Under the kindly tuition of the noble lady Pocahontas learned the court manner of curtsying before the King, and how to manage the yards of train to her robe. She was never tired of fingering its glossy folds, but the stiff stays of the bodice were almost unbearable to the slender frame that knew no restraint but that of nature’s making. With Indian stoicism, she set herself to endure civilization’s instruments of torture, so great was her desire to be in all things an English woman.
All the trepidation of a first appearance at court was felt by Lady De La Warre alone. Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan, felt no fear in the presence of her equals.
On the day of presentation Pocahontas, accompanied by Lady De La Warre and her attendants, entered a gaily decorated barge that was to bear them to the palace of the king. From the mouth of the gilded swan at the prow, streamers of red and blue swept upwards to the swelling sail emblazoned with the coat-of-arms of Lord De La Warre. Under the dipping oars of the bargemen they sailed westward to Whitehall at Charing Cross.
Up its broad landing stairs, past the great entrance leading into the surrounding park, they came to a halt in a lofty antechamber reserved for the fair ladies who were to make their initial bow to royalty.
Arriving late, they found the Presence Chamber already thrown open and filled by those whose titles allowed a near approach to the throne. Regal duchesses, robed in velvets and satins as varied as the tints of the rainbow, glittering in jewels and coronets of golden strawberry leaves, together with ladies of lesser degree, ranged themselves in order of precedence on both sides of a red velvet pathway leading to the foot of the throne.
Mingling with them were the Knights of the Bath, arrayed in robes of crimson taffeta lined with white sarcenet, holding in their hands “soft white hats, whose long curling white plumes tapped against their white boots.”
Beside the massive throne, studded with diamonds, surrounded by sapphires, rubies and pearls, that glittered like the sun among the stars, stood Francis Bacon, Lord Chancellor of England. Near him was Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbury, clad in his episcopal robes.
A sudden hush fell over the assemblage. The King was entering. Preceded by the attendants of his household, holding in their hands their wands of office, came James, leaning on the arm of the Duke of Buckingham, his latest favorite. The handsome face and magnificently attired person of the Duke was in startling contrast to the soiled brown velvet dress, buttoned awry, of the monarch.
What a spectre of a king! Rolling eyes, slobbering mouth, ricketty legs upholding a body padded until it resembled a swollen frog. Not one trace of the fascinating beauty of his mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, had descended to him.
To his left walked grave and stately Prince Charles, clothed in white velvet. Then followed Queen Anne in blue velvet and ermine attended by her ladies-in-waiting.