Claude now gave the order for her household to move south to Amboise. It was during that hundred-mile journey that Anne began to realize how vast France actually was, and how beautiful, with its broad rivers and fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Approaching the lush green valley of the Loire, she was told that they were entering the Garden of France. It was peaceful, fertile countryside with gentle undulating hills, vineyards, orchards, and chateaux that looked as if they belonged in the pages of illuminated manuscripts; and through it all flowed the broad, tranquil river.
The royal chateau of Amboise rose loftily and majestically on the bank of the Loire, dominating the town and surrounded by glorious gardens and terraces with parterres, lattices, and colorful pavilions. It was like no palace Anne had ever seen. The more knowledgeable among her companions informed her that it was centuries old, but had been largely rebuilt in the Italian style some years ago.
Claude was a different person—happier, more carefree, and more animated—in this place she regarded as her home. She began planning Christmas celebrations such as had never been seen at court, in the hope that Fran?ois would be with her to share them. He had been brought up at Amboise, and as children he and Claude had played here together. Anne and the other maids and ladies spent hours making wreaths and garlands of evergreens, as great fires crackled in the elegant stone fireplaces and tapestries embroidered with a thousand flowers shielded them from the drafts.
But the King did not return for Christmas; he was still in Milan. He would soon be home, Claude said stoically, and insisted that the celebrations go ahead anyway.
In January, Madame Louise appeared in the Queen’s chamber and informed her that Fran?ois was to make a slow, triumphal progress through Provence on his way north.
“I am going to join him,” she announced. “God knows how I long to see him.”
“I will go too,” said Claude, happily and without rancor. It was clear that she, the King’s wife, was used to playing a supportive role to his mother.
“We will all go, you, me, and Marguerite,” Madame Louise declared, and Claude’s face lit up. Anne too was excited at the prospect of travelling south. How far away was Provence? How long would it take to get there?
It took them two weeks. The dead of winter was never the best time to travel, but fortunately the weather was unseasonably mild and the roads and tracks were dry. Their route took them from the rich lowlands of the Loire to Bourges, Clermont-Ferrand, Lyon, and Grenoble, skirting snow-capped mountains, traversing majestic country where frost-touched vineyards stretched to the far horizon, and finally reaching the verdant, scenic grandeur of Provence itself, with its towering, craggy hills and ancient olive groves. Anne had never dreamed that a land could show so many faces. These southern parts of France were enchanting, a world away from the familiar places she knew.
As they passed between two high mountain ridges and drew nearer to Sisteron, where they were to meet up with the King and his host, her excitement mounted. She saw Claude’s plain face transformed with joy when she caught sight of Fran?ois, the triumphant victor, bearded now and bravely seated on his horse, looking more magnificent than ever and mantled with a new assurance. Anne watched him dismount to embrace his wife, his mother, and his sister. Again she felt that overwhelming distaste.
With the other ladies, she followed the King and Queen up to the mighty Citadelle, which guarded the town from its rocky outcrop far above. An air of rejoicing pervaded the press of people in the procession, and Anne was longing for the feasting and dancing to begin. With itching fingers she helped to unpack her mistress’s gear and make her ready to grace the court. Then she flew to the dorter at the top of the great tower, where she hurriedly cast off her traveling clothes, washed herself with rose water, and donned a gown of plum damask trimmed with black velvet. Her hair she left floating loose down her back, interlaced with tiny sparkling jewels. A glance in the mirror told her that she had never looked more alluring.
King Fran?ois noticed her. “La petite Boleyn! You are enchanting tonight,” he said, as he passed her on his way to his seat on the dais, his gentlemen following, all of them as gaudy as peacocks. He had put on weight during the campaign.
Anne flushed. He was the last man whose attentions she craved, but she lowered her eyes, dipped a curtsey and murmured, “Thank you, sire,” praying that he would leave her alone.
“It pleases me to see all you young ladies here,” he said, leering at her. “A court without ladies is like a year without springtime, or a spring without roses.” He moved on, his courtiers following. Her relief was so great, she could have sunk to the floor.
—
In slow stages the court made its cumbersome way north, the victor of Milan being feted all along the way. It was at Lyon, where Fran?ois fell in love with the city and insisted on lingering for three months, that Anne attended the Queen on an expedition to the Roman forum of Trajan, high on a hill, with all of Lyon and the broad confluence of the two great rivers, the Rh?ne and the Sa?ne, spread out below. She stood by the parapet to admire the view. It was a breathtaking sight.
Someone was watching her. An old man was sitting on a ruined wall, a sketchbook in his hand, busily drawing. You could have called him a lion of a man, with his mane of white hair, his strong features, and his powerful build. He smiled at her. She had seen him before, in company with the King, and wondered who he was.
“Good day, sir,” she said.
The old man rose to his feet and bowed. “Madonna. You like my picture?” His voice was heavily accented, and his French appalling.
Anne had never seen such a realistic and beautiful sketch. She drew in her breath as she saw her own likeness in profile. There she was in her gray figured gown with the black biliment and her red and gold hood. The old man had captured her features perfectly. Her nose was a trifle long, but that did not detract from the overall impression.
“You like it?” the old man asked. “You have a—how you say—interesting face.”
“It’s wonderfully accomplished!” Anne exclaimed. “I have seen many great works of art, in Burgundy and here in France, but this is exceptional. It’s me to the life.”
“Then take it,” he said, resuming his seat and beaming at her.
Anne was staggered. “For me? Oh, you are kind, sir! I shall treasure it. Will you sign it?”
The artist took a stick of charcoal and traced a cipher of three letters, one above the other, a large D with two downward strokes and a slanting L.
“DVL?” she asked, puzzled.
“Leonardo da Vinci at your service, Madonna,” the old man said.
1516-1519
“You are done with men? You are fifteen!” Jeanne de Lautrec exclaimed. Recently married, she had been extolling the joys of wedlock to the Queen’s other ladies, and Anne, growing weary of it, had felt moved to point out that not every woman thought it an ideal estate.