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.