“Lady Lyst. Una. A lovely day.”
“Too hot for me, I fear,” said Lady Lyst, adjusting cuffs and collar, straying honey curls. “One thirsts so.”
The three moved in the direction of a marble fountain: King Alexander the Great at the Court of Queen Hecate of Iberia, with water-nymphs and dolphins. They lifted their faces to the spray.
“It is our hottest summer.” The Queen brushed moisture from stomacher and skirts. “It seems to infect the whole palace, arousing strange passions, unsuspected passions in the most unlikely persons.”
“Your Majesty believes it is only the weather creates the mood?” Lady Lyst spoke as one who hoped for hope.
“Weather has a great deal to do with everything.” Gloriana turned her eyes towards the blue sky, shading out the sun with a lace-sheathed hand. “That’s always been my strong fancy, Lady Lyst. You’ll see. As the weather grows milder, so shall our sensibilities find better balance.”
Lady Lyst tripped upon a small step and ran forward, with arms flailing, before she righted herself. “I am encouraged, madam.” She cast about her, as if for a seat, or perhaps a bottle.
There came a yell from behind a large dodo, a carved bush, and a long-legged creature, apparently armoured in chequered plate, ran into view, across the path, through another hedge and onto a lawn. The Queen and her ladies stopped dead in astonishment, for now came a trio of guards, with ruffs and tabards flapping, caps askew, swords drawn, giving chase to the armoured, flashing figure, while behind these, panting, imploring, in stained smock and velvet cap, Master Tolcharde cried, “Hold! Hold! Do not harm him!”
“Master Tolcharde!” The Queen’s voice brought him to a stumbling halt which he turned into a ragged bow, though his eyes still followed the soldiers and their quarry.
“Who’s that, sir?” The Queen was imperious, by habit and, perhaps, to amuse her two friends. “Whom do they chase, Master Tolcharde?”
He tried to speak. He flapped his hands. He was in agony, a quandary. “Madam. A minor adjustment’s all that’s necessary. Forgive me.”
“Some servant of yours? Some captive of the Thane’s?”
“No, Your Majesty. Not quite a servant. Oh, dear!” He was eager to continue the pursuit. He cast anxious eyes after the flashing, chequered figure who now ran round and round a large yew bush, cut to resemble a castle, flattening a bed of pansies, knocking over one of the soldiers.
“I thought at first,” said Lady Lyst, “that it was Sir Tancred escaped from the Tower.” She regretted her lack of tact and shut her glorious lips.
“Who is it, sir?” asked the Queen.
“A harklekin, madam.”
“A comedian? What has he to do with you?”
“He’s mine, madam. Made by me, madam. A mechanical creature, madam. I meant to present him to you in a—I’ll present him later. Only, I beg you, madam, tell your guards not to harm him. The machinery is delicate.”
“And easily displaced?” The Queen was amused.
“At present. That will all be made right. If I may continue, madam.”
“Try not to destroy our whole garden, Master Tolcharde.”
The inventor bowed rapidly, gratefully, and was on the run again, crying out to the remaining guards, “Hold! You’ll harm him further. Let me just reach the lever and he’ll stop!”
The three women seated themselves upon a stone bench and laughed with a spontaneity none had enjoyed for many weeks.
Yet it was this laughter which reminded poor Gloriana of her duty once more, for she wished to bring back to her Court that certainty, that happy faith, which now was threatened. Montfallcon, lost in dark suspicion, no longer exerted his will in the cause of tranquillity, though he swore his ambition was unchanged. Lord Ingleborough, steadily growing more sickly, could not support her, and half her Council seemed abstracted, self-involved. Even Doctor Dee’s enthusiasm for his investigations had waned, though he spent most of his hours in his lodgings. Seeing herself as Lady Mary’s betrayer, she in turn felt betrayed by her Council, though it might be she expected too much of them. She determined that it was to be by her effort alone that optimism and good will should return to the Court. She must fire her men. She must whip them from their bad humours. She must be Albion, and act an imperial part for them. There was none, at present, upon whom she could rely, save Una—and Una was primarily a private friend, with Gloriana’s private needs her paramount concern. Gloriana gathered herself from laughter and from the seat and bade farewell to them. “I have convened my Privy Council and it awaits me now,” she said. The Countess of Scaith became serious and began a question, but Gloriana was moving between hissing iguanas and trumpeting peacocks, back to the doors of her apartments.
In the Privy Chamber, their sweating faces dappled with burning colours from the grandiose glass above, their bodies clad in hues to rival that window’s glory, magnificent in their summer finery, the Queen’s Council assembled somewhat tardily.
On a chair, made with poles into a litter, Lord Ingleborough was carried in by servants. His heart still faltered; there was gout, now, in all his limbs, so that he could barely sign his own name on his documents, and he was in considerable pain, relieved a little by a variety of potions, but none satisfactory. He still wore his full, formal dress, his robes and chain of office, his air of authority, but his intelligent eyes frequently clouded with pain. The gout had spread so suddenly, as if carried on the same air which brought murder to the Court, that Sir Amadis Cornfield, prone sometimes to superstition, considered the thought that Lady Mary had been a sacrifice to a demon, summoned by one of Doctor Dee’s profession, and that the demon itself moved unchecked everywhere, bringing madness, sickness, grief. He looked across at Doctor Dee, who seemed older, frailer, almost as weak as Ingleborough, yet oddly animated. Sir Amadis pushed the thought away and dwelt on pleasanter things: his little mistress, who had come to relieve all his burdens, just in time. This moment was soon gone as Sir Amadis recalled Lord Gorius Ransley’s ruthless attempts to woo the girl away from him, even hinting, recently, that Sir Amadis’s wife would be informed. Lord Gorius, a widower and courted by many unwed ladies, sought, in Sir Amadis’s opinion, to seduce his girl from mere spite. In the old days he would have been tempted to settle the matter with a challenge. He regretted the passing of some of Hern’s customs. He glared across the table at his would-be rival. Lord Gorius pretended to ignore him.
Elsewhere Master Florestan Wallis sat, composing verses upon his paper, a look of almost ludicrous serenity on his thin scholar’s features, while beside him Master Orme hummed a tune and sniffed at a posy, apparently as content, in his way, as his fellow Councillor. Master Gallimari was busy with his arrangements. Sir Vivien Rich grumbled a little about the heat and dropped perspiration on table and tools, with many apologies. Masters Palfreyman and Fowler both yawned and chatted over Sir Vivien’s head, their subject being the sapping nature of the heat which made them wish to sleep all day.
Lord Montfallcon, resting himself in his chair, his face darkened with care, looked down the long table at the Privy Council and wondered how he had ever come to assemble such a gutless rabble of fops and flapmouths. He determined to begin to replace them all, even Lisuarte Ingleborough, who grew too frail for duty. He recalled how cautiously he had selected these men, for qualities of character and intelligence. Again he began to question his own judgement, but was interrupted by, of all people, Sir Orlando Hawes, panting, in white, securing a button of his doublet, apologising for lateness. His ebony skin seemed to have an unhealthy cast to it and he, too, sweated, stinking strongly of lavender water and a woman’s bedchamber, as most of the others stank of roses or poppies. A fine collection of wilting blooms, Montfallcon thought. The first crisis close to home in nearly thirteen years and they broke. And yet, he wondered, could it be merely the murder that had changed them so? It seemed unlikely. He yearned for some of his old, grim colleagues, now dead or exiled or retired, who would have responded to the problem
with practical understanding. A servant or two on the rack, a noble or two threatened with accusations of treachery, and the truth would have come shouting forth.
The doors were opened. They rose, even Ingleborough, at the Queen’s entrance. In heavy finery she moved slowly to her chair, and as they bowed they were blinded by the bright light from the window behind her. She stood at the table for a moment, contemplating them, thoughtful, then she sat down, allowing them to resume their own chairs.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Montfallcon was surprised by the animation in her voice. “What business have we?” she asked, when they had responded with their greetings.
Lord Ingleborough, forgetful of protocol, announced:
“Tom Ffynne’s ransom is accepted. He returns in his own vessel shortly.”
“Excellent news. But he must be chastised, my Lord Admiral. All his booty—if he has any—confiscated. And he must make over a sum towards his own ransom.”
Lord Ingleborough nodded, agreeing with this justice.
Montfallcon felt his own spirits lift. Lately the Queen had been careless of the Council’s business, offering scant guidance to them. Now she was once more valiant. A warmth bloomed within him that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. His Gloriana was showing her father’s strength again. The Council was becoming more animated, looking expectantly down the table to where the Queen sat, upright and smiling.
“Your Majesty,” he began, “in the matter of the murder of Lady Mary, I regret—”
She waved a royal hand. “That business is best forgot, my lord. Though we feel sympathy for poor, mad Sir Tancred, there seems little doubt he was the murderer, after all.”
She brought relief to them. They had, it seemed, waited only for her positive word. Darkness was dismissed from every skull.
“There remains the matter of the Perrott lads,” said Lord Montfallcon. “We have news they’re arming ships at rapid rate.”
“To attack Arabia?”
“It seems so, Your Majesty.”
“Then they must be stopped.”
“Agreed, Your Majesty. However, it is a delicate problem, for they act surreptitiously.”
“Summon them to Court. There’ll be no secrets in this State. We have always said so.”
“They will not come, Your Majesty.” Sir Amadis, as a Perrott relative, spoke with some embarrassment.
Sir Orlando said: “Cannot the guns be spiked, the ships holed?” He looked to Ingleborough.
“Possibly.” The old man drew a deep breath. “But this would only delay and worsen the situation.”
“Have you the men to do it?” asked Sir Orlando of Montfallcon.
Lord Montfallcon once again regretted Quire’s death. If he agreed, he would have to send Tinkler and Hogge and some like them. And they would bungle it. He might even be forced to recruit Webster and his garrulous mock-gentlemen.
“You hesitate, my lord.” Sir Orlando was again his stoical self.
The Queen looked on, frowning, unhappy.
“I do, Sir Orlando. I am not certain it is the best scheme. It is underhand.”
“Then we must be underhand, if the Perrotts are underhand.”
Now he realised that Hawes was speaking uncommonly wildly, believing himself to be forceful. Montfallcon became doubtful and looked to the silent Queen. “Your Majesty has never permitted such methods in the past. She has always been most sensible to the fact that the Crown must be seen to be without blemish.” Now that she appeared to acquiesce in the kind of scheme with which he was all too familiar, he grew alarmed. All his life he had protected her from knowledge of how he maintained her security, her diplomacy. To hear a scheme discussed in open forum and not immediately dismissed by her was shocking to him. “I think not.”
“Otherwise we risk an Arabian war, eh?” said Master Orme.
“Exactly, but—”
“Then let’s have one.” Master Palfreyman was on his feet. The Secretary for Arms was unusually fierce. “Let’s punish ’em. Show ’em their place. They have been allowed to scheme too long—murdering our folk, challenging our power, having the gall to propose marriage to our Queen. Let’s raze Baghdad, Your Majesty!”
The Queen was pale, as if by imitating her father’s mood she realised for the first time what could be released in her name, but she smiled. “There can be no war,” she said. “It has always been our agreed policy, with Sir Orlando, that war wastes lives and money, that it introduces a false sense of unity while it is being fought and creates unexpected dissension when it is over, for once men get the habit of making war they find it hard to lose, and must look for other wars, other enemies.”
“So we attack the brave Perrotts, instead. Betray their cause, which is a just one,” said sardonic Master Fowler. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” He sat down.
“The Perrotts have been summoned and refuse to come,” she told them. “Such disobedience angers us, but yet we sympathise. We forgive them their wrath. They have lost first a sister and then a father. But what proof is there that Arabia is at fault?”
“It is well-known, Your Majesty,” said Sir Amadis. “Some vengeance taken by Lord Shahryar before he returned to Baghdad. You must admit he hurried away soon after.”
“Recalled by his Caliph. This rumour sprang from nowhere. Sir Tancred, I insist, was the murderer.” She seemed to burn with regal fury. “I’ll not permit war. Never that, unless attacked.”
“Arabia proves herself aggressive, daily. She’ll strike soon enough.” This from saturnine Master Palfreyman again.
“If she strikes,” said Gloriana, “we’ll strike back. We are Albion. It is our duty to resist the old habits of the Age of Iron. Are not all of you here, as every one of our people, across three continents, convinced of that? Do you wish this delicate Golden Age to survive? To become sturdy? To become set, firm-moulded, inviolable? You do, gentlemen, I know. It is the dream we all share. The dream Lord Montfall-con and Lord Ingleborough dreamed while day by terrible day feet tramped the steps of the scaffold and the headsman’s axe was never dry. We show the whole world the road back to true Chivalry. We stand against injustice, immorality, cruelty, tyranny. And this is why we are secure. One base act on Albion’s part, and the structure crumbles, the dream is destroyed. I am your Gloriana, your Queen, your conscience and your Faith. I remind you of a Duty which I have not forgotten and which you must not forget.”
Montfallcon’s face was shining as he listened. He saw the expressions of selfishness, of rage, of disappointment, of cynicism, despair and malice melting from every face. Lord Ingleborough waved gouty fists and called “Hear! Hear!” in counterpoint, looking about him as if to challenge any who declined assent.
And Queen Gloriana laughed and grew to her full height, her stiffened collar a white, glowing aurora behind the blazing auburn of her hair, and the green-blue eyes in her head, the proud unflinching eyes, were the eyes of King Hern, whom some had believed to be the very Prince of Demons, the leader of the Wild Hunt, hiding antlers beneath his tall, iron crown; and the hands on her hips were the strong hands of her warrior forebears, while the smile, following the laughter, was the sweet, wistful smile of her mother, Flana, who, at the age of thirteen, had given her life for Gloriana’s. By this means, half-spontaneously, half-deliberately, she reminded her Council of her legend and her power; and of her origins which even they could believe, as she stood thus before them, were at least half supernatural.
Lord Montfallcon bowed before her. “You do well, madam, to remind us. We shall do our duty, every one of us.”
“One petty action,” she said, “and we betray all else.”
Then, disguising her own exhaustion and her inner fears, she bid them good morrow and left them to continue their debate in terms of honour, virtue and idealism.
Only Lord Ingleborough, drowsy in his chair, looked after her and understood what generosity and what courage she had displayed that day.
THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER
In Which the Queen Continues Her Search for Consolation and the Countess of Scaith Makes a Dreadful Discovery
AND THAT NIGHT the mood of the Court was lighter than it had been for many weeks. There was a dance, at which the Queen led her courtiers in the Escalad and the Vatori, and the musicians played merrily the best and most complex compositions, and for many hours there was laughter in the corridors and apartments when the official entertainments were completed; then Gloriana, weary and solitary, made her way to her secret halls to find reward for the brilliant part she had performed to cheer the Court and lift the cloud. She sought the clever attentions of her dwarves and children dressed as fanciful creatures of mythology; the caresses of her geishas and their soft, thrilling words; the scented, yielding bodies of her youths; the harsh hands of cruel women who instructed her in every indignity; the brainless bestial men of the jungles; the cold harlots, male and female, in their skins of white silk; the quivering girls who whimpered at her whips. From room to overheated room she went, hopeful that, her duty so splendidly done, she might now find escape from her body’s craving: but no escape came. Limp with weariness she returned at last to her own bed. Alone, she closed the heavy curtains and in darkness sorrowed at the injustice of her fate.
Lord Montfallcon, more carefree and easy since Gloriana had risen to her challenges and thus assured him that the Dream would yet be sustained, awoke to hear her distant weeping voice, while beside him his wives stirred, half-fearful but yet asleep. He was astonished that she did not feel as he now felt. His new mood could not dissipate at once. He thought, without much fervour:
Ah, Albion, still unfulfilled, as the fullness of my purpose is unfulfilled; and are the two so closely linked? This collection, these creatures she maintains are distractions only and bring her more grief, yet her duty to them tells her she must keep them, though they fail her. They go unpunished, these wanton, depraved, distorted monsters, because she is too generous. Instead they are rewarded with every luxury. She would be happier free of them, free of all these private responsibilities—retainers, entertainers, children—but she continues to accumulate them. This is not the quality of conscience I instilled in her from girlhood. It is mere sentimentalism. She is exhausted by all of that. Who benefits? Not Albion. Marriage must surely be the answer—but to whom?
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