Montfallcon’s pallor gave way to purple. “Oh, madam…” His breathing became huge. “You are listening to bad advice.”
“I listen to my own conscience, my lord. For this once.”
“It is Hern’s philosophy I hear!” He held his ground, by the door. “Familiar speeches to me, madam.”
He had angered her again. “You may go, my lord.”
His grey finger pointed at Quire. “This maggot, madam, will infect you with the Sophist’s plague and make you cruel and hated, turning all to darkness.”
“My lord! I am the Queen!”
Tom Ffynne was lurching to take Montfallcon’s arm. “Perion. What you say is almost treachery—and would have been judged so under Hern. Come.”
Montfallcon remained. “You are with them, now, Tom. You serve them. Already you’ve expressed your liking for Quire. Well, Lisuarte had a similar liking and he died. A taste for Quire is a taste for hemlock.”
“You’re weary, Perion. Let us go to your lodgings and continue our discussion there.”
Ffynne’s hand was shaken free. “I am alone now. Alone I protect Albion. And protect her I shall, against any threat, from any quarter. For too long has secret voluptuousness been tolerated at Court. Selfish lust weakens all. We shall have Hern back, mark my words.”
“That is nonsense, my lord.” The Queen was once more placatory.
“Then marry, madam. Marry and have done with it all! The temptations with which you beguile your private hours, they now become your whole world. Find a husband—of noble birth—and marry him. Thus shall war be averted thoroughly. Marry strength, to take the burden of your private grief, to share the weight of the Realm’s responsibilities. Don’t demean yourself with these wicked, little, common, clownish knaves who’ll only do you harm, who understand nothing of Chivalry!”
“Arabia would have me marry the Grand Caliph. You’d like him for a master, eh, my lord? And he’ll help me share my private grief, eh, my lord?”
“A few more months and the nobles and the people shall welcome the Arabian fleet as our saviour. Cannot you see into what dangers we slip if you do not make your Progress, letting suitors court you as you go? I had the plans all arranged, the most likely bachelors listed—and if you were to favour a Perrott, so much the better. If you do not make your Progress, and possibly make peace with the Perrotts by visiting them or a nearby house, they’ll be arming for private war again.”
“All these plans, my lord, and no consultation!” She shrugged. “Be off with you, sir, and make further plans, since that is your will. But do not, I beg thee, ask for my affirmation and involvement.”
Montfallcon scarcely heard her as he stood breathing deeply and glowering at the man who had robbed him of his power. Quire moved to the Queen’s side, as a guard might, out of concern.
Montfallcon whispered: “He is capable of any crime. He is more terrible than Hern, for he is not mad or vain, as Hern was.”
“Sir Thomasin—please escort the Lord Chancellor back to his apartments and make him to rest. Return, my lord, when you are in more civil humour. Doctor Dee, if you can help, please do so, though I fear…”
Montfallcon looked from Dee to Ffynne as they stood on either side of him. “Am I arrested?”
“Of course not, Perion,” said Ffynne, “but you are distressed. The Queen’s concern is for your health. Doctor Dee could attend you, if you so wished, giving you some drug to help this mood pass.”
“What? Am I to be poisoned by the magus?”
With these predictable words, he was led away.
Gloriana embraced her Quire. “Oh, my love, that you should suffer so much insult!”
Quire was brave. “I do not blame him, madam.” He stroked her face as she stretched beside him on the couch. “He is, as you say, distracted by his friend’s death.”
“Tell me that I shall not have to make the Progress. It would mean parting from you for so long. And I do not think it will do any good to our cause.”
“You must not exhaust yourself, madam, by a journey of that length. Albion needs you at the Court. Who knows what evil would develop here? Already so much, as I understand it, is unexplained. It could be that the Countess of Scaith is still alive….”
“Oh, Quire my dear, if it were only so. What two good friends I should have then.” And she hugged him tightly, burying her head on his shoulder as he seemed to reel, with frowning, puzzled eyes, beneath the force of her love.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
In Which Old Acquaintances Are Resumed and Old Issues Are Debated
LORD SHAHRYAR of Baghdad drew off his pointed helm, causing its silver curtain to clash as he placed it I J beside his curved sword on the table in the tavern’s private room. It was almost dawn and he had been waiting for Quire for three hours; it would be their third meeting since their original bargain had been struck. Near the shuttered window the snag-toothed Tinkler, who now sported threadbare brocade and a crumpled ruff, drained the last of the bottle he had brought for them both but which the Saracen had disdained. “He’ll be here soon, my lord.”
“You know? It was I sent you the message of where to be.”
“I know my old master, the Captain.”
“It’s your new master who concerns me.” Lord Shahryar seemed nervous. “What shall you report, eh?”
“Lord Montfallcon gave me to understand that I carried on Captain Quire’s work. And so I served him. Now that Captain Quire is back, well, I serve the same master as he serves.” Tinkler, however, was uncomfortable. “I shan’t betray you, sir—it would mean betraying the Captain.” He scratched at his itching head.
In came Quire, hastily, a little short of breath. “There are disadvantages in being so close to the monarch.” He slammed the door shut, pushing back his cloak. As well as his usual black he now wore a wide red sash, knotted on the right. It was as if the lower part of his body was stained with blood, so unlikely was the sight. He placed his sombrero near the Saracen’s helm. “You prepare for war already, my lord?”
“This is court dress. I have been waiting a week in the Presence Chamber for audience with the Queen. Together with a large deputation from the Caliph, who is growing doubtful, Quire, about the success of our scheme.”
“He should not be. Everything progresses.” A wink at Tinkler. “You’re looking quite a gallant, Tink. Montfallcon’s gold?”
“He paid me your wages in full.”
“He’s generous. You should continue to serve him.”
“Not now you’re returned, Captain.” Tinkler became relaxed.
Quire seated himself opposite Lord Shahryar and put folded arms upon the table. “Forgive me if I seem weary. My duties exhaust me.”
Tinkler laughed coarsely. Lord Shahryar feigned suitable disgust and said: “I need more specific news. Matters seemed to move well, but now I suspect your plans stick. The death of the girl created all that you told me would be created. On Accession Day your plan could not have been better realized. But now there is silence from you and, save for Ingleborough’s death, which was to be expected and which achieved nothing (the page, by the way, is embarked for Arabia, a present for the Caliph), it is almost as if you had given up on us.”
“I have a handful of Privy Councillors with me. Upstanding gentlemen become besotted fops, who support every decision I encourage the Queen to make.” Quire lifted his lip. “Montfallcon is all but exiled, he is so disgraced, and the Queen will no longer listen to him, for she is convinced he is mad with jealousy. The Court divides into two main camps—those who share Montfallcon’s opinions and those who share the Queen’s—and further divisions are to be expected. The Progress is halted and so the Realm will not be reassured. The Perrotts continue with their fleet and shall soon sail against Arabia—giving you just cause for war, but also allowing you to hold off and make kindly terms (though you may have to defeat the Perrotts first, as well as those who choose to sail with them). There are enough, and more coming to the Perrott si
de, particularly nobles who feel slighted by the Queen’s refusal of their invitations. And there are details of other schemes I bring to fruition. And you are unhappy, my lord? If that is so"—a theatrical reaching for the hat—"then I can always find a fresh patron, and chance these advantages about.”
“You owe me your life, Captain Quire. And you swore you would serve my interests.”
Quire fell back against the chair’s rest. “But if I’m not serving them well enough, my lord, I see no reason why you should continue to employ me. Can any one man do what I have done? As Montfallcon almost singlehandedly built up the Golden Age, so am I destroying it. As, in all reason, it deserves to be destroyed; Myth is but another word for Ignorance.”
“How long, then? Before everything is ready?”
“Another month. By October the nobles will be glad of a marriage between Gloriana and Hassan, if it soothes their fears.”
“And what can I be doing for you, Captain?” eagerly said Tinkler, drunk on the talk he had overheard. “I could kill Montfallcon for you.”
“And throw suspicion immediately onto me? No—he destroys himself. I want you to continue working for him, Tink.”
“What? I can’t!”
“It’s best. You’ll bring me information I can use.”
“You don’t want me to come back with you, Captain, into the old partnership?”
“No. Serve Montfallcon in every way he tells you—only report to me when it is possible.”
Tinkler shrugged. “If you say so, Captain Quire.”
“Your position is perfect for us.”
“Very well, Captain.” He seemed to be sulking.
Lord Shahryar picked up his helmet. “Then what shall I tell my Caliph?”
“That the Queen’s bewitched by me, that she will do anything I say, that when the time comes I shall give her decisions which shall put her firmly into the marriage bed with him, though I know not what good it will do either—”
“Captain Quire!” Shahryar snatched up the curved sword. “You’ll make no offensive jests concerning my master!”
“I’ll make what jests I care to make,” said Quire coldly. “For my secrets are recorded, as always. And if I die, your plans are given away. If that were to happen, the Realm would unite at once. It would undo all our work. Thus, too, Lord Montfallcon fears to betray me. For years he has sustained the myth through lies and espionage, murder, torture and destruction of contrary opinion. If evidence should emerge—as I might allow it to do, at the right moment—that Gloriana’s golden reign is based as firmly on blood as was her father’s, then you’ll have a thousand nobles turning on her, snatching down the figurehead in the vulgar belief that they destroy the ship.”
“Quire—do you plan to trade these secrets for a crown?” Lord Shahryar slipped the scabbard into his belt. “Is that it? You deceive every one of us?”
“To become a King is to become a cripple, my lord—with all movement, all power, restricted. Even Hern was borne down by it. Why, at the beginning of his reign he had, like his daughter, many fine ideals. But as the weight crushed him, he gradually gave way to self-pity. He’s called a cynic for that. But a true cynic is one who controls the weak as well as the weakness in himself. Hern was controlled by both.”
“And you are not?”
“No, my lord. An artist demands freedom in which to accomplish his work. No King is ever free.”
“I hope you are not deceiving me in this.” The Saracen tucked his robe around him and pulled his hood over his helm. “I hope, also, your tardiness is not a result of any sympathy you feel for your new mistress. She’ll be happier when our Caliph marries her.”
“And it’s all the more important that she does soon,” said Quire with a grin, “for you have not told me every factor, have you, my lord? You deceive me a little and fear I do the same.”
“Deceive you? How?”
“The duel between Poland and Arabia was fought—on the ship. Count Korzeniowski told Lord Rhoone, who told me, as being closest now to the Queen, in case I thought she should know.”
“What of it?”
“Poland is badly wounded and returned home. His Parliament placed him under arrest and a new King was elected.”
“I’ve heard the same.”
“And the new King, who was the warlike Prince Pyat of Ukrainia (known for his inclinations and supported by Parliament), wants vengeance upon Arabia.”
“It was a fair tourney and my master won.”
“I believe you. Pyat, however, fears that if Arabia goes unpunished it will make her too much of a threat. There is some fear she’ll unite with Tatary”
“Impossible.”
“But you cannot reassure Poland sufficiently—for you have such large battle fleets in preparation. You stand to be attacked from two sides.”
“Then Albion would come to our assistance, under the treaty.”
“Aye—which would give Albion much trouble, but it would not show your Caliph as the Pure Knight, the Saviour of the Empire. Indeed, the roles would be reversed. The duel was foolish.”
“There was a question of honour.”
“There is no such thing. There is pride.”
“Self-respect, Captain Quire. But if you do not recognise that quality—”
“I have a great deal of it. It is not the same as pride. And pride could throw my plans and yours into a whirlpool, losing us everything. That is why you must have me bring all to a head quickly.”
“If you like.” Lord Shahryar made to shrug.
“And I suspect, my lord, that your head’s at stake, also, is it not?”
The Saracen’s black eyes grew hot. “And yours, Captain Quire, at very least!”
In a swirl of dark cloth he was gone out of the tavern room, leaving Quire and Tinkler staring at one another as old friends do who have become awkward and whose interests are no longer identical. Tinkler was untalkative. Then he said: “Is it true, Captain, that you’d bring Albion down?”
“You cannot bring a nation down so easily, Tink. I’ll merely change the structure a little. Gloriana and the Caliph as joint rulers over a great Empire. An Empire which will make enemies, of course, and require to expand itself—into Poland, Tatary the world.”
“So the future shall have much to do with war.”
“I should think so, Tink.”
“And what shall we do then, Captain?”
Quire drew his sombrero down over his eyes and smoothed back the crow’s feathers on the crown. “We shall thrive, Tink, in such a world.”
Tinkler, given this vision, could only look upon it with a shifting eye. He cleared his throat. “It would be a simpler place, in some ways.”
“It is the business of war to simplify, Tink. Most men prefer it, when it comes, because their lives are far too complicated. Peace throws men into a kind of confusion few of them have the strength to bear for long—responsibilities blossom. Most of the world is made up of weaklings, Tink—and in war they flourish. Oh, how the weak love to fight!”
He was on his way, blowing a kiss to his bemused and frightened friend.
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
In Which the Queen’s Favourites Disport Themselves and Wherein Lord Montfallcon Warns of the Catastrophe Which Follows upon Impiety
FROM A HIDDEN FOUNTAIN, water squirted suddenly out of a bed of white horehounds so that Lady Lyst, already unsteady fell over with an astonished cry dropping her brimmer, her legs sprawling in the folds of her Indian gown while the Queen, her attendants and her courtiers laughed heartily in the intense late August sunshine falling now upon the gardens of Gloriana’s private apartments. Flowers of all sorts, arranged by colour to contrast, bloomed in geometrical squares, circles, crescents and half-moons divided by the narrow gravel paths and the moist lawns, the yew hedges, the ornamental shrubs of these symmetrical and comforting examples of a tamed nature. Ernest Wheldrake, pocketing a small book, helped his mistress to her feet. He, too, was dressed for the current su
mmer fashion, with a great deal of black and gold in the Moorish style, so that he was inclined to resemble a small cockerel who had somehow borrowed an eagle’s plumage. His turban slipped over his twitching face as he struggled with Lady Lyst and eventually, after much slipping about, restored her to an upright stance. She swayed. “Death! I’m soaked, inside and out!”
Again there was laughter.
As usual, Captain Quire did not sport the fashion, but remained in pauper’s black, his sombrero shading his face (a crow to Wheldrake’s fancier fowl), but he smiled with the Queen. Of the rest, Sir Thomasin Ffynne could not bring himself to personation and he wore mourning purple (for Lisuarte) with an earring as a concession to gallantry. Sir Amadis Cornfield was opulent, half-naked in the gold and feathers of some Inca king, and Lord Gorius vied with him, as another East Indian potentate, embellished with beads and coral bangles. They paid their usual attentions to little Alys Finch, who danced for them now, in a sarong, through the rainbow fountains which damped her gown, outlined her boyish figure, heated up their ardour. “Ah!”
Phil Starling, the dancer, wore some gold things and a breechclout, along with the usual paint, and lay upon a lawn at the feet of his half-swooning Wallis, an unlikely mandarin. Master Auberon Orme, a Tatar fantastico, ran from the entrance of the nearby maze pursued by two of the Queen’s ladies, who were clad as Burmese courtesans, and almost tripped over young Phil, who pouted, looking beyond him at Marcilius Gallimari, resembling a slender Turk, his arm around two little blackamoors whose modesty was protected by nothing more than aprons of pale gold chain at back and front. All were besotted by the euphoria, the erotic air which of late had filled the Queen’s personal Court.
The Queen embraced and kissed Lady Lyst. “Rest here.” They lounged together on a marble bench, laughing up at Quire and Wheldrake. “When shall this summer end!” It was rhetoric; few there expected or would welcome a hint of autumn. “We were discussing some official employment for Captain Quire. Now that Lord Rhoone’s to the country with his family we require a temporary Master of the Queen’s Pensioners. What do you say to such an appointment, Captain?”
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