The Last Boleyn by Karen Harper Page A

measurings and tuckings and...you know, Marie, we shall have to carry these gowns with us and dress at the Bastille. It would never do to offer
du Roi
a sweetmeat with a wrinkled skirt.” She laughed and turned away, and Mary’s excited eyes took in the tumble of gentle hued colors about the vast room: blonde beauties, all, with their silk garments of creams and whites, pale yellows and golds punctuated only by the more homely colors of the dressmakers who cleared their cluttered gear to depart. She wished desperately that the king himself might come to check on his chosen maids and that his eyes would rest on her again as they had so long ago.
    She sighed and shrugged out of her dress. She was one of only three maids dressed entirely in gold and white, the full satin skirts flounced and gathered with tiny silken rose buds. They had told her that Signor da Vinci had labeled the drawing of this dress for the English maid Boullaine. She smiled at the compliment. The master had not forgotten the girl he had rescued in the gardens at Amboise more than a year ago.
    The sparrow-like seamstress stuffed the dress’s sleeves with cotton batting and darted off with the garment held high. Mary drifted with the others in the direction of the special hairdressers assembled for the event. She soon found, to her great delight, that the mastermind of this elaborate spectacle had sent numerous sketches of hair styles for the setters to emulate on the maids. And one fine-lined drawing was of a clearly recognizable face while the others merely had the shapes of heads under the curled or upswept tresses. Mary gazed on the sketch in wonder.
    â€œIt is my face indeed,” she breathed.
    â€œIt seems, Mademoiselle Boullaine, the
premier peintre du Roi
has decreed this very look for you,” smiled her hair setter. “Sit, sit. I hope my art will not disappoint Monsieur da Vinci.”

    The afternoon swept around Mary’s excited, spinning head on wings. Their carriages approached the massy Palais du Bastille an hour before the royal party, ambassadors, and the two hundred and fifty chosen revelers would arrive. The street leading to the Bastille gateway seemed more a tunnel through a deep forest, for fragrant boxwood, laurel and festoons of flowers decorated the shops and towering narrow houses.
    They were ushered into a hallway adjacent to the courtyard where the banquet, dancing and masques would later take place. When they had been attired, they were scrutinized by the pointed stare of their steward and left on their own with warnings not to peek out when the royal persons arrived—and not to sit or lean. They stood about in beige and yellow clusters chatting, anticipating, and giggling nervously.
    But then their steward was back, and with him strode the master of Francois’s
fete du royale,
Signor Leonardo da Vinci. He looked fragile and more stooped, Mary thought, but somehow dynamic force emanated from his face and gestures. The girls hushed at once.
    â€œPerfect, perfect,” the old man chanted, nodding his masses of snowy hair in rhythm with his voice. “Olympian nymphs all with a Diana and a Venus too.”
    Mary stood to his left, and he approached her slowly. His eyes seemed very red and tired. She curtseyed.
    â€œStand straight, my Diana, stand straight.
S,
the lines of the dress and hair are perfect. I knew they would set off your face the way I had seen it in my mind.”
    He clasped his blue-veined hands tightly in approval, and she smiled at him in sincere appreciation and affection. He lowered his voice and turned his back on the hovering steward. “Would you like to see the rest of the frame for my creation, la Boullaine?”
    â€œOh, yes, Signor da Vinci! Would it be possible?” She almost bounced from excitement, but restrained herself properly.
    â€œBut of course. Cannot the artist share his visions with those he created?”
    He gestured toward the doorway,