Mademoiselle Boleyn by Robin Maxwell

Author:Robin Maxwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Marguerite had announced she was giving her ladies a special treat—the royal barge floating lazily downstream from Amboise on a glorious warm day, no gentlemen allowed! Even the king, who begged his sister to let him come along, had been told in no uncertain terms that his presence would spoil what she termed a “Summer Celebration of Womanhood.” She had even bemoaned the need for male oarsmen, but they would remain discreetly out of sight.

We were boarding just after dawn. Our ladies’ maids, female servants from the kitchen, and even the laundry had been pressed into service to meet our every need. Now they were carrying across the gangplanks rugs and pillows and feather beds, and a specially prepared picnic for no more than ten of us.

Where normally several thrones would be set on the broad front deck, the rugs and feather beds were being laid over the boards. Piles of cushions were placed on top of them so each of us might have a space to sit or even recline in comfort. And they were spaced, to Marguerite’s specifications, not too close together, but as far from one another as possible. The duchess had instructed each of her ladies to bring aboard a book, or writing implements, or even a sewing project—anything that would help her pass the time quietly and pleasantly.

We were, every one of us, happily anticipating this unique adventure. I was helped up the plank by a happy, smiling Lynette, who, by my suggestion, had been invited to serve. The day promised to be as unique and pleasurable for the servants as for the noblewomen.

“There is only one space on the rear deck,” she whispered to me. “The view might not be so grand as the foredeck, but if you want the greatest privacy, that would be the place.”

“You do know me so well,” I said.

Lynette had heard me complain of the lack of privacy for a woman of my circumstances. We were so rarely afforded any time to be alone with ourselves.

I saw that each of the ladies was finding a pile of pillows on the front deck that suited her fancy. Many had indeed brought books with them. There were French romances. Some were humanist tomes. But not a Bible or an otherwise religious tract was among them. One lady brought embroidery, but I knew it to be a finely stitched vest for a gentleman she was hoping would soon be her lover.

Mary smiled excitedly as she came aboard. “What a wonderful gift,” she said to me, looking round the deck at the women making themselves at home in their own little corners of the barge. I noticed she was carrying a handbasket overbrimming with cut flowers and greens, pretty pieces of ribbons, little trinkets and beads—all the makings of a love knot.

The last two ladies to come aboard the barge were Marguerite and Madame, daughter helping mother up the gangplank. Claude, alas, was again with child, in the early stages, and felt that in her nauseous condition, a day on the water would be disastrous.

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