Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [8]
I hurried after Emme and Anne, who were passing under the portcullis. In the courtyard the queen laughed, her good spirits restored despite the drizzling rain. Indeed, everyone was merry except for the stern-faced yeoman guards in their scarlet and gold uniforms. I wondered how the queen could be so gay while standing in the very courtyard where her mother had met her death.
I followed Emme toward one of the inner towers, wondering again about the young Elizabeth. Where had she been confined? Had she been afraid? The sound of iron clanking against stone mingled with my thoughts. Surely she had not been chained in a dark dungeon? We entered the Tower. An overwhelming smell of animal waste made me put my hand to my mouth. I heard a screeching and saw colored feathers flash overhead. Then a wailing filled my ears, like that of an angry cat magnified a hundredfold, and a roar sounded in reply, echoing inside the stone tower. What monstrous creatures were here? In the dimness I glimpsed the tawny hide of a beast straining against an iron collar, the fur around its face like a giant ruff, sharp teeth bared. Feeling my gorge rise with panic, I pushed my way out of the Tower and ran into the courtyard, gasping the damp air.
All the way back to Whitehall, everyone talked of the queen’s menagerie. The roaring beast I had glimpsed was called a lion. The catlike wailing came from a leopard, one of four in an iron cage, Emme said. She described their spotted fur and their long, slim tails. Anne snarled, curving her fingertips at Graham, which only made him more amorous toward her.
“My favorite was the bear,” Emme said. “It was a marvel, with white fur, as if the sun had bleached it!”
I wished that I had swallowed my fear and stayed so I could have seen that bear. While the others chattered about the animals, I watched the city through a veil of rain that fell into the roiling river.
As the barges passed the magnificent houses on the north bank of the river and neared Whitehall, the rain stopped. Feeble sunlight shone through the clouds, and the queen’s barge made suddenly for the wharf.
“I’ll wager our Bess has conceived a sudden desire to walk home, obliging us all to accompany her,” Leicester grumbled.
“You know how she likes to be seen. Look at the crowd waiting for her!” said Veronica as we stepped ashore.
“Make way for Her Majesty!” demanded the warder. Gleeful shouts arose as the queen passed. A woman ran forward and, before anyone could stop her, pressed a folded paper into her hand, while others threw nosegays. Most of the flowers fell into the mire of the street.
“Another petticoat ruined,” complained Anne, lifting her skirts just enough to clear the mucky street.
In front of her, Elizabeth paused before a puddle that gave off a peculiar stink.
At that moment a man stepped out of the crowd. He stood nearly a head taller than any of the queen’s guard. His hair was brown and curled, his nose sharp, his mouth wide. A pointed beard graced his chin. He wore a vivid blue doublet that swelled out in front, ending in the shape of a peasecod. His brocade hose were short and wide, setting off lean and strong legs. A cloak was slung over one shoulder. From his left ear hung a gleaming pearl. I drew in my breath at the sight of such a splendid figure.
In one graceful motion, he swept the cloak from his shoulder, laid it on the ground before the queen, and bowed low. The rich cloak, with its fur-trimmed collar and bright gold braid, began to soak up the vile water. I watched, stunned to see such a fine garment ruined. What was the meaning of this extravagant gesture? Who was this generous, impulsive man?
With a smile, the queen gave him her hand, stepped on the cloak, and crossed the puddle without soiling her feet. Seeing the garment already sodden, the other ladies followed suit.
Meanwhile Elizabeth drew the young man close to her and spoke in his ear. When she