With an effort she made her mind turn outwards again, shaking her huge and lovely frame as a setter might rid itself of water and hearing Lord Kansas recall, with all the skill of one who relished the role of ranconteur, his East Indian adventures. “And so, gentlemen, sundry clattering knights met all in a hall of tall bamboo, which was cool and gloomy, for light did come only through tight-woven lattice. This great place was the Aviary of the King of Bengahl. Axe and shield, sword and spear, clanged and cracked, like white fire in that gloom, while all about us parrots and macaws and parakeets, jackdaws and birds of paradise, canaries and cockatoos, screeched and fluttered. Why, in the end of it, there was more bird’s blood spilled than men’s. The thing was settled amicably in the end, when all were exhausted, when Sir Colum Feveril undertook to pay the proper price for the girl he’d married out of love. It was the issue. They had not made it clear!”
Gloriana drew a deep breath and then her voice joined in the common laughter.
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
In Which Lord Montfallcon Fails to Give Due Appreciation to the Work of an Artist and in Which the Artist Meets Death and Begs a Commission from Him
MARCH WINDS lifted the thick ivy about Lord Montfallcon’s high windows; it billowed like the heavy skirts of peasant matrons, reminding Captain Quire of a sensation he could not identify; something from his childhood when, occasionally, the elements would inspire him, bringing him a luscious tranquillity he had never since known. With his hand upon his hilt and his sombrero under his arm he watched the clever old lord read from the printed pamphlet Quire himself had just delivered into his hands.
“No other copies escaped the fire?” Montfallcon asked heavily.
“None. And the manuscript, too, I burned.” “These Stoics. I respect them, Quire. I follow their faith myself, to a large degree. But when belief’s turned to zealotry…Ah, the damage they can do. This makes out the Queen’s a harlot, though a blameless one. Bad blood, it says! The blood’s the best there is—’twas her sire soured it. Taking sensual pleasure while the enemy gathers, it says…. Gods! If they knew how hard she works for Albion. I’ve read all this more than once. The author?”
“On his way to begin a new life, my lord, where he’ll find plenty of discomfort to please him. In Africa. In irons, to the Shaleef of Bantustan.”
Lord Montfallcon gave vent to a small chuckle. “You sold him, Quire? As a slave?”
“As a scribe. He’ll be well-treated, by Bantustan standards. He claimed, in one paragraph, that he was no better than a slave. It seemed fitting to give him a taste of the reality.”
“The printer of this?” He waved it as he walked towards the fire.
“An ignorant man. Fear was all I needed to use. He’s back to making snatchsheets and placards.”
“You’re certain?”
“He claimed he read poorly, that he had not understood the import of the pamphlet. So I offered to insure him against further error by making certain he would be able to read nothing at all.”
“Ah, Quire,” said Lord Montfallcon with sudden gravity, “I wonder if you’ll ever come to frighten me.”
“It’s not my business, my lord.”
Montfallcon was in a restless mood. He studied Quire. He failed to find an answer to the question his eyes asked. “I wish I knew your purpose, Quire. You do not work for gold, I know, though you’re paid well. How’s so much spent, and you with the same suit of clothes, the same patched cloak? You’re not a drunkard or much of a gambler.” He frowned against the glare of the fire. “You do not pay for women. Do you save it, Quire?” The pamphlet was placed upon the fire and stirred with a long rod.
“I spend it freely, sir, on good deeds as often as not.” Quire was puzzled, even discomforted, by this lack of understanding. “A widow here, a cripple there.”
“You, Quire!” A grunt. “Charitable?”
“I am a sympathetic friend—but only to the weak. I will not tolerate the mad or the strong—those I’ll fight or avoid. My good deeds, Lord Montfallcon, are like all my deeds, self-interested. Your work and mine is greatly aided by my reputation for generosity. We employ a great army of loyal innocents, of faithful feeble-minded men and women, of dull, good-hearted, honest folk—for they are the people never reckoned with by one’s enemies. They are always ignored, always condescended to. Therefore they are the most grateful for my good deeds and will bring me all kinds of information, not from greed but from simple loyalty. I am their hero. They worship Captain Quire. They’ll forgive him any crime (’He has his reasons’) and protect him, as best they can, from any consequences. They are the backbone of every scheme.”
“I am almost flattered, Quire, by these confidences. Do you not fear to reveal the secrets of your trade to me?”
“Trade?” Surprised, Quire hesitated at the word, then shook his head to answer: “No, sir, for there are few men of my kidney in the world. Most thieves are fools, most murderers romantics, most spies self-important. I am proud to expound the theories of this profession, as any artist enjoys explaining his method, because he knows that only a rare few can follow him—and he’s happy to encourage those few.”
“What? You see me as a pupil?”
“Of course not, my lord. A peer.”
Lord Montfallcon wagged a finger. “Hubris, Quire! I suspect that the abduction of kings gives your imagination a richer diet than you can afford. You’ve tasted strong wine and now you’d have no other kind. You’ll fall—you become too cocky.”
Quire was sullen. “It pleases me to be so. If I enjoy the emotion, I’ll take it while I may, and not stifle it. I’ve little belief in any definite future.”
“You expect to die?”
He was further surprised. “No, my lord. It is just that there are so many possible futures. I plan, to some degree, for all of them. And, in another way, I plan for none of them.”
“You are not easy-going, Quire. Do not pretend that to me.”
“My life is as disciplined as"—Quire pointed into the fire where the pamphlet had turned black and was disintegrating—"as was his—as his will be, indeed. But I play my emotions with the skill and care of a musician, as I play the emotions of those I’m inclined to use.”
“But you must have an ambition.”
“I’ve told you, my lord. To amplify and define my senses.”
Lord Montfallcon became disturbed. “You use a scholar’s words to justify base deeds, that’s all.” He seemed about to dismiss Quire. He returned to his desk, frowning more darkly than ever.
“My lord?” Quire took his sombrero in his hand, made a step towards the door, then turned. “You recognise me as an artist, surely? I spoke candidly. The best I can do. Such words should not affect you, my lord. They are objective.”
Lord Montfallcon pouted his lips. “You relish your work!” It was an accusation and unexpected.
Quire’s dark eyes were half-amused. “Aye.”
“Zeus! I wish it were not necessary…. But it is necessary, and we must do it.” He gave out a bitter noise. “That I should play Socrates to some modern-day Callicles!”
Quire combed his left hand through his thick locks, studying his patron. His cold voice sang out. “You are suffering, my lord?”
Montfallcon fumbled with a drawer. “I must pay you.”
“You’re ill, my lord?”
“Damn you, Quire, you know it’s not a physical condition. Sometimes I wonder what I do and why I should bother to employ such as you.”
“Because I am the best. At this work of ours, sir. But I’ll not justify my role. I merely explained myself. Justification is for you to do.”
“Eh?” Montfallcon brought out the box of gold. His hands shook.
“One acquires a necessary relish for the pain and humiliation of one’s fellow creatures, my lord. It is in the nature of the work. Yet, as a soldier (when the battle’s won) will wax sentimental over the shame and the waste and the pity of it, so could I weep, and cry ’Horror! But it mus
t be thus!’—and console myself (and you, my lord, for that is what you seem to expect of me today). I refuse such sophistry. Instead I cry ’Horror! But how sweet it is!’ Should I be the victim, I think I should still learn to relish my own misery, for that, also, is a means of amplifying and defining the senses. But I seek the freedom of power. It gives me a wider field. So do I grasp at privilege—which your patronage affords me—the privilege of power. I would rather relish another’s pain than my own.”
“Pain’s for bearing, that’s all. You are a creature, Quire, perverse and stunted in your soul.” He put coins in a bag, counting them carefully.
“No, sir, my soul’s as noble as thine own, sir. I merely interpret its demands in a manner different from yours, sir.” Quire was offended not so much by Lord Montfallcon’s insults as by his misreading of the truth.
Lord Montfallcon’s hand shook as he held out the bag. “Admit it—you work for money!”
“I am not a liar, sir, as you know. Why do you wish me to reassure you in this way? We have worked together harmoniously up to now.”
“I am sick of secrets!”
“You do not employ me, my lord, to console you.”
“Go! Your vulgar ironies ring dull to me!”
A ragged bow from Captain Quire, but he would not leave. There was an unstated demand. He stood his ground. It seemed that he was furious. “For that, my lord, I’ll readily apologise. I lack the practise. I can’t aspire to sing as bright and clear as you lords of the court, for my calling demands blunter tones.”
“You bait me, Quire! I’m no bear for your amusement. Go!”
Captain Quire took the money and tucked it in his belt, holding his stance. “I’m used to speaking to those who are near deaf with terror, or half dead with pain. Thus it is, also, with those who teach the young, or tend the mad and sick, sir. Their vocabularies wither, their style simplifies, their art becomes the art of the country mummer, their humour the bumpkin humour of the Fair.”
“And your apologies bore me, Master Quire. You are dismissed.” Montfallcon seated himself.
Quire took a step forward. “I offer you plain truth and you reject it. You questioned me, my lord, and I replied. I thought we both spoke truth. I thought there was no ambiguity between us. Must I lie to maintain your patronage?”
“Perhaps.” Lord Montfallcon locked his drawer. He drew a breath and said: “Do you say I am an imperfect employer?”
“Perfect up to now, sir. Do we not possess an understanding, as between men of equal sensibility?”
“Indeed! We do have an understanding! I pay You kill, kidnap and conspire.”
“An understanding of the skill, my lord, involved.”
“You’re clever, aye.” Montfallcon became baffled. “What more must I say to make you leave? Is there a charm? Do you seek public honours? Would you have me make you a Prince of the Realm?”
“No, my lord. I was speaking of the art of it, that is all. My belief that you appreciated that art for its own sake.”
“If you like.” Montfallcon waved him away.
Quire was shocked. “What?”
“Go, Quire. I’ll send for you.”
“You offend me deeply, my lord.”
Montfallcon’s voice rose, shaking. “I protect you, Quire. Remember that. Your wicked life is permitted to continue unchecked—your seductions, your blackmailings, your killings on your own account….” Montfallcon placed thin fingers upon his grey brow. “I’ll not respond to your ambiguous demands! This is no time…I have important matters to consider…matters more important, Quire, than the balming of a villain’s pride. Go, go, go, Captain Quire!”
The flop of tawdry black, and Quire was vanished.
As Captain Quire left the shadows of the palace and entered the ornamental garden, now a tangle of budding brambles and unchecked creepers, he paused to look back at the high wall behind him, to frown, to shake his head. His pride was, indeed, most mightily injured. He began to investigate the sensation as he walked on, through the gates and down the hill to the line of trees where Tinkler leaned whistling against the fence, staring at the ragged, racing sky.
“Tink.” Quire climbed the fence and stood with his back to Tinkler, looking along the road towards London’s smoke.
“What’s afoot, Captain?” Tinkler was sensitive to his master’s moods as only one who fears for his life can be. He paced forward in his stiff, cracked coat, thumbs in his doublet belt.
“I’m shocked.” Captain Quire was murmuring, rolling a stone with the pointed toe of his jack-boot. “I thought I was respected. Aye, that’s what’s attacked, my self-respect. I am not understood as an artist. Hasn’t anyone an idea of the skill, the genius involved in my work? Have I not proved it constantly? How else could I prove it? Who else could do what I do?”
“I admire you, Captain. Greatly.” Tinkler was placatory without being truly sympathetic, for he had not the sense to interpret stance or gesture. “We all do—at the Seahorse, the Gryffyn and elsewhere.”
“I meant my peers. I thought Montfallcon sensible to a fellow artist, a realist. I’m stunned, Tink. He’s nought but a pump room cynic!”
Tinkler thought he guessed the cause of this. “He didn’t pay, is that it, Captain? He always—” He was forestalled as Quire pushed the purse into his hand. “Ah, thanks.”
“All this while I believed he understood the nature of my game. He doesn’t appreciate the finesse, the comedy, the irony of it, but most of all he doesn’t understand the structure, the vision, the talent, the hard, unblinking eye that looks upon reality and transmutes it into drama. Oh, Tink!”
Unused to this display of emotional confidence, this revelation of his master’s inner life, Tinkler was at once fascinated and at a loss for words. “Well,” he said, falling in beside Quire as he set off, flustered and flapping, down the track. “Well, Captain…”
“Every artist requires a patron.” Quire looked about him at the black poplars waving in the wind. He yanked at his wandering cloak, he pulled his hat more firmly upon his head. The crow’s feathers fluttered like little drumming fingers against his crown. “And unless he has an appreciative patron he can soon wither, turning his talent to mercenary gain, to please the majority. I have never pleased the majority, Tink.”
“Indeed you haven’t, Captain.”
“My wealth has gone, every copper, on materials. Invested for the art’s sake.”
“You were always generous, Captain.”
“That is what he failed to understand—that and my pride. I took his insults, his apparent contempt, for I understood it to be the part he chose to play.”
“We must all play parts sometimes, Captain.”
“And all the while he displayed his true character, his true opinion of me! Oh, the old fool!” Quire stopped in the middle of the track.
London was in sight—red, grey and white below. On the city’s walls swayed the ramshackle shanties and tents of those who lived and worked there; beyond were roofs of green or silver slate, roofs of thatch, of copper and, in one or two places, of gold leaf. Spires, delicate and thin; heavy domes; battlemented towers; tall temples of knowledge—colleges, libraries in the latest Graecian mould, or in older pointed, gothic shapes, of brick, granite and marble; theatres made of wood and brightly painted, pasted over with a thousand posters; street upon street of dwelling houses, inns, taverns, ordinaries, drapery shops, butchers’ shops; the shops of fishmongers, greengrocers, signpainters, goldsmiths, jewellers, scriveners, makers of musical instruments, clothiers, saddlers, tobacco merchants, vintners, glaziers, barbers, apothecaries, carriage builders, blacksmiths, metalworkers, printers, toy-makers, bootmakers, tinsmiths, chandlers; the high corn exchanges, the shambles, the merchants’ meeting halls, the exhibiting galleries where painters and sculptors displayed their creations….
Quire was reluctant to continue. He stopped and sat down suddenly on a large, smooth rock. “And where may I show the world my works?”
�
��A drink?” suggested Tinkler. “At the Seahorse?”
Quire could see a squadron of cavalry, with banners and gilded cuirasses and helmets, plumes and embroidered cloaks, trotting down the broad Clerkenwell Road between the fine buildings of the great guilds. He looked towards the river, far across on the other side of the city, to Bran’s Tower, a building of immense age, and beyond it at the barges, the wherries, and the galleons under sail upon the river. “I could have been a general or a famed navigator, employing my gifts to my own great public credit, a favourite of the people, and honoured by the Queen. With my talent I could have become the mightiest merchant in Albion, enriching myself and my nation, made Lord Mayor at least. But I shunned such unworthy pursuits. I lived only for my art and its improvement….”
Tinkler became nervous. “Captain?”
“You go on down, Tink, and spend that gold. It could be the last you’ll see.”
“You are dismissed?” Tinkler was horrified.
“No.”
“You have quit our friend’s employ?” Tinkler’s gag tooth twitched on his lip.
“I have not said so.”
Tinkler, in relief, clapped his wincing master on the back. Since Quire’s tone had changed, he instantly forgot his distress. “Then let’s both to the Seahorse, Captain. This gloomy, windy weather spreads melancholy everywhere.”
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