Once through the gatehouse he stood on the perimeter of the outer ward gazing on another smaller castle surrounded by its own small city of houses, stables, kitchens, storehouses and attendant buildings. Some of these were stone; others were made of timber and wattle, as in the town below. This inner castle had its own gatehouse and Quentin made his way there at once. Here security was more stringent, and the guard at the gate demanded to know his business. Quentin produced the folded parchment. The soldier glanced at the seal and waved him on.

Upon emerging from the gatehouse passage Quentin hesitantly entered a courtyard of some size. The whole of this inner ward was given over to elegant gardens which contained every known flowering plant and tree in the kingdom and beyond. In springtime the inner ward would burst in blooms of riotous color; now it was covered over with a still, white shroud of snow.

As Quentin watched, a man dressed in a long brocaded coat lined with sable-a lord or prince, by the look of his rich clothing-emerged from a stone archway to hurry across the garden to another part of the castle. Quentin waited until the nobleman had passed and then followed him. The man scurried across the snowy expanse and darted into the castle with Quentin right behind.

Once inside Quentin lost the man when he disappeared into one of the many doors opening off the main corridor. He was standing, wondering what to do next when a gruff voice bellowed behind him. “Stop! If you have business here, speak up! Well? Out with it!”

Quentin spun on his heel to see a square-built man bearing towards him menacingly. “I have come to see the Queen.” He uttered the first words that sprang into his mind.

“Oh, have you now?” The man frowned furiously. “Clear out! You should know better than to be lurking about my keep. Clear out I say!”

Quentin jumped back and thrust the sealed packet before him as if to ward off an impending blow. “Please sir, I have a letter.”

“What is the trouble here, warder?” The voice came from an open door and Quentin looked up to see the nobleman he’d followed into the castle.

“This one says he’s to see the Queen. I think he’s about mischief, I do.”

The man stepped up to Quentin. “Let me see your papers.”

Quentin swallowed hard and offered the sealed parchment to the man. He snatched up the letter and looked at the seal, broke it and read the letter with a cursory glance. “Where is your master?” the man demanded, eyeing Quentin closely.

“He-he could not come, so sent me ahead to beg the Queen’s pardon.”

“Hmph-tell your master that he had better value Her Majesty’s requests more highly in the future or he will lose her favor-and the benefit of her trade.” He handed the letter back to Quentin. “Very well, follow me.”

The man was not a lord as Quentin had supposed, but the Queen’s chamberlain, and he led Quentin through a maze of corridors and anterooms to a high-arched passageway on an upper level of the castle. “Sit down,” the chamberlain commanded at last.

Quentin took a seat upon a low bench across the corridor from a great carved wooden door. A window of thick, frost-covered glass looked out upon the inner ward and Quentin gazed out blankly, trying to remember what he was going to say to the Queen. He had forgotten it all.

The chamberlain entered and exited the apartment several times, as did others, mostly servants and other women. Once or twice Quentin thought he must be seeing the Queen herself emerge from her chambers; these visions of beauty, Quentin discovered, were the Queen’s personal attendants; however, all were arrayed and conducted themselves like enough to queens for Quentin’s unpracticed eye.

After a time the chamberlain emerged once more and came directly to Quentin. “Her Majesty wishes to see you now,” he said and added a further word of instruction for Quentin’s benefit. “When entering the royal apartment, it is proper to kneel until Her Majesty has asked you to rise.”

Quentin nodded and followed the man through the door to her outer apartment. This was a large open room hung with tapestries and richly furnished. A few women sat at looms weaving, and talking as they worked. A minstrel played in one corner to the accompaniment of several ladies singing. The room seemed filled with charming activity. Quentin wondered which of the lovely women he saw was the Queen Alinea. But the chamberlain marched him through this room to another, the Queen’s private chamber.

The chamberlain knocked once upon the wonderfully carved door and opened it without waiting for a reply. He bowed low and ushered Quentin in. Quentin, not daring to raise his eyes, fell to his knees on the floor.

“Your Majesty, the furrier,” the chamberlain announced and left at once. The next voice Quentin heard was the Queen’s.

“SO YOUNG our furrier is, and so formal,” Queen Alinea said. Her voice, just as the poets intimated, was like laughing water, Quentin thought. “Rise, young furrier,” she commanded pleasantly. Quentin raised his head uncertainly, half afraid to cast his eyes upon his Queen. But then he saw her and could look at nothing else.

Queen Alinea stood before a window. The blazing blue of the afternoon winter sky formed a brilliant azure backdrop which highlighted the auburn beauty of her hair. Her comely form was wrapped in a simple hooded gown of deep turquoise which fell in gentle gathers to the floor. She wore a belt of braided gold and pearls which accented her slim waist, and round her graceful throat a necklace, delicate and dainty, of the same design. Her radiant hair was swept back, revealing a high and noble forehead adorned with a simple golden circlet. The red-brown tresses curled in dark cascades along her slender neck, framing a face at once so open and frank it disarmed the observer. Her eyes glimmered with a good humor which played at the corners of her lovely mouth, threatening always to dissolve these exquisite features into laughter.

All this Quentin took in as one bereft of his manners, gaping shamelessly, momentarily stricken speechless by this dazzling vision.

“Our young visitor seems to be enchanted by your beauty, Bria,” the Queen remarked, and Quentin saw the girl whom he had met that morning sitting next to the Queen with an embroidery hoop in her lap. The Queen had been instructing her in some finer technique of needlepoint. “Rise, I say,” the Queen repeated, stepping down from the dais and coming close to Quentin, who jumped quickly to his feet and bowed as she approached.

“Have you brought something to show me, young sir,” the Queen asked amiably, “or would you have me describe my fancies for you that I may be surprised by your master’s art?”

Quentin suddenly remembered with a start that he was not the furrier, or even the furrier’s apprentice; he didn’t even know the furrier’s name. His trembling hand sought the letter which Ronsard had traded his life to bring. The Queen detected his tremulous hesitation and asked, “Is something wrong? Why do you tarry so?”

“Your Majesty… I am not the furrier’s assistant,” Quentin managed to stammer. And to her look of mild inquiry he added, “But I have brought you something more valuable than you know. It is…” he broke off, glancing at the Queen’s companion. “I think you may wish to receive it alone.”

The Queen smiled at this conspiracy, but nevertheless nodded to Bria, who removed herself with a sharp, disapproving look to Quentin.

“Now then,” the Queen replied, her hands clasped in front of her, “what is it that begs my private attention?”

“A letter, Your Majesty,” Quentin said and opened his cloak. He took the gold-handled dagger from his belt and sliced a thread which bound the patch concealing the letter to his jerkin.