Frankie and I shuddered in her carriage along the frozen road inside the wall of St. James’s Park. She sat still and upright to keep her hair from harm, asking every few moments if her skirt was not too short, her cuffs too yellow, her lips too red? I kept up a patter of encouragement as I looked through the window at that to which only the Court was allowed entry. Part-hidden by the frozen fog, workmen were digging the canal of Prince Henry’s design, about which I had read in the broadsheets. Beyond it, like a jumble of jewel cases, was the King’s menagerie. Men in red coats strolled around.

“Who are they?”

“The keepers,” said Frances. “They are treated like princes.”

The cages were empty, their exotic prisoners sheltering inside small huts except for a dark-skinned man wrapped in a blanket. His eyes followed the progress of our coach.

“That’s an Indian, and there are pelicans from Muscovy, antelopes from the Great Mogul, Virginia squirrels that can fly and Cassuare birds that cannot, although they swallow hot coals without harm, and the courtiers’ favorite, two crocodiles.” Frankie loved to laugh. I checked her face for cracks.

At the western end of the park we came to an orchard of saplings wrapped in straw to protect them from frost. At the center squatted three long sheds, little taller than a man, steaming in the pale January light. To one side were coaches, horses and servants, all emblazoned with the crests of noble families.

“So many,” I said. Frankie barely glanced at what impressed me.

“You will get used to it. The King is never unattended.”

“The King?”

She looked at me curiously, as if I were a foreigner with different understanding. “This is the King’s new silk factory. We are here to admire it.”

I had known Frances but a few hours and already, in her company, I was to be admitted to the King’s presence. Frankie noticed my agitation and took my hand.

“I will keep you safe from the monsters,” she said as the footman helped her down; he helped me too, but with less deference. I was ashamed of my sweating palms.

Inside it was so dark that at first I thought we were alone. The place was hot and wet and reeked like a turgid pond. Frankie held her perfumed gloves to her nose to mask the stench. There was a strange noise, like rain drumming on canvas, so loud that I looked about for its source but could find none in the gloom. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the low building was crammed with courtiers, fantastically silhouetted against the slatted shutters, many of whom were members of Frankie’s family. They all gazed toward a short, rather scruffy man. The moment Frankie spotted him she lowered her gloves.