The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (23 page)

At last the royal party arrived. King Henry the Eighth and Queen Catherine of Aragon led the bridal party. Mary, stiff in her immense bridal gown, accompanied by her ladies, immediately preceded the delegation that represented the French king. Two ministers sent for the peace conference that had preceded the wedding walked in state; the French general, Thomas Boyer, and the President of Normandy, John de Silva. But most resplendent of all was Louis d’Orléans, Duc de Longueville, who glittered in a heavily jeweled velvet gown as the proxy of the French king. The Archbishop of Canterbury opened the ceremony, speaking in Latin. As the long Latin speeches rolled on, the Princess Mary, her face pale beneath her shining red-gold hair, cast her eyes first on the glorious embroidery of the archbishop’s vestments, then wider, hiding her gaze beneath her lowered lashes. Her heart was pounding, and her knees shaking. It was the greatest day of her young life. She would be queen in France. In her mind, she reviewed the many honors and advantages Wolsey had recited to her. She must be careful, careful, not to make an unlucky slip in speech as she let de Longueville take her hand for the espousal
per verba de praesenti
. Her French must be perfect. How she had practiced for this moment!

Precisely, slowly, she repeated her wedding vows in French. She could feel the hundreds of eyes on the back of her neck. They were watching her face, her gown, her hands. They see that I am beautiful, she thought. De Longueville put the gold ring upon the fourth finger of her right hand, and then kissed her. Almost, almost complete, she exulted secretly, and not a slip in her French so far! Then her ladies took her from the hall and changed her into a magnificent nightgown for the public consummation. Her breath came short; she could feel her heart battering at her ribs as they brought her to the immense, ceremonial bed. Already, the priests had finished sprinkling and blessing the place where she would lie. De Longueville stood beside it, waiting. He had removed his gown; beneath it were a bright red doublet and hose. Carefully, her ladies helped her up into the tapestry-draped bed. De Longueville stripped one leg to the thigh and lay down beside her.

Mary, propped up by richly decorated pillows, lay as stiff as a statue, gazing out into the crowd of dignitaries that filled the room. More speeches in Latin droned above her. She could see those nearby straining for a better look. A tall, heavy man’s head, dark haired beneath a green-velvet, egret-plumed hat, showed above the crowd. Suffolk, glittering with gold and success. Everything a man should be. Bold, brave, randy, young. And English. And she was going to a foreign old man’s bed, for the sake of jewels, for the sake of clothes, for the sake of power her brother craved but she cared nothing for. Unknown to any in the room, this bull of a man, whose eye was kindled by any woman of wealth, had, in the months before her engagement, sent her a letter, whose violent misspellings, once decoded, spoke of love. And she had answered it. Hidden away, she had a marvelous, tiny portrait of him, his face most admirably fierce and warlike, that he had sent to her. But the king’s sharp gaze had caused Suffolk to flee. Still, she thought, wasn’t he her brother’s closest friend? What could a dried-up old man know of love? Her eyes lit, for a brief moment, and Suffolk studiously looked away, his face vaguely alarmed, as if he didn’t understand. How dare he not understand! Would it always be this way, when she was queen in France? Her youth and beauty poured away in empty ceremony, and no man ever again daring to speak to her of love?

But then her mind flitted to her French wedding jewels. Grander than Queen Catherine’s they would be, Wolsey swore it. There would be gowns, and dances, and masques. She was very fond of these things, of dancing, of playing, of being admired in company. Surely this would sweeten the burden of being an old man’s bride. And couldn’t a widow do as she wanted, especially if she were a queen? Wolsey had said it, and he must know. Queen. The word had a good sound to it. Queen of France.

The droning in Latin had ceased. As the crowd waited, the French lord touched his leg to her body in symbol of sexual relations. A ripple of approval traversed the crowd, necks craned, and Suffolk’s face disappeared. The archbishop declared the marriage consummated. The princess’s ladies dressed her again, this time in a checkered gown of purple satin and cloth of gold, and the entire party, dukes, lords, and delegates, processed to the palace chapel to hear mass. De Longueville walked with King Henry, whose satin clothes shone with gold and appliquéd jewels. Mary now walked with Queen Catherine, their heads covered with identical caps of cloth of gold.

The hundreds of dishes at the wedding banquet passed by Mary in a kind of daze. Compliments and gallantries swirled around her, leaving her feeling dizzy with gratification and the sense that from now on, all her days would be like this. She would be the center, the queen. To the music of the flute and harp, the dancing began. Henry excelled at dancing, and stripping off his gown, he and Buckingham danced in doublet and hose with such enthusiasm that it infected the entire company. The center, Mary thought. I am the center. It is for me he dances. My brother, the king, celebrates for me. All thought of Suffolk flew from her head. I shall be queen, she thought, and all things will come to me. I will forever be the center. Men will worship me. Women will envy me. Forever. The thought dazzled her.

“So, Master Tuke, report to me everything that transpired at the reception of the Sieur de Marigny.” Once again Wolsey was in bed, trapped by his old recurring illness, a bloody flux of the bowels. Pale and flaccid, his great bulk propped up by pillows in his canopied bed in Brideswell, he was annotating reports on a lap desk propped on his commodious stomach. About him on the coverlet was stacked correspondence from all over Europe. Tuke, usually repelled by illness, was quivering all over with the glory of such intimacy with the great man. Closer even than Ashton. Greater trust, greater honor. It almost overcame his revulsion at the unpleasant smell.

“Your Grace, the Sieur de Marigny brought with him on a white horse two coffers of plate, seals, devices, and jewelry. Most unctuous he was, bowing and scraping in the French fashion before the princess, offering compliments to the bride. The jewels were magnificent. I have the inventory here….” Tuke handed a scrap of paper to his master, who nodded.

“The valuations, Master Tuke. How came you by them?”

“The king had the jewelers from ‘the Row’ waiting to set a price on them as soon as the coffers were taken from the chamber. But even he was astonished by this big one, here, the ‘Mirror of Naples.’ The jeweled diamond is as large as a man’s finger, and the pearl beneath it the size of a pigeon’s egg.”

“Clearly, Master Tuke, the King of France knows how to astonish. And Marigny’s mission?”

“He is sent to attend the princess and instruct her in the etiquette of the French court.”

“And how did you find him?”

“He is a great lord, of impeccable politeness, but he looks about him with a glance like an eagle.”

“Or a duenna. Old men, old men, Tuke. There’s no one more jealous. Pass me that barley water there, Tuke, I am so dry, and feel a weakness passing through me.” Brian Tuke felt genuinely alarmed, for Wolsey’s complexion had turned suddenly ashy. From the great silver pitcher at the bedside table he poured out the barley water.

“Your Grace, the physician…”

“Spare me that man yet a moment, Master Tuke. I swear he does nothing that does not aggravate my condition. See there? The small bottle? Put it closer so I can reach it when I need it.” Tuke’s whole career passed before his eyes in a spasm of fear; suppose, after all his efforts, Wolsey were to die here, at this moment, his bowels bleeding away his life? Ah, God, how unfair, how cruel! But if he recovered, for this service, what advancement…His eyes full of concern, he arranged the pillows behind Wolsey’s head, then held the cup while his master sipped it, eyes closed.

“Ah, God, I thank you, Master Tuke.” Wolsey opened his eyes to spy his servant’s distressed face. With a sly smile, he whispered, “So, Tuke, I believe you consider I merit a more discreet illness. What say you to a thorn in the side?” Amused, he watched the warring emotions in Tuke’s face: shock at the heretical comparison to the apostle, desire to flatter by agreeing, and puzzlement as to whether it was all a joke or not.

“Your Grace…” began the shocked privy secretary, but then he heard Wolsey’s snort of laughter. To be agreeable, he laughed, too, though nervously.

“So, Master Tuke, through all your report, I have sensed a certain irritation. What else happened to you this day? Was de Marigny offensive?”

“De Marigny? Oh, no, Your Grace, he is the soul of courtesy. A true gentleman, though French. It is that—that ghastly, that, that…Master Perréal he brought with him. After the reception I was entrapped, entrapped, I tell you!”

“Perréal, the King of France’s painter?”

“That very Perréal. De Marigny brought him. A small, wiry, dark fellow with the most offensive little smile. He pretends he cannot understand French that is not spoken with a Parisian accent. ‘Oh?’ he says, cupping his hand behind his ear, when the pronunciation of some word offends him. And then he smiles that little smile as the person who has spoken tries again and again to mend the flaw. I tell you, I wanted to strangle him….”

“I take it, Master Tuke, it was your French he found objectionable.”

“Mine, and others’, Your Grace. He is to design the princess’s wardrobe and paint a wedding portrait of her to match the great ugly one of the King of France that he brought to us. Knowing that I would report to you, His Majesty sent me, as well as one of his gentlemen of the chamber, to take him to meet with the princess’s ladies of honor to inspect her dresses. The entire afternoon, hearing that horrible man comment on the cut of her undersleeves and the placement of the points for her trains. ‘Oh, how old-fashioned. A queen of France cannot be seen in a bodice of such a provincial cut. What is this décolletage? How unbearable, it is cut in the Flemish style.’ As far as I know, he knows all too much about ladies’ clothing. It’s not decent, I tell you. And then there was the gallery….”

“Ah, you had to show him the gallery as well?”

“He wanted to see the king’s paintings. The man was insupportable. ‘How charming, in an old-fashioned way. So northern, so provincial. This nativity, it’s fading already? Ah, yes, I see, the glazes are poor. Who did you say painted this? Hethe? He does not understand the art of stained canvas. What a pity you English do not have a truly great city of art such as Tours. The Italians do wonderful things these days. Haven’t you anything by Leonardo?’ I thought there’d never be an end to it.”

“Ah, Master Tuke, I see you are ripe for revenge.” Tuke bit his lip and bowed his head. “I think we will show this portrait painter our private collection. Tell the truth, Tuke. Who is the most irritating man you know?”

“Him, Your Grace. He raises irritation to new heights.”

“But before that—be truthful, now.” Brian Tuke was silent. “Come, come now. Wouldn’t you have answered, ‘Ashton,’ if this French fellow had not carried off the palm?” Tuke’s lizardy eyelids blinked with alarm. “I see I am right,” observed Wolsey.

“He follows me, he thinks of a thousand little things to prove himself superior to me that he thinks I do not notice. Your Grace, I would rather spend time in a barrelful of fleas than in his company.” Wolsey chuckled. Even in his illness, the daily drama of their rivalry did not fail to amuse; it was the true flattery, since it centered on who would bask first in his greatness. It kept them both in line and assured that he would always hear of the doings of one from the lips of the other. It was one of the many little tricks of power that Wolsey had mastered in this rapid rise. Men, they were easy. It was women he did not understand. But it is our good fortune that God had ordained that women must do as they are told, Wolsey thought as he pondered the issue briefly.

“I’m thinking the Frenchman could use a bath of fleas, and the bath of fleas might benefit from a Frenchman.” Tuke glanced quickly at the archbishop’s face, uncertain how to respond. “What say you, Master Tuke, to having Ashton conduct Perréal through my collection?”

“An excellent idea, Your Grace,” said the privy secretary, with a bland smile. Wolsey looked at his face and burst out laughing.