been livid with indignation. This time you were lucky, she said; the fools couldn’t count nine months. Next time they might be cleverer. Francis knew all about false heirs. He had inherited several foreign ones from old Louis the Twelfth, all eating their heads off on French pensions, as foreign-policy insurance, just in case. Two were English, and Francis considered they had as much of a claim as the father of that Henry, his rival who now ruled England. No, he’d never have peace until he got rid of the White Queen—preferably in such a way that nobody would ever come and bother him about her again.

  “The ambassador of the King of England, the Duke of Suffolk!” Francis looked up to see that damned, hulking brute stalking down the hall. You could dress the man up in silk and furs all you wanted, he thought, but he still looks like an ox.

  “Your Grace,” said Suffolk, addressing Francis as if he were still duke. This low-born oaf, as insulting as ever, thought Francis. The English must still imagine that that woman might produce an heir. Without paying attention, Francis listened to Suffolk repeat his formal congratulations. What do I care about your English treaty? he thought. I think I’ll have my captains raid your shipping. The English king needs to be reminded I am powerful. But for now, I need to get rid of that beastly little White Queen and the plots that surround her. Suddenly, a splendid thought came to him. An inspiration, really. His foxy little eyes twinkled with the joke of it, and a half smile crept up beneath his extraordinarily long nose.

  “My lord of Suffolk,” said King Francis, “I hear you have come thither into this kingdom to marry the White Queen, your master’s sister.”

  Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, his king’s right hand, hero
of war and tournament, paled sheet white.

  “I don’t like it, Susanna; there’s something wrong with the whole thing.” We were on our way across the Petit Pont to the Hôtel de Cluny at the White Queen’s summons. Robert’s hat was pulled down low, and his long gray cloak was muffled around him, concealing the shortsword and dagger that he wore at his belt. In his doublet he had hidden a narrow little misericord, just in case. I had my hood up and was wearing a pair of Mistress Hull’s lumpier mittens that she had given me before she had become inspired by Hadriel and gotten fashionable. The wind bit through my cloak, which was becoming a bit threadbare, and I was scheming how to get a new one. The notion of a nice little commission from the White Queen was just right.

  “It’s her seal, and a servant in the old king’s livery delivered it.”

  “But the wording—it seems unlikely that she would write so. And why in French, when she could write to you in English?” Robert had gotten all jumpy lately and was sure everything was a plot. I would just tell him, what have painters got to do with plots, but he insisted on going with me if things didn’t look right to him. So far, he’d cooled his heels outside the new queen’s apartments, and also the Duchess Marguerite’s, but that didn’t stop him from being suspicious.

  “Why would she write in other than the language of the court? Robert, I am glad of your company, but I am sure it just must be those angels she wanted. She’s finally gotten around to ordering them at last—and every other painter in Paris is doing coronation portraits, or banners for the parade route, or coats of arms for the canopies. Coronations—why, they’re even better business than funerals! Have I told you that the Duchess Marguerite has commissioned a dozen miniatures of her brother? I’m thinking I may take on an apprentice after all.” As we pressed on down the street toward the Church of the Mathurins, he didn’t do more than answer “umph” and look about him suspiciously. Here were some students hurrying toward warmth and someone from out of town, mounted on a horse in a shaggy winter coat.