Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [12]
I shook my head.
“You were afraid of my animals,” she said. “I saw you run from the Tower.”
Surprised that she remembered the incident, I said, “I did not expect to see such large cats. But I am no longer frightened of them. I would go to the Tower again, just to see them.” I was afraid I spoke with too much zeal.
The queen smiled. Powder had settled in the creases of her face.
“I do not blame you for being afraid,” she said gently. “When my father first took me to the menagerie, I was terrified. I thought the lion would devour me. Now I relish all the cats, lithe savages that they are. But I still cannot bear their loud shrieks. Like someone being tortured. And God knows I hate the Tower.”
Her face had darkened with displeasure, which dissipated again like smoke. A half smile formed on her lips.
“Catherine,” she mused. “I shall call you my little ‘Cat.’ ”
I cast down my eyes to conceal my delight. “At Your Majesty’s pleasure,” I murmured, feeling myself grow warm and full of her favor. The queen had given me a nickname!
That night, as soon as Frances was asleep, I recounted to Emme my conversation with the queen.
“Cat. Why, that is a play on your name. It is clever,” she said, grasping my hand. “I’m happy for you.”
“Yet I fear it is not a strong mark of favor,” I said. “She called the cats ‘lithe savages.’ Did she mean to warn me?”
Emme was silent for a moment. “At least she didn’t call you a mouse. No, it is far better to be the cat.”
“But a cat is a sly creature. Does she think me deceitful? How will I know?” In the dark, my insecurities multiplied like shadows on the wall.
From the next bed came a sigh. “Perhaps she meant nothing at all. ‘Cat’ is simply easier to say than ‘Catherine,’ ” said Frances.
“And you’re a spy with ears the size of trenchers!” Emme hissed at her.
I laughed at the thought of large wooden eating bowls affixed to the side of Frances’s head.
“I wasn’t spying. You woke me up with your chatter,” Frances said. “But if you want to know the queen’s mind on anything, ask Walter Ralegh.”
Frances’s advice startled me. “But I’ve never even spoken to him!” I said.
“Perhaps you should,” said Frances. “The queen’s cats are bold creatures.”
I decided Frances was taunting me. “No, this Cat is heedful,” I said. “Now good night.” I pulled the coverlet over my head and tried to sleep, but the queen’s words kept coming back to me: Nothing escapes my eye.
I was less certain that her nickname was a gift. But I would be true to it: sly and wary, but fearless.
One April morning, Emme, Frances, and I were airing out the queen’s wardrobe and sprinkling the clothes with scented powder to keep them from growing musty. My arms ached from lifting the heavy skirts to hang where they would catch the breeze from the open windows
“Cat! Frances!” came the queen’s commanding voice. “You will accompany me to Durham House within the hour.”
Flushed with exertion and excitement, I appealed to Emme. “Please help me get ready. I am hardly fit to be seen.”
She set down the muddy pantofles she had been cleaning. “You must wear my yellow satin bodice. It makes your dark hair stand out,” she said. She helped me dress, combed my curls, fitted my cap, and plaited some of my hair around it.
Frances had put on a dark blue gown over her best petticoat, her gift from the queen.
“Are you going to be a bold Cat today and speak to Master Ralegh?” she asked.
I glared at her. “Perhaps.”
“This may be your chance,” said Emme. “Listen well and observe the queen’s disposition. If she invites you to speak, choose words brief and fitting, uttered in a moderate voice.”
But I was full of doubts. “Tell me what I should say,” I pleaded. “I know Ralegh wants to sail to North America, but I don’t even know where that is.”
Emme bit her lip. “You look too lovely. Perhaps you should remain silent. Speak only if the queen is absent, or she may become jealous.”
Looking in a glass, I saw that my bodice was too revealing. I arranged the lace-edged partlet to cover more of my breasts.
“Don’t do that,” Frances said, tugging