The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley (53 page)

“The ones that look as if moths have been at them?”

“That pile with all the first pages painted over, and the ink dissolved,” I said. He picked up the mass of cut and mangled parchment and eyed it disdainfully.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Robert, it used to be written on in some other language like Latin,” I said. “I took off the binding at the edge, and I’ve been cutting away at it ever since I’ve had it, but there are still some pages readable. I—I thought Master Dallet had salvaged the parchment for reworking.”

“Reworking?” The first pinkish gray light of dawn was beginning to glow through the window. Now I was poking about in the half light, looking for things to rescue. I found my little round framed picture of Hadriel, all done on one of those reused pages, which I’d cleverly made almost like new for my own painting. It was unharmed, facedown in a corner. I blew the ashes and colored dust off it.

“Well, feel it,” I said. “Just like silk. It’s the best unborn calfskin vellum. It’s good for centuries….”

“Susanna, I can’t believe it. You should have thrown it out the minute you found it.” Oh, here were my master drawings for portraits, and Master Dallet’s, too, only speckled in a few places, and still quite usable. They had fallen on my sketch for Madame Claude’s angels, which was entirely spoiled. My heart kept grieving in the wreckage, for each little thing that I touched or turned over. Gone, gone. I took two old, spotty paint cloths and gathered up what I could, burnishing tools, knives, unspoiled brushes, with the drawings.

“Throw it out? I had pictures to paint, and unborn parchment, you have no idea how expensive it is. I mean, especially when people won’t give you an advance….”

He just shook his head. “It’s all smeared and painted over. What’s that?”

“I was trying to find ways of getting rid of the writing.”

“If I weren’t so sick to my stomach, I’d laugh,” he said. Then I made two big bundles of what I could and piled what I had saved of my work together and tucked it under my arm, and Robert took my birds in one hand and my case in the other, and we shut the door on the mess that had been my studio with many strange thoughts. But the saddest thought of all that I had was that maybe it was fate because women aren’t meant to paint, just as everybody says.

We went first to Master Ashton’s rooms in the Three Monkeys, and he had his man make a fire in the big iron brazier to take the chill off, and then sent him for food and drink while we changed and cleaned up. Then he sat down to try to read that cut-up, painted-over pile of parchment, while I sat down in my shift and took needle and thread to mend my dress that I always liked so well but now would never feel the same about. I mean, after something horrible has happened when you’re wearing something, it doesn’t seem lucky anymore. It seemed beyond the reach of even that powerful soap from my book to clean away the awful feelings that seemed embedded in the wool. “I think I want a new dress,” I said, as he nodded without listening and went on reading.

“This is the book, all right. You’ve taken all the margins off, Susanna. It must be half the size it was, not counting all the holes you’ve made. That’s why he didn’t recognize it. It was the wrong size.” He was munching on a half loaf of bread from the basket of food that his man had brought back.

“Well, they were the best parts. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Look at this—here’s a bit I can read. The Latin’s bad. Let’s see. ‘The sacred blood concealed…the mystery of the ages…’ Not much help. I’ll try this one, it looks less spotted. Susanna, I still can’t believe you did this. Well, I’ll be…so
that’s
the Secret of the ages.”

“You’ve found it? I hope it was worth all the trouble it’s caused.”

“Susanna, it’s not a treasure that’s sealed up in the so-called fortress of redemption, it’s a genealogy. A genealogy of the Merovingians. They claim it’s the Holy Grail and contains the blood of the King of Kings.”

“I thought the Holy Grail was a cup. Where’s the rest of that sausage that Will brought? Ah, yes, a cup. When will Will get back with Nan? There’s no danger, is there?”

“Soon, soon, I’m sure,” he said distractedly, as he kept on reading. “There’s no problem getting her—it’s just a matter of making sure she doesn’t try to go back to the studio. God knows, there’ll be a hue and cry once they find that body.” He brushed some crumbs he had let drop from the page, and without really noticing it, picked up the cup and went on reading and drinking at once. “Let’s see.
Hmm
. You certainly mangled this bit. Ah, here. Well, well. This genealogy, it seems, is the only true record of the descent of the Merovingians from some royal house in Provence descended from the House of David…My God! What heresy! No wonder they’ve been in hiding so long!” He was so shocked, he put down the cup from which he’d been drinking.

“What is it?”

“They claim that the Merovingians are descended from Our Lord Jesus Christ, who was a true earthly king and evaded crucifixion by a tricky substitution of a criminal at the last minute…For that alone, these people could be burned alive by the Inquisition. What on earth makes them cling to this idea? You’d think they’d just be quiet and avoid trouble. Ah, yes, here’s the text again.”

“He wasn’t crucified? How could that be? Then he wouldn’t be resurrected, and the Church…”

“That’s the idea. The Church is founded on a lie. One that it must conceal at all costs.”

“Well, I’d think so. They have a lot of treasures at stake. No wonder those Priory people were so secretive. The Church would do anything to root them out. Maybe it is, even now, searching for them.”

“Desperate men, Susanna. Desperate men. They’d stop at nothing.
Hmm
. According to this, Jesus went into exile.”

“Exile? Where?”

“Well, well. Provence. Not a bad place, what do you think? Convenient, too. And He had descendants, founding a divine race of kings in the South of France…” My dress was as fixed as it would be. I brushed off as much dirt as I could, then spread the damp spots near the brazier, to dry quicker.

“Why there, Robert? Why not in the Holy Land somewhere? It doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Ah, here we are, this is the important part. The genealogy connects the House of David through Jesus Christ to the first Merovingian kings. Ha! No wonder they want to be rid of the Valois! It says here the divine blood is destined to conquer both the Christian and heathen worlds at some time in the future, bringing a permanent reign of peace and happiness on earth, because the Merovingians are descended from God himself.” To strengthen himself while thinking about the strange story, Robert resumed eating. In between the steady
munch, munch
, he went on talking. “I wonder if this secret had some influence on the Cathars who held that fortress. How strange. How very strange.”

“And just whom did Jesus marry?” I asked, because to a woman, those are always the important questions.

“Mary Magdalene.”

“Of course. She was supposed to have settled in Provence, too. I’m glad she didn’t stay single.”

“Susanna, you are being flippant. This is a terrifying secret, a dangerous secret.”

“Robert, it’s a totally ridiculous secret. Either Our Lord was crucified and rose again, which proves his divinity and makes it impossible that he sired the Merovingians, or he was just another earthly king who produced a useless line of descendants, which makes him not the Son of God at all. And if they’re not descended from the Son of God, then all this big prediction of their permanent reign can’t come true. They’ve got it all mixed up. You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

“Susanna, you’re right. What makes you so shrewd about this?”

“You mean, when I’m so silly about everything else? Think about it, Robert: I know a lot about false relics. This is just another one of them.”

Robert shook his head slowly. “What fools. What lunacy. And yet they continue to conspire, century after century.”

“It probably makes them happy,” I said, thinking of Master Ailwin and his True Religionists.

“The Roman emperors used to claim descent from the gods…”

“…to impress the gullible. It makes sense. And none of it was worth ruining my studio.”

“Your studio!” said Robert with a sudden start, as if recalling himself from some dream. “Susanna, you need to be hidden. This place of mine is the first place Bourbon’s men will look for you when they discover we’re not at the studio.”

“I’ve thought it through,” I said, looking at my bundles of salvaged drawings, panels, and tools, where they sat mournfully in the middle of Robert’s floor. The birds, awake from the sound and the light in the brazier, hopped up and down in the cage that sat on the floor near the fire. There wasn’t much left from all my adventures here in the royal court. Crouch had even slashed up my clothes. There was nothing but what I stood up in. “I’m going to the Duchesse d’Alençon. The Duchess Marguerite will hide me.”

“You can’t do that. She is a dear friend and supporter of Bourbon. She and her mother advance his cause every day.”

“You think like a man, Robert. I will tell her that he tried to seduce me, and I spurned his advances, and now he seeks vengeance. She knows what they are, those courtiers. She has protected humble women of virtue even against her brother.”

“The Duchess Marguerite…who would have thought it?” he mused. Then he sprang into action. “I’ll find Will and bring your woman to you at Les Tournelles. That leaves you time to try to get an audience with the duchess by this afternoon. Blame Crouch for everything. His disappearance will look suspicious. Yes, the Duchess Marguerite. She is our only hope.”

“Here,” said the Duchess of Alençon, “you mustn’t cry so. You just need to hide awhile until his eye wanders elsewhere.” The long shadows of afternoon were spreading over the Parc des Tournelles outside, and a feeble breeze, laden with the cool of coming evening, had entered through the open window to stir the hangings on the walls. She was sitting at the table in her cabinet, writing. Then her own eye looked up and lit on my ruined dress. It ran over my shabby little pile of belongings, my birdcage, and my little case. Slowly, she shook her head with wonderment at the wickedness of men. “Take this letter to my dear friend, the Abbess of Sainte-Honorine. I say here that it is an affair of honor and you are an honest woman with great skill at the brush. You and your servant will be welcome there as long as you like, and I’m sure they’ll find projects for you to earn your keep. As I recall, they’ve an altarpiece that needs repainting, and some of your angels would look very good in the sanctuary.” I wiped my eyes.

“How will I get there?” I asked.

“I’ll have two horses from my husband’s stable and send my own lackeys as an escort. Imagine! Destroying your studio in vengeance for your scorning him! A woman’s virtue, oh, it’s so hard to keep these days. One is pressured from every side….” I looked at her with new eyes. Who was it who was pressuring her? Suddenly I was grateful to him, whoever he was, for he made my lie believable, whereas the truth would have made me look like the greatest liar in the world.

“I…I’d like to leave right away.”

“Oh, you
must
leave before evening. A man of great rank, such as you describe, would think nothing of forcing himself into your bed.” She poured sand across the letter to dry it, then sealed it with a bit of candle wax and handed it to me. “Here. And don’t forget to have the abbess send me my miniatures when they are done.”

“I will not, madame, and God bless you,” I said, curtseying profoundly and then backing out of her cabinet in the greatest respect.

That night Nan and I, my case loaded behind us, and I still clutching my birdcage in one hand, rode double on the frozen road to the north, behind the Duchess of Alençon’s armed servants. Tense and terrified, I listened for the sound of following hoofbeats but heard only silence, the rustling of barren branches, and the ringing of our own horses’ steel shoes on the iron-hard earth beneath the pale, winter half-moon. In the dark, I worried endlessly. How would Robert Ashton save me from Bourbon’s lackeys and take me home? What would happen if the Duchesse Marguerite told my story at a dinner party, and Bourbon heard, and guessed where I was? Would I have to live in a convent forever, just when it seemed that I might be happy with Robert Ashton? Suppose something terrible happened to him and he never found me? At last, all I did was pray. Home, dear God, I want to go home.