The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (42 page)

“Crouch? He is the vilest monster I’ve ever known. I saw him do a murder and walk away as if he’d been to a supper party. He killed the lawyer Ludlow, and all for some book that could hardly be worth it. I supposed it was fate. Ludlow took the baby’s cradle, you know, and it was accursed because the baby died in it. And now I’ve found that Crouch is here, too. I’ve had a terrible time, hiding from him.”

“Here? Susanna, does he know where you are?”

“He might know I’m here, but he hasn’t found me yet. He goes about with some horrible Italian fellow, these days.”

“Signor Belfagoro. I know. He is a hero to the English. And even the French court him now. I dare say nothing about him; they can find no words high enough to praise the two of them. And yet I am sure that they are up to no good.” He shook his head slowly, and his eyes were serious.

“Do they have anything to do with why you are here?”

“I don’t think so, but I would be happy if it were so.”

“Why happy?”

“Because it would solve a mystery. There is someone—or perhaps many someones—linked in a conspiracy to destroy the alliance. They believe that the failure will cause the House of Valois to fall and they will achieve supreme power. I have been asked to find out who is involved with this secret organization, and who leads them. I stayed overlong in Calais, thinking I might find a clue among the captains there. But no, in spite of his name, he is no sailor.”

“I’m glad. I’ve had enough of sailors, especially captains.”

“But in all your travels among the great, keep your ears open for me, for the archbishop, and for England. Somewhere, most probably at court, there is a man of power who calls himself the Helmsman.”

The great Salle Pavé at Les Tournelles was hung with rare tapestries and silk banners ornamented with Tudor roses and King Louis’s boar. The light from hundreds of candles glittered on the green-and-yellow designs in the celebrated faience floor. Musicians played from the gallery, and the glistening tiles swarmed with dancers of both sexes as Suffolk, the victor, led the queen herself in the first figure of the dance. Those who felt themselves too old, or too infirm from their recent battles to dance, contented themselves with clustering by the walls, gossiping while they admired the grace of the ladies and the elegant figures cut by the men.

On the dais, the king sat on a high, cushioned seat beside a similar one still warm from the impression of the queen’s young body. How she had wanted to dance! First her finger had tapped on the arm of the seat, then her toe had tapped as well, and he could hear her breath coming in time to the music. But the old king’s joints hurt too much to carry him out on the floor, and he was beginning to regret the young queen’s giddiness, her animal spirits, her enthusiasms. Perhaps he should have married the older sister, after all. Someone steadier, soberer, less inclined to dance. He had given her another jewel the night before, the night after Suffolk’s triumph over the giant challenger, but she had not seemed as delighted as usual. She did not turn pink, or clap her hands, and her kiss of thanks seemed cool and obligatory.

Now she had danced with d’Alençon, with Dorset, and was cavorting with Suffolk. The Dauphin, however, was a model of rectitude, the king mused. He was maturing, beginning to understand his duties. There he was, bringing a cup to his duchess. Claude, how like her mother she looked, thought the king. Suppose she could only produce living daughters, like her mother? The house of Valois was at risk. Civil war might ensue. Disaster. He must, he must get a son with this new wife. “Monsieur,” he said, gesturing to Francis to join him, “the queen dances too much with the English duke. Escort her back to me.” As he watched the queen squirm among the cushions on her chair, barely able to suppress the petulant look on her face, he realized more than ever that quiet evenings such as pleased him would not suit her. He must keep her busy, he must keep her amused, he must show himself to be still-young and gallant at heart. Was he not king? Had he not been victor in greater tournaments in his day? He would show them; he would show them all that he was still young. He would attract her eyes to him and only him.

Francis glanced sideways with his narrow, sly eyes at his lord and king, then at the fidgeting girl beside him. His eyes sought out her creamy profile, then the bulge where her bodice compressed two white, delicious breasts upward. Cleverly, he concealed his thirst for the delights he imagined beneath her gown. The old king’s face was gray, jealous, determined. You are not fit for her, he thought. I will be the victor. Beneath his long nose, the corners of his mouth turned upward as he imagined the sweetness of his victory, the look on her face…

Across the great hall, Crouch, who was now an honored guest of the English, was pointing out to the foreign Archduke Belfagoro of Tartarus, the famous horse breeder, the various great persons who were in the room, and doing his best to explain French royal genealogy to him. “Now, the House of Valois is the cadet branch of the Capetians, who include King Philip the Fair, and the throne has come to this, the cadet branch of the Valois, through the failure of King Charles the Eighth to have a son. That is why this king, Louis the Twelfth, is a generation older, being the son of the late king’s great-granduncle, the Duc d’Orléans. He, too, has had no living son.”

“
Ugh
, branches, cousins, cadets, what a tangle! But you say this king has no son? Why then, looking at him, all pale and old like that, I shall soon be free,” muttered Belphagor. Crouch, who, though wide, was taller than Belphagor, looked down at him and smirked. How little you know, he thought. Belphagor, surveying the roomful of branches, cousins, and cadets, said, “So, Crouch, tell me more of King Charles’s father, the illustrious Louis the Eleventh. Now there was a fellow I would have enjoyed knowing! Murder, rapine, torture! Now, how was it that he maintained his power?”

“The Spider King shut himself in Plessis-les-Tours, surrounded by a Scottish guard loyal only to him…”

“Now who is that fellow over there—the tall, thin, dark-haired one, who stands by himself? I like the look on his face. Arrogant. Treacherous. He seems like the sort of fellow I’d get along with.”

“That is the most noble Charles de Bourbon, a great warrior and hero, who has just married the heiress to most of the lands in central France.”

“Has he a claim to the throne?”

“Only a most distant and dubious one. But his possession of the heiress, a direct desendant of the Valois through the female line, will give any son born to him a mighty claim…”

“Ah, perfect, perfect,” said Belphagor, rubbing his hands as he gazed possessively at the dark man with the smoldering, rebellious glance. “If this king dies without sons, I can set the country at civil war.”

“But any contender you support would meet with powerful opposition from the king’s cousin, the offspring of the Angoulêmes, who is not only the closest male heir but married to the king’s eldest daughter and named Dauphin, unless the current queen has a son.”

“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.