“What shall I tell them?”
“That you are a victim. That you quarrelled over their position—that Ransley called the Perrotts traitors and wanted them hanged. He tried to murder you. Something of the sort. They’ll receive you in Kent, as you know.”
“Aye. My wife wanted me with her. I could not. My loyalty. My lust.”
“If you’re still loyal to the Queen, then save her a scandal.” Quire was delighted. This would confirm the Perrotts in their hatred. It would ensure that their fleet sailed. “Go you now. You can be in Kent by morning. A horse is all you need.”
Sir Amadis looked doubtfully at Quire. “You are eager to be rid of me, Captain.”
“You know I’ve always sought your friendship. Now I seek to save you from retribution, that’s all.”
“Kent’s the answer, right enough.” Sir Amadis was already parting from Quire. “I’ll do my best to make them see sense and save Albion from war. If I can do that…”
“You will be more powerful than Quire,” said Quire under his breath as he waved.
He walked without haste back to the gallery, congratulating himself that he was free of two encumbrances and that his luck stayed with him.
He met Lord Shahryar in what had been a laundry. Once servants had laboured here for Hern. The sweat and the steam had gone up, the water down, running over the flagstones, going the gods knew where. The rounded ceilings were still caked with soap which had risen with the steam, and the whole place stank of lye. Quire leaned against a wooden tub and smiled at Lord Shahryar, who did not find this a fit meeting-place.
“Another few days, that’s all,” said Quire very quietly, “and the Perrotts sail.”
“Our fleet’s already on the move, but will harbour in Iberia. Until we need to come to Albion’s rescue.” Lord Shahryar’s tone was depressed. “Is it really happening, Quire?”
“Aye,” said Quire. “Really.” It seemed he shared the Saracen’s mood.
“We’ll restore the glory” Shahryar was eager. “It is in reality scarcely harmed at all. The people will respond well to handsome Hassan.”
“Aye. You’ll have an even better lie, within a year, than Montfallcon could conceive.”
Shahryar noticed Quire’s own bitterness. “You wouldn’t thwart us, would you?”
“Now? How could I? It is all too far gone.”
“What will you do?”
“Find another patron, I suppose.” He did not like the drift of the conversation.
Shahryar laughed. “So. You’ve come to love her. It’s the classic tale.”
“I’m fond of the poor creature, now that she is on the verge of defeat. I am always fond of my victims, sir.”
“No! It’s more than that. You hesitate.” Shahryar took a step or two nearer. “I wonder if you would betray us if you could. There are means. Sir Thomasin Ffynne is ready at Portsmouth with a great fleet, to forestall the Perrotts. Yet if it were turned on us…”
“Fear not, my lord. I’ve kept my word. I am renowned for it.”
“And renowned for hiding the truth by means of a well-chosen platitude.” Lord Shahryar shrugged. “Well, I must trust you. But I have often wondered why you went so readily from Montfallcon’s service and into mine.”
“That day? It was fated. I had lost my temper with Lord Montfallcon. I was piqued. If you had captured me on another day, this whole story would have been a different one. I’d have thwarted all your plans, in Montfallcon’s name. But, perhaps in haste I gave my word—and I kept it.”
“You have a regretful tone, Captain Quire.”
Quire had finished with him. Before Shahryar realised it he had begun his journey back to Gloriana’s room, for she would be waking soon.
But she was already awake when he arrived. She was pale and her mind was clogged. Sir Orlando Hawes stood by the bed. He nodded to Quire as Quire appeared.
“What’s this? Is the Queen ill?” Quire went to her. He was surprised when she waved him away, intent on the note she read and re-read.
“What is it?” Quire asked Hawes. “War declared?” He hated this ignorance. He lived for knowledge. “What’s in the note?”
Gloriana showed it to him. It was from Wallis.
“We found him. In one of those little rooms off the main seraglio,” said Sir Orlando. He was sad, but he was triumphant, too. “He used a leaf from Sir Ernest’s book, and the poet’s pen and inkhorn. He had stabbed himself with a dagger. Through the heart. Neatly, with proper calculation.”
Gloriana began to weep. “Oh, Quire!” She accused him.
The note was addressed to him.
To Captain Quire. Sir, Being in doubt as to your advice, I have decided to do away with doubt and pain for ever and take this step. You did me a service and caused me great misery thereby, but the fault lies with me. I believe I have repaid any debt I have to you, and thus may take my leave with clear conscience. I have betrayed the Queen’s faith and cannot thank you for your help in this. But I am avenged—betrayed by you and by your creature as I know you have betrayed so many—to their deaths. I remain, I suppose until life vanishes entirely, your servant. Florestan Wallis, Secretary for the High Tongue of Albion. By this deed, once more a loyal friend of the Queen.
“You are lost, Quire,” said Sir Orlando. “This poor fellow has accused you and died to prove his case.”
THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER
In Which Captain Quire’s Plans Are Further Inconvenienced
IT PROVES NOTHING,” said Quire. “He was mad with guilt and despair. I know young Phil. He’s one of Priest’s dancers and has been under Wallis’s protection. He was playing flirt to all. Wallis asked me to help him and I did what I could. Thus he considered me to be in his debt. It’s the import of the entire letter. That and his belief he shunned duty to pursue lust.”
They sat side by side upon the bed while she read the letter over. She ignored him. “Sir Orlando was right. This proves infamy of some description.”
“Only in Wallis’s eyes.”
“He recorded all the business of the Realm. He could have been the spy for Tatary and you his agent. Or the reverse. I recall everything Montfallcon hinted at….”
“There’s scarcely a lackey in the Court could not gain that information,” he said. “I’ve spoken to no Tatars, that I swear. How can you believe this?” He was aggrieved—accused, inadvertently, by a man he had not killed, of something he had not done.
“Oh, Quire, I have been betrayed by so many in my life and have always kept my faith.” She looked hopelessly at him. “I believed in Chivalry and in Albion, in my service and duty to the Realm. You teach me self-love and say that is for the sake of the Realm. I think, however, that you are trying to betray me again, in a new way. You force me to betray myself. Is there anything crueller?”
“This will not do. You are tired. And you are still drunk.”
“I am not.”
He became sullen. “You debate non-existent problems. I love you. Not four hours since, you agreed that our love was enough to sustain all else.”
“I have turned my back on Albion. I have become cynical. And so many have died.”
“They died before,” he said. “Only you did not know—save for a few. How many were murdered far more horribly than Lady Mary?”
“What do you say?” She turned, frowning. “What do you know?”
He grew cautious. “What I have heard. Ask Montfallcon.” He risked his own security. If Montfallcon guessed that he had revealed those secrets, his safety was all gone.
“In my father’s time, you mean?”
He retreated. “Aye.”
It was as if she strapped armour about her, moment by moment. He sought a chink with: “I love you.”
She shook her head and let the letter fall. “You think you do. And I you, little Quire. But this…” She rose to pace the dark chamber. “The Court crumbles. The dead increase. I believed that I acted to save us from further death. Yet here’s poor Wallis gon
e. And in our own secret quarters that represented our retreat from death, from the past. It is too much, Quire.”
“You seem to blame me.”
“Wallis did.”
“Aye. His brain was disordered. Many would make a scapegoat of me.”
“The Phoenician scapegoat bore the whole tribe’s sins and was killed to free them. I do not want you killed, my love. I do not want a Realm which requires a scapegoat.”
“I assure you, I agree.”
“I must look to the safety of Albion’s spirit. I must stop these wars. I must reunite the nobles.”
“It is too late.” He saw his power weakening. Again he shifted his ground. “So, I’m to go away? You have no more use for Quire’s comforting.”
“I need it more than ever,” she said. “Yet it diverts me too greatly.”
“You trust me so little that one vague letter can turn you against me?”
“I do not know. There is much I have refused to consider. I know you, Quire, because I love you. Yet I have no words for that knowledge. I am confused.”
“Come to bed. Let me banish confusion.”
“No. I would debate this with myself.”
He realised that the morning would bring news of Lord Gorius’s death and Sir Amadis’s flight. He had perhaps overreached himself, for he had also been accused of injuring Sir Vivien. He lay on their bed, brooding. He must consider urgent plans. He must win her back to him for the few days needed until his great plan was brought to full bloom. He must appeal to her in some way. He must pretend to agree. So he waited in silence for a while in the hope that she would feel the need to fill it. He knew her nature.
And at last she said, sadly:
“I am unworthy of my people. I have no intelligence. I have made a monstrous mad thing of my wisest Councillor.”
He continued in his silence.
“I have betrayed my duty. I have allowed my friends to perish, to suffer, while those who are not my friends prosper. I am infamous and my subjects turn against me, for I betray their faith by losing my own. In my pain and my fear I sought help from Eros—but Eros rewards only those who bring him virtue and goodwill. I have been foolish.”
He climbed from the bed with a great display of impatience. “This is mere self-pity.”
“What?”
“You continue to blame yourself for the crimes and weaknesses of others. You’ll never test your own strength if you follow this course. You were Montfallcon’s foil—now you claim me as your influence. You must consider your own decisions and make ’em. So I’ll leave, as you desire.”
She halted. “Forgive me. I am distressed.”
“You fear to take any form of retribution on your enemies in case it should reveal your father’s cruelty in you. You are not cruel—but there must be firmer justice. You have been only the reflection of your nation’s needs. Now you must impose your will and show that you are strong. It is the way to end all this madness.”
She drew massive, beautiful brows together. “You stand to suffer most from any retribution,” she reminded him.
“Do I? Put me to trial, then. By whatever jury you select. Or try me yourself.”
He drove her back to tears; he exploited her general guilt; he offered her escape through hysteria. She did not take it. Instead she found dignity. She rose, huge and sympathetic, and took him, to his astonishment, to her breast. “Oh, Quire, Quire.”
“You must rest. For a day or so.” His voice was muffled. “Then make your decisions.”
“Do not advise me, my dear. Do not try any further to reduce my aspirations. You taught me not to mind my affliction. But it was that very affliction which represented my love of Albion. I shall risk the pain, in order to serve the Realm again.”
“This is weighty….”
“I shall decide, in the course of the coming week, on what I must do.”
He felt thwarted, even though he saw success.
He gave himself up to her awesome kindness.
Next morning there came the news of Ransley and word that Sir Vivien was dead of his fall. The Queen, in her puzzling and novel mood, took both deaths with a kind of tolerant dismay and had Tom Ffynne sent for. She intended to discuss the problem of Cornfield’s disappearance from the palace, though it was by now well-known he had ridden southeast on the Dover road and almost certainly went to his kinsmen.
Quire was not ignored by Gloriana, but he was not consulted any longer by her. She continued to show towards him the affectionate detachment of a mother for a charming but demanding child. And she allowed him to go with her when she robed herself in her encrusted gown, her crown, and took her orb and sceptre, to return to the Audience Chamber she had all but abandoned. As she moved through the Presence Chambers she greeted astonished petitioners who had long since given up any real belief they might be granted an interview. She was distant; she was friendly. Her humanity was all but gone and she was little else but habit, a monarch. Quire followed, nodding and bowing to those he knew, showing a confidence which, for once, was not much with him, attempting to give the impression that he had at last persuaded the Queen to do her duty.
She was enthroned and Quire took the chair at the foot of the dais; the Countess of Scaith’s chair. Lord Montfallcon was summoned but did not immediately appear.
Lord Shahryar was the first foreign ambassador to be received. He looked hard at Quire, not daring to ask, even with his eyes. He was tall and self-contained, in his silks, and his steel, and his gold. “Gracious Majesty. My master Hassan, Grand Caliph of Arabia, sends his greetings and asks me to express his deepest affection for your self. An affection, he asks me to tell you, that goes deeper than mere admiration for the world’s most beautiful, most loved, most honourable sovereign, ruler of the world’s mightiest and noblest Empire. He awaits the moment when you will send him a sign that you share this affection, so that he might fly to your side, to help you in this troubled hour of history.”
“Troubled hour, my lord?” She seemed amused. “What troubled hour is that?”
“Well, Your Majesty, there are rumours. Certain of your subjects—unruly and unwise—disobey your wishes….”
“A minor domestic matter, my lord.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He said no more. He did not look at Quire at all. Quire knew, however, that Shahryar might believe himself betrayed and, in turn (for he had nothing to lose), might betray Quire.
The doors of the Audience Chamber groaned open on unoiled hinges. Montfallcon entered. He wore his black robes of office, his gold chain. His grey face was drawn and there were blotches of red, like a drunkard’s blush, on his cheekbones, showing that he had slept hardly at all for many nights. His eyes shifted in his head as he noted the Queen, then Quire, then Shahryar. He had one hand wrapped in the heavy folds of his cloak as if he clutched his own costume to steady himself, and when he spoke, his voice was rapid, ragged. “Your Majesty sent for me?”
“We hope we do not inconvenience you, dear Lord Montfallcon.”
His glance was suspicious. “What are we doing here?”
“We are giving audience, my lord. We are debating important matters of State.”
Montfallcon pointed. “Then why is he here? That spy. Sir Orlando told me of the note.”
“The note said nothing.” The Queen’s tone continued to be light. “There was no evidence against Captain Quire.”
“There is evidence everywhere,” said Montfallcon. “In your own actions.” He looked hard at Lord Shahryar, who pretended embarrassment. He fell silent.
Lord Shahryar was eager to remain but could not, by custom, do so. He bowed and withdrew, leaving the three of them in the vastness of the room filled with warm, autumn light, making the tapestries, panels and wall hangings seem richer than ever.
“We sought your advice, my lord,” said the Queen softly.
“I have given it. I have told you what to do. Abandon Quire. Abandon your secrets. Abandon wanton epicureanism!”
“My charges? My children?”
“Abandon all of that.”
“And will you abandon your own secrets, my lord?” she asked.
“What?” A glare at Quire. Quire was able to shake his head to let Montfallcon know that he had said nothing.
“We have heard you have been into the walls again. We forbade you, or any other, the walls. We ordered the entrances closed up.”
“There are many entrances, as I am discovering. Possibly hundreds.”
“Is that so, Captain Quire?” she asked.
“I do not know, madam,” he answered innocently.
She laughed. “Oh, come now, Captain. You are a villain from the walls. Admit it. All the evidence shows it now. I do not accuse you. Perhaps with Lord Montfallcon’s help you could rid us of the creatures who so distress us and who are almost certainly causing this plague of deaths. It is the most obvious explanation. And therefore I would suggest to you that the Realm be apprised of our decision. We must tell everyone that we have discovered murderers and criminals hiding at the very roots of the State—that all our recent troubles were caused by them; that they murdered Lady Mary and others, seduced some of our Councillors (now dead or fled), tried to poison the Queen herself. And we shall assure everyone that, with this discovery, we shall send expeditions into the walls to destroy every creature found there.”
Quire smiled. She had found perhaps the only means of uniting the nobles swiftly in a common aim. It was a clever notion and he admired her for it, even though it threatened his own plans.
“The walls?” Montfallcon rubbed at his eyelids, mumbling to himself. “No—there is something to be done—there can be no one sent to the walls. Not yet.”
“What do you say, my lord? I do not hear you.”
Quire had heard and was on his feet. “It is a splendid plan. Shall we join forces then, Lord Montfallcon?”
Montfallcon was contemptuous. “The wall rabble is not the cause of our dissolution. Base appetites are the cause. Bad blood. There is a canker here and it must be burned away. All evil must be swept from the palace. All!”
Quire pursed his lips. “We could begin with the walls, however, my lord.” He pretended to humour Montfallcon. “First the corruption within, then the corruption without, eh?”
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