“The seventh brave knight was Raven Head;
The eighth was the Son Consider’d Dead,
And nine the Knight of the Moon was he,
While ten was call’d Prometheus Set Free,
The eleventh was he of the Misty Foss
And the twelfth, whose eyes had lost their sight,
Was the noble knight of the bright Black Cross.”
Here was Master Isador Palfreyman, with his black armour and his raven crest; Master Marcilius Gallimari, in unmarked armour; Sir Sylvanus Spence, brother of young Sir Peregrine, with his pale yellow armour and his arms displaying a radiant moon; Lord Gorius Ransley, in fiery scarlet, with appropriate symbols; Sir Cirus of Malta in pale grey; Sir Vivien Rich was last, in pure white armour bearing black crosses, his helm already closed to signify his blindness.
Master Wheldrake withdrew across the bridge as a trumpet was blown—a signal for the knights to charge, couple by couple, with specially weakened lances which broke at once. Then all dismounted and began to fight, with monstrous clashing broadswords, on foot.
For a while this mock battle continued to be waged, with several of the contestants showing every sign of fatigue, until suddenly, from a silken pavilion close to the West Wing, there appeared a vast bronze sphere, rolling on mighty wheels of brass, decorated with raised motifs of myriad description, rumbling and groaning and pulled and pushed by dwarves dressed in grotesque dolphin costumes so that they seemed to slither along the ground. From the sides of the sphere, in cunning sockets, fireworks fizzed and screamed as the elaborate contraption was trundled towards the bridge, while Master Wheldrake, his voice almost a gull’s shriek above the noise, continued to recite:
“So for almost seven days they were engag’d,
Weapon for weapon, gauge for flaunted gauge,
Each hero of equal skill and might
Fought all from morning until night
Until upon the seventh day there came,
To cause these lords their noble sport to still,
A noise so shrill: A carriage built of flame!”
Across the shivering bridge rolled the sphere, the dolphin-dwarves dragging it to the far side of the island and then jumping into the lake to swim for their lives to the shore, while the knights, in pretence of great awe, fell upon their knees, raised their hands, dropped their weapons and stared at the carriage, which was now silent. Master Florestan Wallis clambered to his feet, forced open a reluctant helm, waved his arms and cried to the crowd:
What magical terror can this be
Come to fright my fellow knights and me!”
(his own lines—he disdained to be supplied by Wheldrake) while Sir Amadis Cornfield, as the Knight of the Silver Charm, sang out:
“This is Leviathan of which our legends speak,
And ’pon our Firm Isle shall great destruction wreak!”
(and Wheldrake sneered from the other side of the bridge and shrugged in an effort to show the uncaring crowd that he was not the author of this poor stuff). But one must indulge a Minister of the Crown, he thought, even though that Minister be feeble-minded, sexless, full of much learning and no knowledge, bombastic, possessed of an ear which could not tell a nightingale’s song from a lapdog’s fart…
Wheldrake watched through weary eyes as the two sides of the carriage fell apart to reveal an enormous green serpent, all of papier mâché, with glittering scales, rolling eyes, lolling tongue and clashing teeth, one of Master Tolcharde’s best creations. That the crowd found this by far the grandest entertainment so far was obvious from its noise. A score or so of maidens, in flimsy linen, came past Wheldrake now. The garlanded nymphs were dancers supplied by Master Josias Priest, who simpered nearby, urging the girls on. They were all young, their figures as yet not quite fully defined, boyish, attractively hermaphrodite, led by one of the most beautiful creatures Wheldrake had ever seen. (Mithras! What an exquisite, youthful tyrant she would make!) Now behind them came a faun, with huge, wicked, lustful eyes, capering and blowing upon a reed pipe, while from another pavilion, hidden from the crowd, music began to play, to represent the faun’s ethereal voice.
The green serpent moved free of the sphere, towards the knights, who lined themselves before it, raising their weapons, preparing for the fray.
Then, a further transformation, as the serpent seemed to shrivel and collapse, to become a lovely barge bearing a beautiful giantess seated upon a coral throne. Six and a half feet tall, magnificent, auburn-haired, radiating virtue, a pointed silver crown upon her veiled head, flaming with jewels enough to blind those who beheld her, she raised a pearly wand and smiled upon the dazzled heroes, while her maidens danced about them, covering them with flowers, and the fauns leapt and twisted, seeming to fill the air with his silvery music as the maidens sweetly sang:
“With golden flutes and harps we hail our Queen,
The wonderful Urganda, the Wise Unseen,
Now doth she beg ye gentle knights your war to cease
And, laying down your arms, to swear enduring peace.
For there’s no greater sorceress in all our wide Globe’s span,
Than this grand Monarch, whom all Heroes woo,
Whose voice and heart are ever true, this Queen of Fairy Land!”
And Wheldrake glared at Florestan Wallis, who, with more flourishes and crow-caws, called out:
My peers! This is the noblest Sovereign
To whom we all swear fealty and love.
By fighting thus we shame her name!
Farewell war-eagle—Welcome dove!”
Then music and maidens continued with the song:
“As Man’s ignorance a hideous form can oft create,
And sick imaginings small lies inflate,
Thus too can truth and beauty wear a fierce disguise
So that her enemies shall all be hard appris’d
That though the kindlier virtues are encouraged,
As in that distant noble land of Albion,
Urganda’s wrath can burn full strong, and fill the hearts of evil men with dread!”
Master Florestan Wallis’s eyes were upon the faun, who seemed to fascinate him, so that there was a pause before he recalled his next contortion:
“But madam, how shall we choose our Champion,
To rule above the others and make all One,
To order spirit as Time doth order Space,
If not by test of martial arms and grace?”
Wheldrake leaned heavily on the bridge and glanced towards the pavilion from which, very soon, Lord Bramandil Rhoone must ride, in his role.
The Queen spoke (Wallis’s lines, for diplomacy’s sake):
“Noble-blooded paladins, there’s one I’ll give to you
Who is my chosen Champion, his peers are few,
Yet from no landed castle does this hero come,
Though noble is his soul and of vices he has none.
For years his only weapon was a shepherd’s hook,
The sky his roof, the fluttering fire his book.
His name ye will not find in Herald’s Rolls,
But carved upon a beam of some poor peasant’s fold,
The lowly pasture was this brave knight’s domain
And yet I’ll warrant that ye all do know his name
This goodly Peasant Knight, so free of sin—
My great lords—bow the knee to Palmerin!”
They were bending already, but Wheldrake, looking towards Lord Rhoone’s pavilion, was astonished to see a small, unmounted figure leaving it. The figure was clad in faded black, with a wide-brimmed black hat, a couple of black crow’s feathers stuck into a worn band, black ringlets falling to the shoulders, black brows shadowing glinting eyes, pale features, long nose, a lantern jaw, thin, sensual lips; a cloak clasped about the neck with twisting silver, boots of black, broken leather, hands hidden, head down, walking boldly for the bridge, crossing it as Wheldrake stared (recognising the figure from somewhere but not recalling where), and moving
between the ranks of kneeling knights as the leading maiden and the faun ran forward to put garlands about his neck: presenting himself as Palmerin, the Peasant Knight, appraising the gathered courtiers on both banks and in galleries, seeking friends and enemies in one long look before the head bowed as it reached the carriage and the leg was made:
“My Queen.”
From behind her veil Gloriana’s expression was one of astonishment, quickly hidden, for the stranger was speaking Lord Rhoone’s lines—the lines that the Countess of Scaith would have spoken were she here—and Gloriana guessed that Rhoone was sick and had sent some servant as a substitute. She refused to consider the crazily flickering thought—that another Champion was dead before he could perform his role today.
My lady, though I be of lowly station,
Most loyally I’ve served your name and nation.”
The dark, cold, sardonic eyes were looking through her veil as if they peered through flesh and into her soul. She was fixed by the gaze. And there was humour in his eyes, too, which attracted her. It was as if she had been sent another Una.
And through the rest of the Masque Queen Gloriana found herself forgetting fear, forgetting duty, forgetting grief, fascinated by those wonderful, intelligent, unkind eyes.
Of the courtiers who stood as knights of this and that, somewhat bewildered by the newcomer, so confident in his lines, so familiar in his attitude, there were some who knew him and smiled as men might smile who recognise a friend turned up in paradoxical circumstances. Sir Amadis Cornfield recognised him as the gentleman who had been gracious enough to secure him the favours of Alys Finch, the girl who led the dance today; Master Florestan Wallis recognised him as the protector of his paramour, the lovely “Philomena,” who played the faun in Josias Priest’s troop; Lord Gorius Ransley also recognised him as the friendly intermediary between himself and Alys Finch, who promised consolation soon; Lord Rhoone, peering cheerfully from his tent and a willing party to the joke, knew him for the apothecary who had supplied the antidote and saved the lives of his wife and children; while Doctor John Dee, staggering forward in conical cap and swirling blue robes, to play his personation of Merlin, Urganda’s consort, paused upon the bridge, recognising this “Sir Palmerin” as the benefactor, the seer that had supplied him with his whole desire.
But standing in the gallery, face gaunt with rage and consternation, Lord Montfallcon recognised his ear, his mouth, his sword, his instrument, and knew how thoroughly and with what audacious cunning he had been deceived and manipulated by Captain Quire, who was even now offering his arm to Queen Gloriana, speaking verse neither by Wheldrake nor by Wallis, and leading her, compliant, against the progress of the Masque, towards the bridge.
“So shall they come together, side by side,
And simple shepherd take the mighty for his bride.”
The crowd was delighted by the sentiments and the outcome. Noble and commoner wed was ever a favourite theme, and reinforced the Masque’s intent, to show how, in all ways, Albion was a unity. The Queen had not been meant to leave her throne, but here was Quire leading her around the square, waving his hat, while she, elated by surprise, waved her wand, to the mob’s huge delight, to the applause of her nobles. The maidens and the faun continued to dance before them, while the twelve paladins, horsed once again, rode behind, with a bemused Merlin, having been usurped his handful of couplets, hobbled in their wake, shaking his head.
That this display, though vulgar, served perfectly his needs, Montfallcon admitted to himself, even as he trembled in his anger. Quire had always boasted of his understanding of the mob, and now he proved it.
But to see that creature, that symbol of every ignoble deed, every perverse trick, every lie and deceit, used secretly by him to maintain the Realm, arm in arm with the innocent girl whom Montfallcon had protected through the years from any hint of infamy or guilt, whom he had protected against cynicism, against the understanding that some iron had been mixed in with the gold, perforce, to give it the strength it needed—to see that appalling pairing of vice and virtue—brought the blood thundering into his skull and made him want to scream from the window, there and then, for the Guard to drag Quire to the island, to bring out block and axe, to behead the upstart on the spot where, from this same window, Hern had watched a thousand far more innocent heads fall in a single day, when the lake had turned dark red with his victims’ lifeblood, including that of five members of Montfallcon’s immediate family, whom Montfallcon had let perish without a defending word, so that Gloriana might live to gain the throne.
But, being reminded of those deaths, Montfallcon was also reminded of his self-control. He drew deep breaths, he tried to smile. All around him the nobles of Albion, of Arabia, of Tatary of Poland, of the world, were clapping as Captain Quire led the Queen for a second turn about the courtyard.
And, from without, the cheering, stamping, whistling, cap-waving crowd threatened to shake the whole palace to the ground.
Montfallcon moved slowly along the gallery, looking down at the scene, then he opened a door into a tunnel and, within a short while, stood alone in the silence and the darkness of Hern’s Throne Room, listening to the beating of his own heart, the hissing of his own breath.
“Oh, what a destroyer Romance can be.”
It was as if he confided his thoughts to Hern’s ghost, for he was almost friendly in his tone. It had been Montfallcon who had killed the King, whispering him into the final madness, encouraging him to put the noose about his throat, to jump from the battlement above, to hang against the wall, with dead, bulging eyes staring into the same courtyard where Quire defied both convention and retribution and brought the Summer Pageant to a joyous peak.
THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
In Which Lord Montfallcon Considers Means to Rectify His Cause
AN EARLDOM for the Perrott, then a Perrott for the Queen.” Lord Montfallcon’s lip quivered as he saw how simply all could be saved. “Though she’ll have to be rid of certain encumbrances. The seraglio, the children…” He was back in the old Throne Room, after two days in which he had kept to his bed, cooling his head and scheming. “As for Quire, I cannot do what has to be done. It must be for Ingleborough to speak to her, to tell her enough, to warn her…” He rubbed an itching nose. He blinked about him in the dusty light from above.
Click-slap, click-slap from amongst the looming simian statuary. Tom Ffynne entered. “Why here, Perion?”
“I feel that it is safer.”
“Than your own study?”
“I feel that, aye.”
Ffynne shrugged. “This recalls unwanted memories.”
From the tunnels beyond the old Throne Room there came the noise of several crazed clocks, and through the doors came lackeys with Lord Ingleborough upon their sticks, the sticks supporting a chair. Ingleborough’s white, knotted face swung overhead, tight with pain. Patch, in blue and silver, ran beside the litter.
Lord Montfallcon moved his hand and pointed at a place, at the flagstones; the litter was lowered, the lackeys waved away. The three men sat there in the beam of dirty sunlight—Montfallcon with folded robes upon the throne’s first step, Tom Ffynne, his leg stretched out beside him, upon the stone block, Ingleborough in his chair. Patch, discreet boy, paced his way around the vaulted perimeter.
“So this Shepherd Knight, this son of Tatyrus, shares the Queen’s bed already!” Tom Ffynne was admiring. “That can’t be what’s worrying you so much, Perion, can it? He’s not the first commoner.”
“He might be the first murderer, however.” Montfallcon shuddered as he calmed his hard-breathing body.
“You suspect him?” Ingleborough’s voice was a whisper. “Of what?”
“I know him. I know what he is. I know Quire.”
“So long as he pleases the Queen,” continued Tom Ffynne, even as he was struck by the passion in Montfallcon’s words, “what does it matter if he’s of lowly birth?” He stopped, giving sudden close attention to his friend. “Eh?�
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“He pleases her. Oh, aye. It is his trade. Deception and flattery.” Montfallcon had heard some of what Quire had whispered to the Queen that first night, heard her responses, and had been helpless as Quire had charmed her, reassured her, played father, brother, husband, all at once; trading on her weariness, her sense of loss, her self-pity, to make her love him. Quire had been so gentle. His caresses (Montfallcon had heard her say this) were like moth’s wings. And instead of leading her to crisis, Quire had calmed her towards reconciliation, as no lover had done before, bringing her peace and a protective arm. Montfallcon had gone mad that night. Now one of his wives lay upon her own bed, close to death, as a result of his rage.
Into the silence his words had made, Montfallcon added:
“I am convinced that this is Lady Mary’s murderer. Probably Sir Thomas Perrott’s, too.”
“But it’s his first appearance at the palace.”
“He has been in the walls, creating the scene he required before he decided upon his entrance. He is a great actor.”
“The walls are death. There are creatures there. I’ve heard!” Tom Ffynne looked at the solid granite of the inner stones. “Half-human vermin, impossible to root out, for they hide in lost crypts, far below the surface.”
“All expeditions have been unsuccessful.” Lord Ingleborough spoke very slowly, his voice hardly more than a murmur amplified in the pointed ceilings of the chamber. “But we have never been seriously threatened by them, any more than we are threatened by rats. A little poison answers.”
“Well,” said Montfallcon, “that is where I believe he has been hiding. He knows the walls as only a few from the outside can. He might have entered them at any time.”
Gloriana Page 29