The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (15 page)

Ten

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so you see, Your Grace, the answer to your riddle is found, and the ghost explained. Master Dallet had a clever widow, the daughter of a foreigner, who could herself paint most cunningly in small. When he died suddenly, in debt, she took to paying her way by passing off her work as his.”

Wolsey, an immense presence in violet silk and a vast pectoral cross, smiled narrowly, but his eyes never changed. “Most ingenious and persistent of you, Master Ashton,” he said to the man who stood before him as he sat in the great cushioned chair in his parlor at Bridewell, in Fleet Street. Wolsey’s velvet-slippered feet rested on a low footstool; he was feeling bilious today but had labored on since dawn without rest. At the side of the ambitious prince of the church stood the unctuous Tuke, pleasingly deferential; behind him stood several of his knights retainer. Wolsey regretted the unknown master painter he had lost, but at least this promised to be a pleasant little diversion. A curiosity, like a two-headed calf or a dog that has been taught to count. The retainers shuffled. “The infinite deviousness of women is proven once again,” Wolsey observed.

“Yes, Your Grace, that is well put,” agreed Master Tuke. Wolsey nodded to him as if in agreement, and Ashton fumed inwardly. That slithery flatterer was trying to steal his credit. But Wolsey was thinking again of the miniature. Perhaps Ashton, in his passion to prove himself clever, had outsmarted himself? Was it a fluke?

“Still, there is a certain sort of industry in such a woman that cannot be dismissed,” said Wolsey, nodding in Ashton’s direction.

“True, Your Grace.” Take that, Tuke, thought Ashton. What do you know of this case? It is me he asks for an opinion.

“You have spoken with her? Is she shrewish and bold? Abnormal? Mannish, perhaps?”

“No, Your Grace, she does not seem exceptional.” Wolsey detected the tone of bruised pride in his secretary’s voice.

“Except that she managed to deceive you, and it still smarts,” Wolsey observed. Tuke snickered.

“I got it out of her at last,” said Ashton.

“A woman painter…” mused Wolsey. “Clearly a freak of nature. Is the work you purchased her own, or has she deceived you yet again?” Wolsey eyed the wrapped panel beneath his gentleman attendant’s arm.

“The character of the painting leads me to believe she is not lying. Tell me, do you remember Rowland Dallet’s features?”

“I remember that he appeared to think much of them himself.”

“Ah. Then let me show you the painting, Your Grace.” Ashton had not misjudged the sensation that would be created when he unwrapped the panel. At the sight of the vast, pink Eve and the leering, human-faced serpent, Wolsey snorted, and his secretary of the privy cabinet put his hand over his face to hide the smile. Wolsey’s knights retainer burst out laughing.

“Now
that
is a portrayal of sin,” said the King’s Almoner, his voice at once amused and disapproving.

“As you see, she has given the serpent her husband’s face,” pointed out Master Ashton.

“Hardly a Patient Griselda of a wife, eh, Ashton? I think I understand now how the man amassed his debt.” Wolsey chuckled. Ashton glanced at Tuke’s face, bereft of any chance to say something clever, and felt a sensation of warm contentment flood through him.

“Your Grace, I do believe I have had that woman pointed out to me,” said one of the knights retainer, pointing at the painting. “A notorious wanton. The wife of one Captain Pickering. The features are hers. I’d swear it.”

“Pickering? I think I may have met the man. His wife, you say?” answered another of the knights.

“And so the mystery is solved. An adulterous liaison, portrayed by a jealous wife. Hardly a religious frame of mind, I’d say.” Wolsey had sunk his chin in his hand while he contemplated the painting again. The color was very fresh, and the portrayal of distance very elegantly done through draftsmanship and color perspective. There was no amateurish look to the handling of the composition, and the greenery around the exuberant pink figure seemed to pulsate with life. Astonishing, thought Wolsey. He turned to look at his secretary. Ashton had managed to make his face bland and deferential, but his eyes were dancing with self-congratulation. “Very clever, very clever indeed, Master Ashton. You are a veritable bloodhound. When I set you to a problem, you pursue it to the end. I won’t forget that, I assure you.” Ashton bowed in acknowledgment, basking in the great man’s approval. “A curious picture,” Wolsey went on. “Eden looks a bit craggy, don’t you think?”

“It looks like the South of France to me, my lord,” answered Ashton, who had traveled far in Wolsey’s service.

“Most unflattering. Eden should look like England in summer, in my opinion. Have you brought the painter here?”

“Exactly as you requested, Your Grace. She is waiting in the antechamber.”

Behind his pouched eyes, Wolsey’s mind was working. He never wasted anything. Now this master painter had disappointed him, being a woman. But then he thought, Women can have their uses, especially if they can be guided. What cleverer, what more innocent and more flattering way to gain a pair of ears than to lend to a gentleman’s household a portrait painter to take a likeness? And a woman—she could enter circles where no man could ever gain admittance. It all depends on her character, he mused. I have no use for some unmannerly, self-willed shrew. A docile woman in middle age would be ideal, he thought.

When the door opened and a footman showed in the painter, Wolsey watched her as she crossed the room, adding up the positives and negatives of his plan. She was younger than he thought: good and bad, probably bad. As she knelt and kissed his ring, he observed her closely. Decently dressed in black, proper humility and piety. Good. She will be in awe of my spiritual authority. Then he looked more closely. There was something odd about her. Something waiting to burst out. Was it the stray, gingery curl that had escaped from her plain headdress, or perhaps the green paint that could be spied under the nail of her right index finger? Bursting, definitely bad. The hands were plump, stubby fingered, and agile. Competent-looking. Good. She looked up and he scanned her face with his intimidating, drooped eyelid gaze. He observed she was a woman just past girlhood, with a few childish freckles still sprinkled across her tip-tilted nose, a generous, cheerful-looking mouth. Was she a gossip? That would be bad. But the eyes told the story. Blue, pale lashed, startled-looking. A simpleton. His theory was right. Good. Then he looked more closely. The eyes were observing him back. It was a curious, sympathetic, measuring gaze, skillfully concealed, but one discernible by the canny King’s Almoner. Bad. He wanted others measured, not himself. And curiosity in a woman, definitely bad. Altogether a very mixed thing, he thought. Let us see. Let us see.

“Mistress Dallet, have you brought any samples of your work in small?”

“I have, Your Grace,” she answered, opening the little wooden coffer she had been carrying. From it she took three plain turned wooden cases, each about two inches across. “These I have done for my own amusement. This first is my good Mistress Littleton—” She handed Wolsey the case, and he opened it with a curiously delicate touch. Everyone present could hear him catch his breath. The brushwork, done with tiny pencils made of squirrels’ hair, was minutely fine, the colors glowing and rich. Almost too rich for such a common subject, thought Wolsey, looking at the gray-haired old woman in the plain cap, her pale features set off against a brilliant, sky blue background.

“A servant,” he said slowly. Without meaning to, he could feel the empathy coming from the tiny image. The face looked careworn, the eyes kindly. “But more than a servant,” he observed. “Honest. Trusted. Careful of your interests—no, self-sacrificing. Someone’s old nurse, perhaps. Yours, it seems to me.”

“That is exactly who it is, Your Grace,” she answered. Wolsey raised an eyebrow and settled his face into his chins. Yes, this was what he wanted. He passed the picture to a knight retainer, who exclaimed over the perfect brushwork but did not see what Wolsey had read there. Character, truth, shining up from two inches of burnished parchment.

“This second one is of Mistress Catherine Hull,” said the woman. Wolsey opened the case to see the sharp eyes of a girl in her teens staring out at him. She could have been pretty, with her abundant yellow curls and pink cheeks, but there was something malcontent about the expression.

“This is a young girl whose bitterness poisons her beauty. In a time that should be full of hope, she is without prospects. Tell me, has this young girl a dowry?”

“She has none, Your Grace. Her mother is a widow who keeps a little shop of odds and ends. She has no suitors.”

“Is she really as attractive as you portray her?” Something about the picture, perhaps only its intrinsic value as a jewel, made the girl look more important, valuable, and full of interest than she ought to be for one of her station. Curious, what a picture can do, thought Wolsey, as he passed the picture to his privy secretary. Perhaps I should inquire into the girl’s reputation and give her a dowry as a charity. Fifteen or twenty pounds would get her another shopkeeper, someone of her own rank.

“Tom Whitley, an apothecary’s apprentice,” said the painter as she handed him the third case. It was the head and shoulders of a common-looking brown-haired boy holding a rose. Somehow, the painter, in that minute space, had created the illusion of a new, half-grown moustache and mooning eyes. At that moment, the great man missed the younger self that he had long ago left behind and, for a brief instant, regretted the grievous pains of unhatched love. Mistress Lark, fresh and pretty, mopping up the tables in her father’s tavern. She had taken a look at his tonsure and laughed. He had plucked a rose from the trellis outside and held it out to her, in the hope that the look in her eyes would change to sympathy when she saw what was written in his face. Avaunt, he said silently to the memory of the strong, pretty girl with her sleeves rolled up. She was a respectable matron now; he had purchased her an important husband when his rising rank had required that he divest himself of her. Hadn’t he treated her honorably? Hadn’t he behaved honorably by their children, raising them as his own niece and nephew? Wasn’t this what God, and his own vaulting ambition, demanded? He looked again at the compact, buxom little woman in black who had brought these feelings back to him. She seemed unconscious of what she had done. Astonishing. A true freak of nature.

“You should paint only in small. I find these works superior to—that—” He gestured to the oil panel. She blushed.

“I prefer to work in small,” she said. “The colors are water based, and more cleanly. The oil paints give a headache if the room be not well aired.”

Yes, a freak. Entirely unaware of what she was doing. That was the only possible explanation. Wolsey had once seen a strange child, which drooled and never spoke except to recite the Psalms, which it did perfectly. The creature was presented to him as a kind of holy fool, having been taken by its keepers on the rounds of fairs for several years. He seemed to recall it had died, once confined beneath a roof and properly fed. God made freaks to remind us He was capable of anything He wished. Wolsey watched the agile, round little fingers closing the cases. The deft competence of her hands unnerved him. An unwanted thought came to him: Suppose women might express themselves with as much ability as men if they were given the same training that men had? Ridiculous. He pushed the idea away with mental explanations. In some strange, instinctive way, this God-created freak had probably absorbed her skill from watching her husband. That had to be the answer.

“In my judgment, Mistress Dallet, your work in small is the equal of the best foreign work in my collection.” Wolsey’s courtiers, quick to support their master’s views, nodded and muttered assent. The painter looked around that circle of strange men and the immense, gaudy figure enthroned at the center and caught the look in their eyes. Now I know what a dancing bear feels like, she thought. Suddenly, she wanted to flee. But one cannot hide from the summons of the powerful, so she stood her ground, miserable at the thought that she had brought this all on herself. How could I have ever wished this? she thought. I should have stayed home and been content. Fear flashed through the startled-looking, wide blue eyes. No one saw it but Wolsey. Aha, he thought. I have her.

“I wish to retain you in my service, as paintrix, at fifteen pounds a year. You will attend my wishes here, and in my absence, Master Tuke will instruct you.” A curiosity for his collection, like a chiming clock. But this time, more than a curiosity. Remembering the poor freak, he reminded himself he would have to be delicate, to preserve the gift he wished to make use of. “I will expect you to be always attended by a respectable woman of your own choosing,” he added, taking pains to look avuncular. She saw the look and managed to stifle her sudden panic.

“I am honored to accept, Your Grace,” she answered, her heart pounding.

The entire interview had taken scarcely a quarter of an hour. Wolsey, who organized wars and masques with the same driving efficiency, paused only briefly in thought before turning again to the endless parade of business that made up his working days. A painter who could depict likeness was a valuable asset to any prince. One who could do likeness in miniature was even more admired, a source of honor for the patron, who could show favor by offering precious trinkets depicting the sovereign, depicting himself. But a painter who could depict character in the span of a man’s hand was a treasure useful beyond belief to a diplomat who must assess motives at a thousand miles of distance. And this one a simpleton, too, Wolsey mused. That can have its uses. But I’ll have to give her a keeper. I don’t want her wandering off or getting purloined by some other prince.

Wolsey cast a glance about the room at his retainers. Whom could he spare? His eye caught sight of Ashton, still glowering at the spot where the paintrix had been standing, his big hands hanging at the sides of his bulky frame like a pair of hams hung up to dry. His resentful eyes and sulky profile, at once offended and infuriated, told the whole story.
Hmm
. She’s already injured his pride in some way, thought Wolsey. Excellent. He smiled almost paternally at his most troublesome secretary. After every little triumph, Ashton always needed to be set down hard, to keep his pride from growing overweening. First the pomander. Now the paintrix. It would be perfect.