La Petite Boulain

by G Lawrence

  Our father’s face seemed to darken like that of a demon and he walked towards us again. “If you betray my trust again, then I promise I shall find men to be your husbands of the worst kind possible; men who would force you in your own beds and beat you every night. Men to bring you home diseases from prostitutes that will eat your bones and decay your insides. You would never enter the courts again, but stay in foul and isolated country houses bearing child after child until death,” he sighed, shaking his head at us. “I have worked long and hard for this family. You will not be the ones to ruin that for me. Now get out.”

  He turned to me again almost as an afterthought. “Anne… do not let anyone see your sister in that state,” he said, and then he turned and walked from the chamber.

  As soon as he had left we hastened to get out, too. I pulled Mary into an adjoining chamber to clean her wound and re-dress her. She was stumbling, crying and incoherent in her speech. As best I could, I cleaned her wound with wine and water, we pulled her hair a little more from her hood to try and cover the bruise. There were some ointments and cosmetics in our chamber that I knew we could use once we got back there. We could cover up the red marks on her skin with paint and powder, such as the older women of court used and she could wear a gable hood about the court to hide the worst of her bruise. But I needed to get her back to our chambers without anyone seeing her like this. If she was seen in this state then it would not do any good for her reputation, or for mitigating the furious anger of our father.

  For now I sought to dress her again. Our father had torn her gown and kirtle, and ripped the ribbon-holes and the hooks for pins, but there was enough there to patch together a semblance of modesty. Whispering words of comfort to her, I urged her to hurry. We hastened through the back passages and corridors usually used only by servants. We raced past servants who looked on our presence there with interest, but happily without comment, and soon found ourselves safely back in our rooms. We would soon be late for our duties to Mary Tudor, but Mary was in no state to go as she was. I must say she was sick. Once I had dressed her cut and applied angelica ointment to her wounds, I put her into bed and placed a cup of wine at her side. Mary was still crying and shaking, curled up in her bed. I promised her I would be back as soon as I could.

  Mary Tudor was concerned about my sister’s illness. I convinced my mistress it was not serious enough to send a doctor, whilst managing to make it serious enough that missing her evening duties was required. The court was turning me into an accomplished and consummate liar. In practise it mattered little that Mary was absent, as I was more than capable of doing both her duties and mine; I was more useful and adroit in the chambers of royalty than my sister.

  Once I had completed my evening’s tasks for Mary Tudor and she was settled with her French attendants for the night, playing cards, I hurried back to our chambers. Mary was sitting in the little window seat, staring out at the great gardens lit in the half-moon’s light. It was beautiful here in this palace. The knot gardens that Louis had worked so hard to maintain were symmetrical and measured, so that nature was tamed, controlled and bent to the will of man. The sheltered coves and crannies where one could shade oneself from the dangerous rays of the sun were hidden amongst the lilies and roses. Mary’s eyes wandered over the gardens and out to the city beyond. Her lovely brown eyes were serious and speculative this night. She turned and nodded to me as I came in. She appeared, to my relief, to be over the worst of her fright from our father’s attack on her.

  “How did he find out?” I asked, pouring some ale from the tankard on the table and handing her a cup. I poured one for myself also and sat on my bed.

  “Brandon made a jest within our father’s hearing,” she said. “He repeated that François called me his “little English mare” because he “rode me so often”. She shrugged a little. “I didn’t know François called me such names,” she said sadly.

  “François!” I exclaimed slightly. I had not been aware who it was that my sister had been bedding until now. I realized our father had mentioned something of it as he shouted at us, but at the time I had been too scared to take much note.

  “Yes… he has great charm,” she said smiling. “And he taught me many things. He talked to me often of wonders. He loves humanism and art and music. He is a great man.”

  She paused; her look of admiration fell from her face suddenly as she continued. “But perhaps he only pretends to be a great man. After all, there is no knight who would say such things of one he truly loved, is there?” Mary seemed pensive once again.

  “There were others, too…” she said staring from the window. “François was not the only lover I took. He tired of me quickly, but there were others who liked me well enough…” she trailed off, looking at the stars. “But the King was the best of them, in more ways than one.”

  I sighed, feeling too weary to absorb much more shock than I had done already this day. “You are too generous, Mary,” I said. “You think that everyone is like you, that everyone is looking for love and happiness. Some are not…” my face darkened. “It seems to me that most are not. They want only what they can get. Love does not come into it.”

  “Yes,” she nodded softly, and then turned to me with a little smile. “But perhaps the husband I will now have will not be so bad? Our father threatens me with horror… but would he really give up a chance of a grand marriage and alliance with a great family just to spite me? I think not; he will marry me as high as he can, and who knows?” She smiled wider, looking happier. “Perhaps this husband will be good to me… Perhaps he will be handsome.”

  Mary drained her cup and looked at me. “My elegant little sister,” she said. “You have always been cleverer than I, so perhaps you will do better than I have.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” I replied. “I have wished sometimes that I had your freedom. But I do not feel as though men can be trusted, even when they say they love you.”

  Mary snorted slightly. “Well, I am not sure either now, when their mouths say one thing in private, but something else to their friends… But let not my experience prevent you from having pleasure, from having love, if you want it. They are useful for some things, you know.” She smiled again, that old naughty smile I remembered so well. Mary’s spirit was fighting back.

  “I have had such pleasure that I would you could try, too,” she said and then grimaced, touching her head where the cut throbbed with the pulse of her blood. “Although… Perhaps I had better seek to find that pleasure in the marriage bed now, eh?” We both laughed a little; it was more from relief that the encounter with our father was over, and that we had survived, than from real humour.

  Mary left France soon after that with Mary Tudor and her new husband Brandon. I remained in France, with Queen Claude. I don’t know if she ever did know of my sister’s encounters with her husband, but if she cared or not or knew or not, Claude never breathed a word of knowledge to me on the matter. My father stayed on at the court for some time, sending for me but rarely, until he, too, sailed for England to arrange a match for his eldest daughter. He did not speak of Mary or of that terrible day to me again.

  My sister was to go on to other adventures, but I never forgot that night. Although Mary and I were sisters, there were so many differences between our two characters. But she was my only sister. She was my blood. Whatever else she was and whatever anyone called her, she was always my sweet sister. Too generous in her love to hold it back, too honest in herself to ever change her true nature.

  And I loved her, even though we were so very different.

  Chapter Twenty

  1515-1516

  France

  I entered the service of Queen Claude when my duties to Mary Tudor had ended. Claude’s household was housed separately to François’ and was quite different to his. Although later on, people would say that I had been an active and enthusiastic part of the most scandalous court in history, the court of Queen Claude was somewhat different, somewhat distant, and va
stly more modest than that of her husband. Claude’s court was filled with poetry and music, with devotional works and art. It was akin to the court of Margaret at Mechelen, although not quite as sparkling. François’ court was filled with diversions. He was a modern man and had a great interest in and enthusiasm for religion, beauty and art, but his court was also filled with a great licentiousness of behaviour in both women and men that was led by the King himself through example. The King loved the beautiful in life, and encouraged his gallants to follow his example in enjoying both artistic beauty and female beauties. He saw women as wonderful adornments to the gracefulness of his court and on occasion bought costly dresses in the newest fashions to be handed out to his wife’s ladies, especially on state occasions.

  The two households of the King and Queen met and visited each other of course, and were as one court for entertainments and feasts. We were one court for public occasions, and for many of the duties of court life. But in truth, we were separate for much of the time. Claude’s household was centred in the upper Loire, at Amboise and Blois. A lot of our time was spent in reading, praying, sewing for the Church and the poor, writing verse in the gardens and dancing with each other in the evenings; practising for the next courtly entertainment where we could demonstrate our talents. There were men in Claude’s court, of course; all of the senior posts in her household were held by men, and there were courtiers who came to Claude in search of patronage and support. With these courtiers we would enter into the games of courtly love, all under Claude’s guiding hands and watchful eyes. Our behaviour was always to be of the highest morality; our honour could not come into question.

  Claude’s court was as modest and as cultured as Margaret’s, and I was content and stimulated there. After Mary’s disgrace, it was soothing to enter a world where I felt I understood the rules once more. Claude and her husband had a stable and, it did seem, genuinely affectionate marriage. I don’t know if in truth they loved each other, but they were good friends. She never expected him to be faithful to her and never mentioned his various and numerous indiscretions. She pleased him by doing this and with her like-minded affection for arts and cultured ideas. She remained almost perpetually pregnant and gave him many sons and daughters. They were polite and happy in each other’s’ company, but also she was perfectly content to rule her own court and life herself, not often interfering with politics of the country. It was a good marriage and a good life, and it worked for them. Claude was the same age as I, but somehow she seemed older, wise beyond her years. I learnt many things from her, but I never managed to learn her self-control; there were never cross words from Claude. When she showed displeasure it was only through brief looks that indicated disapproval, and that was always enough to stop whatever it was that displeased her from happening again. I have wished many times that I had her control. I never managed to cool my hot temper, never really managed to think before I lashed out when I was angry. She was a better woman than I, and I never had a gentler mistress or a kinder friend than this humble, good lady who was also the Queen of a great land.

  Claude loved art and was especially fond of miniature paintings and portraits; her mother had also been fond of this art form. It was in Claude’s household that I first had my portrait painted; at first I sat for a normal portrait, and then for a miniature, which she kept of me when I eventually left her service.

  In 1516, the aged and renowned artist, Leonardo Da Vinci came from Italy to Cloux to retire at François’ request and expense. François was anxious that his court be seen as the centre of beauty and arts in the world, and enticing the great Leonardo to his lands was part of that plan along with great new buildings, sculptures and apartments at court, all done in antique fashion to emulate the classical cultures of Rome and Greece. But despite accepting the offer of a comfortable life in France, Leonardo was not interested in a life at the court itself; he liked not the rush and the clamour of courtly life. When he came, François gave him his own residence, and came to visit him often. From here, the old artist, and some said genius, was to spend his time living at the expense of François, creating, painting and drawing. It was a happy retirement, I think. He was housed near enough to Claude’s court that we could visit him often.

  Claude visited Leonardo frequently; partly because she admired his beautiful mind and partly because to her, he was an old man first and foremost, alone and perhaps tired of the world. Claude was a kind and good woman who would not leave an old man to loneliness. I believe the two of them became good friends and she often returned from these trips both elated and saddened.

  “It is sad that such greatness should eventually be lost to us, but he is so old that it will be a blessing to him to return to God,” she said one day when she returned from visiting him. I think she found her visits both interesting and sorrowful, for she came to love Leonardo during his time in France, but knew that he would not be long for this life.

  I would often accompany Claude to the house of Leonardo; we would sit in the beautiful rooms that François had chosen for him, and I would play on the lute, or sing softly as Claude and Leonardo talked. The great man rarely said anything to me or the other ladies, but he seemed to take pleasure in my voice. He was a great musician himself. The first day I came into his house, he spent a great deal of time staring at me, which I found strange. It was not that I was not used to men looking at me, but the unhidden manner in which he chose to stare at me was unusual if not a little unnerving. Claude smiled when I mentioned this to her. “When he sees a person with an interesting face, he does this,” she said and touched my cheek. “It must be your eyes that catch his interest. Do not be worried, it is just his way. It is the interest of an artist, of a painter, and nothing more.”

  His presence was usually a soft and gentle one. There was great calmness in him, but he could easily become distracted and drift into his own world, becoming lost in his thoughts. There were days when he would lock himself in his workrooms, beating new ideas from his mind in furious bouts of energy. But when he met with us, he was more often languid and tranquil. Old men often become lost in their thoughts, but there was a sense with Leonardo that, when he was distracted, it was his genius mind that had taken hold of him, rather than the weak and doddering mind of an old and increasingly feeble man.

  His house was filled with his works. His workrooms overflowed with sketches, maps and drawings; tables and tables of paper with diverse things drawn on them. Many pages written in what looked like a strange language, but in fact they were written in Italian or French in a ‘mirror’ fashion, starting from the right side of the parchment, and moving to the left. It seemed that these notes were intended for his own reading, for he wrote normally when the paper was intended to be read by another. There were so many ideas on those pages… It was as though his mind could imagine anything and everything; how a man might one day come to fly, the inner workings of the body, the beauty of the human form, machines made for counting, the make-up of plants and strange creations made for war. There was nothing above or below his intellect. There was nothing he was not interested in. He also would eat no meat, and sent his servants to the market place to buy caged birds, which he would then release into the skies of the estate François had given him.

  I marvelled at a mind such as his; whilst he seemed so calm on the outside, his mind was ever-working, always running over a new thought or idea. I could not imagine what it must be like to have such a restless imagination. I imagine when Leonardo dreamed, he dreamed the thoughts of God.

  Many of his works were brought to France with him, and François proudly displayed them at court. We were taken to court events to view these works; there was nothing like them, nothing I saw before or after that could compare to the brilliance of his paintings. I could tell you of the colours, could tell you of the pearl-cream complexion of his Madonna and Child, tell you of greens and blues, of yellows and gold and red. I could tell you of the wonder as your eyes opened onto his paintings to see people who look
ed as though they could walk from the frames of gold into the world of man. But none of that would ever tell you of the true experience of seeing his works. There was silence in the chambers where his pictures were displayed, because words became lost to all who looked on them. Spell-bound and breathless, I would look on his works with glittering eyes and wordless mouth. I felt as though I had come into the presence of God when I looked on these works. There is no other way to explain the awe that struck me dumb before the strokes of his brush. God had placed his hand next to that of his child Leonardo, and through his works, it was as though we could understand the beauty of the mind of God.

  Leonardo was as much a holy man to me as any priest, more so than some who claimed to be holy, but in practise were not. Many in his lifetime, I believe, had thought him capable of evil, but I did not see that as the truth. No man who painted as he did could be capable of real evil. He did not even eat flesh or fish. He was like a monk; his workrooms were his Church, and his brushstrokes were the prayers he offered daily to God.

  Leonardo died on the 2nd of May 1519, at the grand age of sixty-seven. I felt him leave this world with great sorrow even though we had barely ever spoken. I was not sad because I had lost a friend when he died; I was sad because the world itself had lost a great man.