Gloriana

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

There should,” said Lord Rhoone, taking the last of the beef from the salver presented by the servant, “have been a trial, my dear.”

They broke fast in their own over-furnished apartments, warmed by the early June sunshine. Lady Rhoone, on the other side of the table, put her large red chin upon her hand and laid down a knife, picked up a piece of bread at which she stared rather dully. “Of Tancred?”

“He is innocent, I’ll swear.”

“He seems happy, in Bran’s Tower. He believes himself a knight of Chivalry, imprisoned by an ogre. He awaits the coming of some warrior-maid, some Clorinda, to rescue him. Innocent or guilty, my dear heart, he is mad and therefore must be held somewhere. The Queen visits him. Others do.” She bit at the bread.

“But he should have been proved innocent and a greater effort made to discover the real murderer.” Lord Rhoone dabbed at his black beard with a napkin and sniffed. “This way, there still remains suspicion that the murderer’s abroad and might kill again. No trial-no ceremony-no resolution. That’s what set Sir Thomas to stalking.”

“Lord Montfallcon has made all efforts, Bramandil. None but Tancred was seen in Lady Mary’s apartments. For a month Montfallcon searched and investigated. He still pursues his inquisitions, as best he can.”

“Aye-and reassures no one. Look how strangely Doctor Dee acts-can there be something on his conscience? Or Sir Orlando Hawes, become stern and ferocious. Or Sir Amadis Cornfield, who has conceived a hatred of Lord Gorius Ransley-or Master Florestan Walis, who makes excuse upon excuse to be free of duties and who was, until recently, the most conscientious of the Queen’s servants. All since Lady Mary’s death. While Sir Thomas Perrott comes to Court with all his sons, swearing to cut Tancred to pieces and then, after an interview, also claiming Tancred innocent and haunting the palace night and day in his quest for the true murderer.” Lord Rhoone lowered his voice. “Then vanishing. Vanishing, my dear, in the night. And none can find him. Who saw him last? It must be the murderer himself. And killed the father as he killed the daughter, but this time hiding the corpse. And his sons maintain the search, then leave, in a pack, claiming the Saracens as culprits and refusing to name their informant.”

“Why Arabia?” She chewed.

“In revenge for the murder of one Lord Ibram-you recall?”

“Lady Mary was Ibram’s slayer, then?” Lady Rhoone shook. “Oh, my dear heart!”

“The story goes that Ibram loved her and insulted her:

that she was avenged, perhaps by that faceless spy of Montfallcon’s, and that, in turn, she was slain.”

“But where’s the spy?”

“Dead. Killed by the Saracens.”

“You are sure?”

“It’s common knowledge.”

“So the Perrott brothers now seek the Moor who did the deed.”

“Rumoured to be Lord Shahryar, the ambassador, who has temporarily returned to his homeland.”

“The Perrotts pursue him to Arabia?”

“They would not say. But they are one of the greatest of ship-owning families. They’ve many noble kin. They’ve a large enough fleet to threaten war and seem serious.”

“They would not act against the Queen’s interest, surely?” Lady Rhoone discovered that she was still hungry and signed for a servant to return with a tray of fries. She watched as they were piled upon her pewter. “The Perrotts are famous for their loyalty.”

“There’s a hint they believe themselves betrayed by the Queen.”

“And the Queen?”

“She believes she has betrayed them, for the Lady Mary was under her protection. She believes she’s betrayed a trust. So when the Perrotts put it to her that she protected the murderer, from political considerations, she swore that she did not, yet in such a tone they believed she lied. For her voice shook, d’you see, my love?”

“They took this for an admission?”

“Aye.”

“Ah, the poor Queen. As if her grief were not already overbearing!” Lady Rhoone sadly chewed a fry. “And she with no artifice at all to disguise her true feelings, save her dignity, which is natural. Did not Montfallcon speak to the Perrotts?”

“They mistrust him. They always have, for in Hern’s time Montfallcon betrayed their uncle to his death.”

“So they have precedents.”

“Exactly. Old scores, which their father buried on Gloriana’s accession. He was loyal and he was ambitious for his girls. One married well, to Sir Amadis Cornfield, and another fairly well, to young Sir Lepsius Lee (who had been a lover of the Queen’s), and all three girls were much in favour at Court. Through this favour Sir Thomas Perrott expanded his estates and his fleets, giving good service to Albion in return, as all would swear. But now the sons call their sisters little better than traitors and, I heard, at least five of their ships are already refitted as war-vessels. Montfallcon, of course, is at his wits’ end.”

“Great Mithras, Bramandil, my lord! You are suggesting civil war? In Albion? Under the Queen?”

“Not civil war, for none would join the Perrotts. Not yet, anyhow. But a bloody uprising to disturb the Realm and shatter the faith of the common folk. Unless the Perrotts are allowed to attack Arabia-meaning war with one of our own protectorates, and the most powerful. So civil war of sorts abroad, indeed, if the Perrotts are not stopped.”

“And Sir Tom Ffynne?”

“The Queen has paid what is virtually a ransom for his restoration. She has agreed to make amends for the shipping he destroyed in the seafight. With his return, Her Majesty will receive advice, at least. And he’ll not be affected by the madness affecting the rest of the Court since Lady Mary’s murder. He’ll have intelligence from Arabia, also.”

“You think, my love, that Arabia is responsible for the murder?”

“I think it unlikely. Lord Shahryar struck me always as a practical man.”

“Then someone works to turn one against the other?” Lady Rhoone frowned, surprised at her own insight. “It can only be that.”

“In whose interest is such disruption?” Lord Rhoone moved his bulk and stood, feet spread, stretching in his green and red uniform, his brass breastplate seeming to swell as his chest swelled. “The Court depends on stability. This is not Hern’s time, when advantage could be gained by murder and treachery. Now advantage is gained by service, charity and loyalty.”

“Some foreign plot?”

“We are all too ready,” said Lord Rhoone wisely, “to blame some outside source for our dismay. I am ever reluctant to shift the blame onto strangers before I am certain that the malaise is not indigenous.”

His wife embraced him, her great bosom engulfing his armour. “You are too just, dear heart. Too cautious. Too kindly for your position.”

“I protect the Queen.”

“And sturdily.”

“To protect her, I must not give rein to the night-horses of the imagination, which would bear my thoughts off, willy-nilly, away from my simple duty. Therefore I refuse speculation. As does Lord Montfallcon, though his task is harder. If the Court suffers a summer madness worse than some it has suffered in the past, then it is my task to counter it with common sense.”

She kissed him. “But you would not object if I were to visit our estates, taking the children with me?”

“My own thoughts. Go soon.”

Lord Rhoone lifted his massive head to stare pensively at a plate of apples.