CHAPTER FIVE

June 22, 1517

Chateau du Amboise

The ponderous, lumbering Medieval castle of Amboise was a miracle of rebirth. The massive stone walls had sprouted arabesques of arches and charming pinnacles pointed their creamy fingers into the tall blue skies of the sheltering Loire valley. Rich parquet floors and spacious windows graced the once gloomy chambers and spans of fragrant foliage edged the formal gardens of Persian roses and gentle scented lavender. From fountains arched tiny rivulets of clear water and Italian tapestries and paintings caressed the papered walls in gallery and chamber. Francois’s chateau stood proudly at the glowing dawn of the French Renaissance.

In the three years since the decrepit Louis XII and his ancient order had passed away, all of France had flourished under the promised hope of the new king’s ascension. On Francois’s badge stood the mythical salamander which could survive fire, and so far, Francois had been true to his motto: “I nourish and I quench.” In the past two years, the young king had marched south conquering the Swiss and making a triumphal entry into Milan. He had been honored by the pope, had breathed the learned, artistic air of Renaissance Italy and had returned victorious to Marseilles stuffed with new plans, laden with Italian styles, and accompanied by the sixty-four-year-old Leonardo da Vinci. Francois’s power and patronage gave great impetus to the new France. He both extinguished the settling ashes of the Middle Ages and nourished the glowing kindling of the Renaissance.

Transformation had touched Mary Bullen’s life, too, for she was a part of the upheavals and shifting times. Uprooted from her disgraced mistress and guardian, the young widowed French queen, she had joined the three hundred ladies in waiting to the pious, ever-pregnant Queen Claude. She had delighted at the queen’s belated coronation this past season and rejoiced with the realm when an heir was finally born this year after two darling but dynastically useless daughters. And finally, though she never fully understood why it had taken so long when her father had promised it three whole years ago, her eleven-year-old sister Anne had joined her at Francois’s fashionable court.

“But, Mary,” Anne had complained more than once since she had arrived a week ago, “why must we always be in chapel or studying Latin texts? Even the needlework is, well, so religious!”

Mary sighed, for Anne voiced the exact sentiments of most of Claude’s sheltered demoiselles du honneur. “Her Grace is a good and pious woman, Annie, and we are her charges. She will not always keep us from the other court. We are too many for her to watch, and some of us shall be noticed sooner or later. You will see.”

“The other court. Of du Roi Francois? Oui, ma Marie, but I am only of eleven years, and I doubt I shall see much beaute or gallantre. C’est grande dommage.”

Mary put down her pettipoint on the marble sill and gazed fondly on the lovely valley with its rim of blue-green forests and its carefully etched ribbons of grape vines.

But today, Mary mused, she and Annie could actually be a part of that lovely, naturally hued scene, for Anne wore golden satin slashed to reveal a daffodil yellow brocaded kirtle underneath her full skirts, and she herself was in the palest of green watered silk with silvery threaded trim along the low, oval bodice, double slashed sleeves, and waistline lacings. Yet, sitting quietly like this, did not Annie’s golds and yellows make her dark eyes dance even more, whereas her own gentle greens just made her meld into the scene unnoticed?

“You shall go far someday, Annie. Your Latin is perfect, your French is beautiful, and you are so witty and clever already. And look at me, fourteen and still a reclusive English maid much alone—save for you, Annie.”

“I wish you would no longer call me that, Marie. It sounds so very childish, as though I still toddled at Semmonet’s knee in leading strings. I wish to make well in the adult world now, and father says he knows my wits and charm will take me far some day.”

Mary felt strangely stung by the girl’s words, and she knew her face showed it. She had never quite mastered the etiquette of the disdainful mask to cover hurt or sorrow. She kept her graceful neck arched toward the window and her wet eyes on the abundant green Loire and the gentle hills. “Of course, Anne. And father is always right. As I said, you shall reach far at court whether it be Francois’s or our own king’s, of that I am certain.”

“If I only had your face, though, Marie, and were not so thin and pale and raven-haired. And,” she lowered her pleasant girlish voice until it was barely audible and Mary leaned closer, “if it were not for my foolish hand.”

Mary glanced to Anne’s lap where the offending fingers curled carefully under the mesh of her newly begun embroidery. As always, she had secreted the tiny stub of the sixth unwanted finger which sprang from her slender small finger of her left hand.

“No one notices it, Annie—Anne. You cover it so beautifully with your tapered sleeves.”

“If anyone should ever laugh, I know I should hate them instantly, and somehow, I would find a way to make them suffer too!” Her thin, dark brows knit and her eyes narrowed.

She has much of George’s temper in her and must learn to bridle it, thought Mary hopelessly. Why do we not feel closer as I thought we would when she arrived? Surely, time together here will change that.

“Marie, Anne, we are allowed to go, now if we wish! I knew we could escape postnoon duties if we just bided our time. I knew it!” The gleeful messenger was Jeanne du Lac, whom Mary admired tremendously for her red-haired beauty and her popularity with many handsome courtiers. The thrilling message was that they were free for several hours to see the glorious tilt match in the gardens with the king and his beautiful friends.

They did not even stop to return their needlework to their rooms or to get a proper head cover, for the hour was late and no doubt the festivities had already begun. Mary would see Francois again, Francois du Roi, her secret passionate fantasy since his magnetic eyes had rested on her momentarily three years ago and he had termed her a young Venus. How wonderful, how distant he was. And those that surrounded him, how blessed.

“Now, Anne, you shall see those great ones of whom we have told, and the wonders of the court,” Mary promised breathlessly as they descended the great curving porphyry staircase and traversed the long gallery which linked the chateau to the formal gardens. Francois had cleared a huge expanse for the tiltyard and frequently in the warmer months came the seductive sounds of trumpets and cheers.

“Oui, you shall see the other court, the one any red-blooded Frenchman would prefer to our shadowed world of the saintly Reine Claude,” Jeanne put in as they slowed their pace, aware that they were in public now despite the deserted state of the formal gardens in the golden sun. Deserted except for the white-haired, bearded old Italian master whom Francois now patronized. He sat with his profile to them, his sketch pad poised on his lap while he gazed at a distant vista.

“The Premier Peintre, Architecte et Mechanicien des Rois, to use his proper title,” explained the lovely Jeanne as though she were lecturing guests. “The king says his da Vinci paints the valley here and dreams he is home in Florence.”

“The king himself told you that?” asked Mary in awe.

“Well, I heard him say it to Francoise de Foix only the other day, Marie,” Jeanne returned nonchalantly. She turned to Mary’s little sister. “Francoise du Foix is the king’s present maitresse en titre, ma petite, Anne,” Jeanne added.

“Indeed, I have told Anne of her and of them all, Jeanne, though she has not had the chance to see them before today,” Mary said.

“I understand the English king must hide his mistresses from the court. Is it true? It seems all rather uncivilized,” Jeanne commented. Mary was grateful she need not answer, for they were at the brightly festooned galleries, and the joust was already in progress.

The crowd roared its approval sporadically and the blare of marshalls’ voices broke in to announce names and titles and outcomes of each bout. Fawn and white bunting puffed then fell in the warming breeze as the girls peered over the heads of those not perched in the elevated seats to catch sight of the present fray.

“It is Bonnivet himself,” whispered the excited Jeanne. “I can tell by his armor and crested heume.”

“The dearest friend to the king,” recited Anne, for the clever girl had indeed learned her catechism of honored names and titles from her sister in the week she had been at Amboise.

“And all know he adores and wishes to seduce the king’s sister, Madame du Alencon, who loves her own husband not at all,” added Jeanne as though anxious to impress with her knowledge of inner circle scandal. “Come. There must be some seats in the pavillion where we can see better.”

The English girls followed her carefully, wending their way through the rainbow silks and slippered feet along the rows of cushioned benches. They wedged themselves in among a cluster of other unattached flowering mignonnes of the vast court and thrilled and applauded with their neighbors.

To Mary’s deep disappointment, Francois himself had jousted first and they had missed his splendid victory over his picked opponent of the day, Lautrec, the brother of his mistress.

Both Mary and Jeanne sought to educate the wide-eyed Anne as to who were the important people, but many were too distant across the field in the facing royal gallery and some sat well ahead of them, their fine coiffures or plumed hats the only way of identifying them.

“That fine and beautiful lady there, the lively one now chatting with the king’s own mother, is she not Francoise du Foix, his mistress?” asked the girl excitedly.

“No, indeed, ma petite,” cut in Jeanne’s voice as Mary began to answer, “that is the king’s beloved sister Marguerite, his ‘mignonne,’ he calls her. The jeweled lady seated over there is Francoise, for she is not a favorite with the king’s mother and sister, though he listens well to them in all else.”

To be Francoise du Foix or any other lady he gazes on with love, thought Mary solemnly, how wonderful. Better that than to be his queen, fat and white-faced and always swollen with child and only bedded when another nursery cradle was to be filled. Everyone knew Francoise de Foix was his third official mistress, but she was so stunning and so gay, surely this affair would last on and on.

“I said, Marie, Rene de Brosse stares with lovesick eyes at you as he did in the gardens last week.” Jeanne elbowed her gently and looked in the opposite direction. “Do not look that way now, silly, or he will know we have noticed.”

Mary felt herself blush slightly, but, with difficulty, she kept her expression unconcerned. “I favor him not, Jeanne du Lac. I swear he is but fifteen and he still has pimples. I would much rather have his older brother Guillaume take note of me!”

Jeanne’s silver laugh floated to Mary’s ears. “Guillaume, ma Anglaise charmante, is two years wed. Though that has stopped few dalliances of other men, with that bridegroom, the word is that he is faithful to her still.”

“Marie, he is making his way over here. You are right—he is very awkward,” Jeanne went on. She patted her beautifully wrapped reddish tresses. “Shall Anne and I start on ahead? I would introduce her to my sister Louise.”

Mary rose with them stubbornly. She did not like the way Jeanne assumed charge of her little sister, nor did she care to be deserted with the gangly Rene.

“Do not be such a goose, Marie,” scolded Jeanne. “You are a ravishing maid—all the ladies say so—and it would do your reputation and experience no harm to be escorted by a courtier from a fine family, pimples or not. Maybe you can convince him to introduce you to his brother.” Her green eyes tilted up as she smiled at Mary.

“Oh, do, Mary. I shall be fine with ma bonne amie, Jeanne,” added Anne as they turned and threaded their way through the courtiers.

Mary felt like a stranded boat on a rainbow sea of silks only momentarily, for Rene soon approached and doffed his lavender-plumed hat. His gangly body was encased in pale purple silk and even the slightly-padded, ornate doublet and the deep-cut, white velvet-lined second sleeves could not make his thin shoulders look masculine, nor could the bulky tied and jeweled garters on his lean legs develop his calves or the swells a man’s legs should have. Her eyes darted behind him for anyone she might know; then she smiled and nodded and listened as he took her arm and guided her from the stands. She had not even set eyes on Francois, so the day was nearly ruined anyway. What could a walk with Rene add or detract to the once beautiful day now?

“How does our Queen Claude after the birth of the Dauphin?” the tall lad was asking. He bent solicitously close for her answer.

“Somewhat weak and sickly still, monsieur,” she responded, wishing he did not lean so near as he brushed against her. She was suddenly angry with herself that they had left the tournament early. She could still hear the clash of lance on shield and the solemn announcements of pursuivants clearly behind them.

“You, no doubt, miss the Dowager English Queen Marie whom you served before,” he chatted on. “At least she has returned to her homeland now. Did you know she had to bribe her brother, and stole some of her queen’s jewels to do it, and when she reached Calais to sail home she had to hide from an angry mob? The French royalty do not make such foolish marriage vows. She is fortunate the English roi forgave her.”

“Please, Rene,” Mary cut in, “say nothing unkind of her. I do miss her greatly. She was dear to me.”

“Ah, of course, ma Marie. And do you know when you blush you are exquisite? Your hair looks so golden, so adorable uncovered, and your eyes and face are that of a Diana,” he said, putting out his hand against a tall, trimmed privet hedge to stop her slow progress. “I have worshipped your beauty from across the room too long.” His voice broke.

Now, she thought warily, this is a swiftly different tack. He has learned fancy court flattery well.

“I thank you for your kindness, Monsieur Rene.” She hesitated on the brink of either fleeing or giggling as he moved the other hand slowly, tentatively to her narrow waist.

“Could you not learn to address me as mon Rene, cherie?”

Before she could step back or raise a halting hand to his chest, he dipped suddenly and crushed her lips with his. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she thought instantly that it was quite impossible to even fantasize that she could so intrigue a charming, dashing man like Francois with this whelp wrapped around her. She pushed hard against his chest, but he did not budge. Instead, he tightened his grip, pulling her full breasts against his narrow silken chest.

She turned her head stiffly away and was surprised to hear the shrill pitch of her voice. “Rene, no, si vous plait!”

She twisted away. They went slightly off balance and bounced against the sharp pricker hedge. She shrieked in fright and pain as he bent to kiss her throat and pulled jerkily at the low square decolletage of her dress.

“My precious Diana, I can do much for you here at court,” he was saying brokenly. He sounded quite breathless.

He was from a powerful family. Perhaps her father would be angry if he ever heard she had offended a de Brosse. And that silly Jeanne would no doubt gossip and laugh.

“No, no,” she shouted, despite her fears as his long fingers plunged into her dress and brushed a taut nipple. Did he think her such an English simpleton as to lie with him here in broad daylight in the king’s gardens?

“Pardon, jeune monsieur,” came a strange crackling voice, and a huge thin hand descended on Rene’s shoulder pressed close against her own now bare shoulder. Rene raised his head, his eyes wide, his mouth open. “The demoiselle does not wish your attentions now, monsieur, and it takes a wise warrior to know when to retreat, s?”

Mary saw it was the old, white-haired artist from Italy whom King Francois so favored. Pray God, the king himself was not about to witness this shameful display.

“Signor da Vinci,” Rene responded, taking his hands from Mary so suddenly that she almost tilted into the privet hedge again. The old man steadied her elbow, and she quickly shrugged her bare shoulder to pull up her dishevelled dress.

“Perhaps midafternoon is a poor time for romance, especially in near view of the king’s tournament, eh? You are Monsieur de Brosse, are you not?”

“Oui, Signor da Vinci.” Rene looked suddenly like a huge whipped puppy. That he unhanded her so quickly and did not show anger at Monsieur da Vinci was no doubt because the whole court knew well how the king cultivated and honored the old man. It was said they often spent hours together just talking.

“Another time would be better then, Monsieur de Brosse. I shall be honored to walk your lady back to the Chateau.”

Obviously disconcerted, but at a loss for a reply, Rene bowed, and leaned to scoop his hat from the even-cut turf. “Mademoiselle Boullaine,” he said curtly and disappeared around the hedge.

“I have not rescued a maiden in distress for years, Mademoiselle Boullaine,” Signor da Vinci said quietly, musically, and she marvelled at the way he almost sang his French. “You are the English ambassador’s daughter, are you not,” he intoned.

“Oui, Signor da Vinci. Merci beaucoup for your aid. The attentions were quite unwanted.”

“Ah, s. We will say no more of that. I was just trying to see how the craigs across the valley touch the tiny cliff-clinging town on either side when I heard you. The Loire is much like the far reaches of the Arno, you see.”

They strolled easily around the hedgerow and there was the lovely fountain and opening view where the girls had seen him earlier. He had not moved all afternoon.

“I live at Cloux in a spacious house His Majesty granted me, but the vistas here are much more pleasant and, well, more like home.” His eyes went past her, far over her shoulder and clouded beneath his bushy, snowy eyebrows.

“Florence, signor?”

“S, Firenze. But now, this shall be my home.” He sighed and motioned for her to sit next to him on the marble fountain ledge. Pleased, she did so carefully as he picked up his discarded notebook and stick of brownish charcoal.

“Is this,” he nodded his head toward the valley, “a French and Italian view only, or could it be your England?”

She gazed slowly over the misty haze of easy hills and azure sky and plunging valley. “I have seen no English view like this, Signor, but England has its lovely rivers and beautiful hunt parks. And English gardens are wonderful.” Her voice trailed off.

“You see one now, a lovely garden in the eye of your heart and you could tell me every tiny petal in it, every butterfly and sunny splash, could you not? Knowing how to see, that is the most important gift from God. ‘Sapere vedere.’”

His left hand nearly skimmed over his paper now, but it seemed he seldom lowered his eyes from the stony pinnacles beyond. She watched breathless, yet wanting to ask him what he discussed for long hours with his patron Francois, and what he thought of the wonderful man.

He finished, then, and bent his head over his notebook. His huge nose seemed to point directly at the charcoal misty cliffs and forests and towns he had drawn so effortlessly. He writes backwards, she thought as he labeled the sketch, but assumed it was merely that the Italian looked so strange.

He turned to her and seemed to stare for long minutes, but she felt totally at ease. “Has Clouet sketched you?” he questioned finally.

“No, Signor. He is the court artist.”

“And are you not of the court, Mademoiselle Boullaine?”

“No, Signor, only one of Queen Claude’s maids of honor.”

“Ah, that other peaceful and moral court,” he said and rose. “I move more in the worldly court of king’s projects,” he continued in lilting French. “I draw canals for Romartin, I sketch scenery for court masques, I keep my notebooks. I remember other kings and projects and notebooks. But enough of an old man’s whimsies.”

Mary noticed other people now meandering back across the formal gardens from the tiltyard. If only Francois himself would come along and hail his artist and then...

“I shall sketch you someday,” he was saying. “You could be a Florentine beauty, you know, fair and blonde and azure-eyed. You show your most inner thoughts in your eyes when it is an unfashionable thing to do, but how touching and how feminine. Like la Gioconda.” He smiled and his eyes were misty again. “I shall not forget you. I shall see you again, Mademoiselle Boullaine.”

He folded his notebook pertly under his brown-silk arm and bowed slowly. “Remember my motto, fairest lady. At court knowing how to see can be one’s very survival. Adieu.”

He turned and walked slowly across the terraced lawn before she could reply, and she realized she had foolishly raised her hand to wave at his retreating back.

Knowing how to see, yes, indeed. And knowing how to avoid that whelp Rene de Brosse and keep Jeanne from snickering, and Annie from prying.