Gloriana

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

Lord Montfallcon lay alone in his substantial bed while his wives in the next chamber rubbed ointments into one another’s wounds, whispering and gasping. He was miserable, unreconciled, self-loathing that morning, for Gloriana’s voice had sounded through the night, pathetic and full of grief, and he had awakened his wives so that their cries would drown the Queen’s. Montfallcon moved his strong old body in the bed and rebuked himself for his lack of vigour, and wondered if, at this time of delicate crisis, his brain, which had held so much, controlled so much, was at last about to fail. The Queen was recently more melancholy than ever, and he could not name the cause. She had cleverly avoided the question of marriage when he had raised it. Lord Montfallcon had also received news of Tom Ffynne’s capture in the Middle Sea. The old pirate, growing short-sighted, had mistaken an Arabian barquentine for an Iberian barque, and now Arabia complained loudly and at length, ritualisti-cally, though the mistake was obvious. Then in the middle of all this, Sir Christopher Martin had died, poisoned, apparently by his own hand, as if he felt dishonoured. This was a bad omen to nobles and to commons. There were rumours of a quarrel between King Casimir and the Grand Caliph; other rumours of a pact between them. There were rumours out of Tatary, rumours from the German and Flemish States, from Iberia and the High Countries, from Africa and from Asia; and Quire, his eye, his hand, his weapon in the world, was missing.

Whether Quire, offended by Montfallcon’s undiplomatic response during their last encounter, played doxy-on-a-high-horse to further his own ends, whether his pride was genuinely wounded, whether he had taken a notion to visit foreign lands or even seek foreign employ, or whether he had paid a price, at last, for his crimes, Montfallcon did not know. And of all things, Lord Montfallcon hated ignorance. It was his impulse, his necessity, to be omniscient. Now not only was his main well of knowledge run dry, but the very location of that well was lost. Frustrated, having no news on which he could base further actions, Montfallcon knew a kind of terror, as a warrior in the heat of battle might feel to receive a hint of imminent paralysis and blindness. It seemed to Montfallcon that unseen enemies were creeping closer and that all he could sense of them was their unspecific malice.

He had failed to understand his tool, Quire, with sufficient complexity; he had imposed a view of the man’s strange character upon the truth; he had broken a rule of his own, which was never to assume, always to interpret. And, because of one lazy failure to interpret Quire, he might have lost his control over the man. Quire worked for the love of his art, as Montfallcon worked for the love of his Ideal, represented in Gloriana. Their partnership, Montfallcon realised, had depended upon that understanding. But he had resented Quire’s suggestion that they were equal, that they collaborated as poets collaborate upon a play In the past Montfallcon had trained himself to deny any expression of pride which might be false or which might threaten his goal, but, in his last interview with Quire, he had let his anger, his arrogance, dominate him and so clash with Quire’s own pride. He understood now that if Quire had attacked him on like grounds-accusing him, say, of base motives in his work for Albion-he might have felt the same fury. And yet Montfallcon respected Quire’s intelligence. It did not seem typical of the man that he should sulk this long. A day or so, certainly. Even a week. It had been a month. It occurred to Montfallcon that Quire might be planning some form of vengeance against him, but Quire’s particular nature was not of the sort to turn to petty revenge. More likely Quire proved himself, performing some complicated espionage, the results of which he would present to Montfallcon by way of a challenge.

Montfallcon, however, could be sure of none of this. Because he had misjudged once, he had lost some of his faith in his own judgement: he could misjudge again.

With a groan he floundered from sheets which stank of lavender and sweat. He must prepare himself for the day.

The snag-toothed knave, Quire’s lieutenant, in his coney cap and his overlarge leather greatcoat, his gallooned doublet, his puffed hose and turned-down jack-boots, who waited for Lord Montfallcon in the small chamber, striking a pose with longsword and cocked leg, was a sight to encourage Montfallcon that morning, so that he greeted Tinkler almost merrily, enquiring after his health and his fortunes. He bustled, in his usual grey and black, to his desk, where, it seemed, more paper than usual had gathered. He frowned.

“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.