“Beshrew me, my lord,” exclaimed a noble in brave attire as Lord Shrope entered the palace yard with his charge. “Art thou come again? Methought I heard that wast sent to France.”
“And France is (Francis) here,” retorted his lordship, indicating his companion.
“Good! I’ faith, very good, if Francis be his name,” laughed the other. “A proper lad, I trow. The queen hath ever an eye for beauty.”
“Where is Her Grace?” questioned Lord Shrope.
“In the presence chamber,” was the reply.
“Then let us hie thither,” spoke my lord, and Francis hurried after him, confused and embarrassed, as she encountered the curious gaze of the courtiers and ladies. They passed through the lofty halls and ante-chambers of 134 the palace until at length they stood in the long gallery at the upper end of which were the folding doors that gave entrance to the presence chamber.
“Go not in, my lord,” pleaded the usher of the black rod in charge of the door. “Something hath gone amiss with Her Highness, and the moment is not favorable.”
“I thank you, Master Usher, but the queen bade me seek her instantly upon my return,” said Lord Shrope. “I needs must go to her now. Come, Francis.”
So saying he boldly entered the chamber. It was hung with magnificent tapestries toward which Francis cast not so much as a single glance, so intent was she upon the form which seemed to dominate the room. At one end of the apartment was a dais upon which the queen sat under a royal canopy, surrounded by her ministers and some courtiers. They stood about with dismayed countenances for the queen was in a rage. She looked up as the two entered, and stared for a moment as if seeking to know the meaning of their entrance.
“My liege sovereign,” cried Lord Shrope 135 without waiting for the Lord Chamberlain to announce him, “I have come. Behold here is the lad for whom you sent me.”