In Bed With Lord Byron

next few weeks were tremendously hard work, but wonderfully good fun. I didn’t want to suffer the pain I had with Byron, so I was determined to get to know Leonardo
before embarking on any fling. And being his apprentice was just ideal.
    All the same, I had no idea painting was so complex – there were no easy trips down to the local art shop for a set of paints and a few rolls of paper. I was sent to pick the hairs from
the tails of ermines and stoats, bind them to quills and then slot them into wooden handles to make brushes; I had to boil wooden panels in water to prevent them from splitting before Leonardo
prepared them for painting; I had to grind pigments to make the paints, so that by the end of each day my nails were stained with the colours, the intense blue of lapis lazuli or the deep red of
crushed cochineal beetles. There were times when I made awful mistakes, such as when Leonardo asked me to mix him some tempera paints. How was I to know tempera meant egg yolk? Who ever heard of
mixing paints with
eggs
? I told Leonardo he ought to get into oils, and he said he was considering it. I’m sure he must have realised I’d faked my CV and had no real experience
with a master, but he never berated me; he was always kind and patient.
    I fell in love with Leonardo very quickly. It was impossible not to. A great friendship immediately sprang up between us. There were times when he was terrifyingly serious and obsessive about
his work, but he also had a deliciously boyish sense of humour and loved playing practical jokes on me. One of his favourites was making wax models of creatures, blowing into them and then setting
them off with a series of rude noises.
    He was also touchingly determined to turn me into a good painter, letting me practise with a lead stylus and making me my own trelliswork grid to help me work on my perspective. Many nights we
stayed up for hours, painting together. One night we were toiling past midnight and soon my head was drooping and my brush slackened, limp as a dishcloth. A warm hand curled around mine and I
looked up to see Leonardo staring down at me.
    ‘Bed,’ he said, threading the paintbrush out of my fingers. ‘Bed for sleepyhead.’
    He’d set up the screen around my bed so that I could change without him having to stop work and leave the room. Despite its shield, I still felt acutely conscious of my nakedness as I took
off my clothes; I could feel his consciousness of it too, the electricity in the room. I pulled on my nightclothes and slipped under the covers, then started, hearing a knock. Leonardo was peering
around the edge of the screen. He came and tucked me in, planting a kiss on my forehead. As he leaned down, his hair caressed my cheek and my nerve ends burst into flames.
    ‘Are you going to bed now?’ I stammered.
    His eyes were on my lips. He shook his head, smiling.
    ‘I shall paint,’ he said. He looked out through the window at the patch of brilliant night sky. ‘The night is only just beginning – and someone has to keep the stars
company.’
    I was wowed by his stamina. But then I guess Leonardo wouldn’t have left behind notebooks and manuscripts totalling over seven thousand pages if he’d spent a third of his time
sleeping like the rest of us.
    I lay and listened to the small sounds of him working: the swish of his brush against canvas, the creak of his stool, and those lovely little noises he made when he was concentrating, which he
was probably hardly aware of himself. There was something comforting about him being there, awake, as I slid into dreams and a shallow sleep.
    Some time later I drifted awake. I opened my eyes, aware that the night air was cooler. The night sky above me was now dark, the stars covered by clouds. I became aware that Leonardo had
company. I sat up and peered through a slit in the joints of the screen. It was Bramante. Leonardo had clearly finished his painting and now the older man was admiring it. His eyes were like stars;
he knew he was on to a good thing.
    ‘I’m glad I dropped by to see how you were doing – this is simply spectacular,’ he cried.
    ‘Sssh,’ Leonardo whispered. ‘Da Liza is sleeping.’
    I felt chuffed at the passion, the protective note in his voice.
    ‘And how is da Liza?’ Bramante whispered. ‘Proving to be a prodigy?’ His voice was barbed, teasing and patronising.
    Bloody cheek, I thought. I waited for Leonardo to defend me and declare I was the best painter