“Well, Master Tinkler?”
“My lord?”
“You’ve news of Captain Quire?”
“No, my lord. Nothing certain. I came because I thought that you might reassure me. Also, the debts mount, you know, and the Captain has not paid me in a month. I still work on his behalf.”
Montfallcon studied a letter from Bantustan. “Eh? What is it, then, Master Tinkler? You’ve come for gold?”
“Or silver, sir. Something to keep me going until Captain Quire returns, or—”
“Have you heard ought of Quire?”
“There was some gossip, my lord, that’s all. When we left you here last, we went together to the Ares Gate and then parted, agreeing to meet a few hours later. He never found me at the inn and, to my knowledge, has never been there since. The gossip concerned a scuffle by the Ares Gate. The Captain, or someone like him, was attacked and carried off, either dead or wounded.”
“By whom?”
“No witnesses, sir. This news is all indirect, you see. A child saw it, maybe. Or a housewife behind a curtain. There’s other rumours followed, but Captain Quire has taught me well—I go to the core and at the core remain, until there’s more discovered.”
“You pursued the tale?”
“Of course, sir, for Captain Quire’s my friend. And my benefactor. And more. I asked at every house. I enquired the direction of every cart coming from the Ares Gate. I made enquiries of every ruffler and cutpurse I could find. It seems that a gang was recruited and that Captain Quire might have been their prey But I know not who they are, nor who employed them, nor why they were employed.”
“There’s an angel for you, Tinkler.” Montfallcon stretched his hand towards the scrawny rogue. “And I’ll have more if you can prove Captain Quire’s whereabouts or his fate. You think he’s dead?”
“The Saracens are said to have been seeking him.”
“It is not their custom to hide the body of a man on whom they’ve taken vengeance. They would display Quire.”
“True. I’ve seen more than one corpse of theirs, when I was with the Captain on that errand in the Middle Sea, my lord.”
Lord Montfallcon wondered if Tinkler spoke significantly to remind him of service given to Albion. He looked at the thin-faced, snag-toothed scarecrow, fearing that he misjudged him, too, and that he might dismiss another Quire.
But Tinkler, glad of the gold, anxious to placate him, miserable as a dog deserted by its master, was not a substitute for the clever little Quire.
Lord Montfallcon became bitter. There had never been a servant as quick and brilliant. He had lost the best.
“If you see him, Master Tinkler—should he live—you’ll give him my most anxious felicitations?”
“I shall, sir, of course. We’re both loyal men, sir.”
“Aye.” Montfallcon picked up a letter, in code, from Bohemia. “You’ll point out to him how much I miss him, how much the Empire needs him, how greatly his skills and his arts are appreciated here.”
“It’s what he was wondering about, my lord. That.”
“What?”
“Whether you appreciated how finely he performed the deeds you set him. With what perfection he planned and composed his plots, to make all neat, to divert suspicion, to bring further information which might be of use. To put a stop to evil gossip and libels. He regarded himself as a poet might, my lord.”
“And I?”
“His most understanding audience.”
Lord Montfallcon sighed and let the coded note from Bohemia flutter down.
Tinkler, in a fit of honesty evidently against his own interests, burst out: “He’s murdered, my lord. I know. He’s dead. All those wits and all that courage, gone!”
“Bring me the proof of that, Tinkler, and I’ll pay you very well. Or bring me disproof, and I’ll pay you as much or more. Bring me Captain Quire, alive to this room, Master Tinkler, and I will guarantee a rich pension for the rest of your life.”
Tinkler lowered his head, then looked up quickly, as if another thought had formed.
Lord Montfallcon’s smile was grim. “And in the meanwhile, Tinkler, bring me what news you can from foreign sources. Your employment is secured.”
Tinkler bowed and retreated for the Spiders’ Door, to make his way along the very periphery of those forgotten vaults and catacombs, hidden in the palaces as Hades itself might be hidden in Heaven’s very heart.
While Tinkler broke, with some relief, into the damp, bright April air, Lord Montfallcon forced his hectic brain to dwell upon the matter of the forthcoming Celebration of Spring, at which the Queen must honour various worthies and placate a myriad of minor dignitaries. He was thankful that the main business would be left to Gallimari, Master of the Revels, and that only the diplomatic problems would be his. Such problems would be time-wasting, but at least they were not of any particular consequence. These public occasions were important in that they displayed the Queen’s presence to the people, reassured them of her greatness and Albion’s security, wealth and power.
He found Master Wheldrake’s verses, submitted to him yesterday, as he had requested, and carefully read them through. He had always been a trifle suspicious of Wheldrake, especially when the poet had first arrived at the palace with a reputation of sensuousness and impiety, but there was no doubt Wheldrake’s work had improved considerably under the influence and disciplines of the Court. Montfallcon regretted he had already drawn up the Spring Honours, but he determined to ask the Queen next season to bestow at least a baronetcy upon one who seemed to understand so well the Mysteries and Accountabilities of the Matter of Albion.
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
In Which Queen Gloriana Celebrates the Advent of Spring and Experiences the First Forewarning of Future Tragedy
IN A GOWN OF WHITE and green, stitched with tiny buttercups, daisies and daffodils, upon an open litter whose surrounding frame was woven with garlands of ivy, wallflowers, bluebells and marigolds, Queen Gloriana was borne by her bright gentlemen into the wide, walled park behind the palace. Here, fallow deer looked out from the dappled shade of oaks and poplars which thickly hid the high wall itself from view, while overhead, in the swaying Tree Walk, trumpeteers placed brazen instruments to lips and blew Gloriana, a greeting and a triumph.
For today she came as May Queen, into the grounds where the May Pole stood, and where courtiers already were arranged, as shepherds, shepherdesses, milkmaids and their swains; a scattering of Cupids and a Pan, some fauns, five dryads, and one gigantic Lamb. From the Tree Walk and from galleries in the palace, many other noble visitors watched the ceremony.
The litter was lowered, the gentlemen (among them the Countess of Scaith in huntsman’s garb, with bow and quiver) took their positions on either side while the company made its obeisance and the trumpets sounded again.
Gloriana.
High above on a balcony overlooking the park, Lord Montfallcon stood, giving his eye first to the pretty scene below and then to the grey cloud which gathered as it sped from the west, to obscure the sun. It had always been his regret that he had no control over the weather and that Doctor Dee, who might have been excellently employed in this manner, had discovered no magical method to exert Man’s power upon the elements. Doctor Dee would suffer with the rest, should it rain, for he was amongst them, in woolly satyr’s disguise, together with Lady Lyst (a water nymph in blue silk), Sir Amadis Cornfield (an elegant cowboy), Lady Pamela Cornfield (a shepherdess with crook and taxidermist’s ewe), Sir Vivien and Lady Cynthia Rich (huntsman and huntress) and Master Ernest Wheldrake, in some sort of elaborate avian disguise (perhaps a nightingale) with nodding plumage and gilded beak, to read his greeting to the May Queen. As the first large spots of rain began to fall, Lord Montfallcon craned to hear the distant piping….
“Green grows the earth and blue the skies.
Love calleth both the foolish and the wise.
Omnipotent Nature ruleth over all
Ridding us at last o
f Winter’s frigid pall,
Inspiring swains their troth to plight
And maiden’s thoughts take crazy flight.
No face may frown beneath this shining sun.
All praises sing. The Earth is fresh begun!”
Master Wheldrake pulled a sodden feather or two away from his eyes and read a little more rapidly as the ink began to spread across the parchment and blot lines he had made no effort to memorise.
“Racing blood and beating heart confirm
Every hint that Mithras has returned.
Garlands decorate the shrines and secret bowers:
In comes Great Pan to banish darkling hours.
Now across the land each jolly bell its peal doth ring:
As Albion’s Empress summons golden Spring!”
“Well put as ever, Master Wheldrake!” The May Queen waved her silver sceptre, twined with myrtle, while lackeys rushed to throw green canvas over the litter’s frame and protect Gloriana from the drenching the others must expect before the awnings were around them.
Rain thudded like running feet above her head as she took up the sword which hobbling Lord Ingleborough brought her on a cushion, and dubbed brave sailors “Sir” before, as she put it, they drowned whilst awaiting their reward. A lord or two was made and estates granted in Virginia, in Cathay, in Hibernia, to sober men whom Lord Montfallcon judged trustworthy to enjoy the responsibilities of wealth and, by sharing to a greater degree in the bounty of the State, support the Realm’s interest with that much more resolution. Envoys were sent abroad, taking certificates and letters; foreign envoys were, in turn, received, and their letters read, greetings given. Nine little girls (each one a stage younger than the last, Gloriana’s natural daughters) led lambs across the flooded lawns and, sneezing, lisped their pastoral rhymes until the Queen begged their nurses to hurry them within and dry them before they perished of a chill.
The Quintain was abandoned until the next day (or until the sun should shine). The Sun Chariot, in which posed an embarrassed, sorry Lord Ransley, as Mithras, God of Light, half-naked and damp in collapsed yellow ruff and britches, drawn by youths and maidens, also in yellow, to represent the sun’s beams, came and went, making dark marks across the squelching grass. The musicians, as satyrs and nymphs, were ordered to withdraw to the Great Hall, where the dance would now be held, and the Procession through the Tree Walk was abandoned. It was decided to continue with the ceremony whereby Gloriana would be bound to the May Pole by her courtiers and released by Sir Tancred, who would represent the Chivalry of Albion, unless the rain grew heavier, for the pole itself was now protected by a large square of canvas, rigged like a sail above it. Master Wheldrake was asked to come forward and read another poem.
His feathers shimmering with water, which he scattered everywhere as he gesticulated, Ernest Wheldrake announced his intention to read some recent stanzas from his long epic romance, which he had been writing for the past six years, called Atargatis; or, the Celestrial Virgin. “You’ll recall, Your Majesty, that Sir Felicites, the Shepherd Knight, has but lately left the company of Sir Hemetes, the Hermit Knight, who has set him again upon his true path in his quest for the Court of Queen Atargatis. But before he can reach the Court he must encounter many more adventures, each one of which teaches him a further lesson and so prepares him for his position as the Queen’s Protector, who must encompass Wisdom, Temperance and Justice within him, as well as Courage, Virtue and Charity.” A bead of water rolled along his beak and splashed upon his costumed foot.
“We recall your story Master Wheldrake, and listen with considerable and pleasurable anticipation to its continuation,” graciously replied the May Queen as Master Wheldrake drew a damp-stained volume from his plumage and cleared his throat:
“Now through a forest drear our goodly knight
Did slowly ride in doubtful fear,
Anon, he came upon a sight:
A woodsman tall with axe did shear
Through sturdy oak and noble ash
And elm and rowan tree
With flying blade did trunk and branches gash
So that Felicites cried out to him to cease
While, lowering lance, he signall’d peace.
’Woodsman, what art thou named?’ Quoth he,
’You, who art so strong of loin and thew,
Pray tell me what your fearsome purpose be
To hew so heavily the pine and yew
And threaten this whole wood to slay
And cause the healthy roots to die
So turning all this green to black and grey
When not a trunk’s left standing high.
How art thou named? Say I.’
The woodsman’s hair with radiant silver shone
So that his face could not be seen,
His beard, like burnish’d gold, it fell upon
A mighty chest of iron, both jet and green,
And eyes like two fierce stars stared out of him
While arms and hands were shimmering rose.
And now the knight in awefull woe fell back.
’My name be Chronos, Lord of Time!’ the giant did cry,
’And Leveller, my axe, makes all comply!’
’For, in truth,’ this giant continued in sober voice,
’With Life and Death there must be always Harmony,
And, since Man’s own mind cannot make the choice,
To regulate the spinning globe the Gods entrusted me:
Thus hour shall follow hour and day pass day
And year pursue each rounded year.
’But this be unjust tyranny,’ Felicites did say
’Which causeth foolish folk to grieve and mourn,
To question: An they die then whyfore are they born?’
’Time’s circle turneth,’ said the giant, ’as do the spheres,
And four ages quarter up the mortal span
As Seasons subdivide the steady years.
Thus do the Gods describe a Sign for Man,
That when in his last age he’ll wither
His birth shall surely come again.
And though Death’s hand shall call him thither,
Life’s gentle lips shall stir new breath in him;
And thus Man’s Winter giveth way to Spring.’
’Certes,’ said Felicites as he took rein,
’’Tis true that all must die so all can live anon,
And if thine action, Chronos, bringeth Man to pain,
So also doth it bring great joy to every one.
And shall I ride this forest path another hour
I’ll find that all yon ruin is no more,
That trees do bloom and beauteous plants do flower
While bounding Hope doth take momentous wing
And Glory rule throughout thy golden Spring!’”
In spite of the rain, it was Wheldrake’s moment. Not a soul in that gathering failed to be fired by the ideals and wisdom of his epic lines, save perhaps Una, Countess of Scaith, who, joining in the general applause, somehow managed to clap just a fraction out of time with the rest. Even Wheldrake took congratulations with better grace than was usual, leading Una to believe that he had at last accepted the demands of the audience and determined to please their taste rather than his own.
The rain had stopped. A little sun shone through the cloud. The awnings were pulled free and rolled aside. Curious deer continued to chew and stare from the glinting cover of the sweet-smelling oaks.
“See, Master Wheldrake, your words banish the grey skies and lure the sun from hiding!” flattered the May Queen as she advanced towards the laurel-bound pole, to fling herself upon it and laugh as the musicians reappeared with tabor, horn and flute, to mingle with the courtiers as each took a strand of bunting and began to dance, twisting this way and that, to secure a girlish, joyous Gloriana to the mighty staff of spring, to bind this innocent, flame-haired giantess as tightly as Lord Montfallcon had tied her to his Duty.
Montfallcon was on the b
alcony again. He had emerged to listen to Ernest Wheldrake’s verses, but now he felt alarm as he watched the merry Court surround and fetter his Ideal (for all that the chains were made of daisies and silk), and he shuddered deeply as he restrained his impulse to rush down into the park and shout for them to release her. He controlled himself, took a deep breath and smiled at his stupidity. Sir Tancred would emerge from the palace at any moment, after the Queen had spoken her lines, and free her. This time their lines would be by Master Wallis, Secretary for the High Tongue. (Montfallcon found them dry and sterile in comparison with Master Wheldrake’s.)
“Is there no noble knight of Chivalry
Who’ll come to set the May Queen free?”
cried Gloriana, and looked expectantly towards the door into the park through which her Champion must emerge.
Sir Tancred did not appear.
The Countess of Scaith found that she had grown alert, suddenly, and wondered why. Perhaps it was that Sir Tancred, always eager to represent the Queen in these familiar roles, was inclined to enter the scene too early rather than too late.
Gloriana shook her head and sang out her couplet for a second time.
There was a silence now. Water could be heard dropping from the surrounding trees, from the boards of the high Tree Walk. The rustling movement of the fallow deer gave emphasis to the general stillness. The sun disappeared.
And into that hushed, bewildered throng, Sir Tancred staggered. He wore no golden helmet and his golden, fanciful armour was only half buckled. Loose plates flapped about him and clattered as he walked.
Lady Lyst’s high, gasping scream was echoed by more than one other in the company.
“Sir Tancred!” The Queen tried to struggle out of the bonds, but she was completely trapped.
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