Gloriana

THE SECOND CHAPTER

From white sheets, in a huge ivory gown trimmed with silver lace, her hair enclosed in a cap of plain linen, her pale hands decorated by nothing but two matching rings of pearls and platinum, Queen Gloriana pushed back bleached silk bed-curtains, rose and crossed to the window. On snowy lawns albino peacocks paced between carved yew hedges which this morning were like marble. A few flakes still fell to cover the darker tracks of the birds, but the milky sky grew lighter as she watched and there was even a trace of the faintest blue. She turned to where her little maid of honour, Mary Perrott, stood beside the breakfast tray with its heavy burden of silver. “You’re very pretty this morning, Mary. Good colour. Womanly. But tired, I think.” In affirmation, Lady Mary yawned. “The festivities…” “I fear I left the masque a little early. Did your father like it? And your brothers and sisters? Was it enjoyable to them? The entertainers? Were they amusing?” She asked many questions so that none might be answered.

“It was a perfect night, Your Majesty.”

Seating herself at the delicate table, Gloriana lifted covers to choose kidneys and sweetbreads. “Cold weather. Are you eating enough, Mary?”

As her mistress began to devour the food, Mary Perrott seemed to quiver slightly, and Gloriana, detecting this, waved a fork. “Return to your bed for an hour or two. I’ll not need you. But first place another log on the fire and bring me the ermine robe. That dress is a new one, eh? Red velvet suits you. Though the bodice seems too tight.”

Lady Mary blushed as she leaned over the fire. “I had intended to alter it, madam.” For a moment she left the chamber, to return with the ermine, placing it across her mistress’s broad shoulders. “Thank you, madam. Two hours?”

Gloriana smiled, finished the kidneys and started quickly on her herrings, before they should grow cold. “Visit no swain and let none visit you, Mary, but sleep. Thus you’ll be able to fulfil all your duties.”

“I will, madam.” A curtsey and Lady Mary slipped from the Queen’s austere room.

Gloriana found that the herrings were not to her liking and rose from them suddenly. She walked to the mirror on the wall beside the door, grateful for unanticipated privacy. She investigated her long, perfect face, her delicate bones. Her large green-blue eyes contained an expression of faint, objective curiosity. The cap gave a starkness to her features. She removed it, releasing her auburn hair, which curled immediately against her cheeks and on her shoulders; she unlaced her gown, threw off her ermine, so that she was naked, soft and glowing. She stood a full six inches over six feet, yet her figure was ideally proportioned, her flesh unblemished for all that, like some lover’s oak, she had been carved, in her time, with a dozen initials or more; struck, since girlhood, with almost every sort of whip and weapon, tortured with fire, scored, bruised, scratched-first by her father himself or by those who, serving her father, sought either to educate or to punish her; secondly by lovers whom she had hoped might rouse her to that single important experience still denied her. She stroked her flanks, not from any narcissism but abstractedly, wondering how such sensitive flesh as this could be so thoroughly stimulated and yet refuse to reward her with the release it had afforded the majority of those she lent it to. A little sigh and the robe was re-donned, the fur drawn around her, in time to call “Enter” when a knock came and in walked her closest friend, her private secretary, her confidante, Una, Countess of Scaith. The Countess wore a grey brocade marlotte, its high collar completely enclosing her neck and emphasising, with its short puffed sleeves, her heart-shaped face, flaring to reveal her gown’s hooped skirt, dark red and gold. Una’s grey eyes, intelligent and warm, looked into Gloriana’s-a brief question already answered-before they embraced.

“By Hermes, let there be no further doctors like those that were sent to me!” The Queen laughed. “They pricked me all night with their little instruments and bored me so, Una, that I fell solidly to sleep. They were gone when I awoke. Will you send them some gift from me? For their trouble.”

The Countess of Scaith nodded, being careful to share her friend’s deliberate mood. She left the bedchamber and entered an adjoining room, unlocking a small writing desk and taking from it a notebook, calling back: “The Italians? How many?”

“Three boys and two girls.”

“Gifts of equal value?”

“It seems fair.”

Una returned. “Tom Ffynne is just come home. The Tristram and Isolde docked at Charing Cross not three hours since and he’s eager to see you.”

“Alone?”

“Or with the Lord Montfallcon. Perhaps at eleven, when your Privy Council meets…?”

“Discover from him something of the nature of his anxiety. I should not like to offend the loyal admiral.”

“He has no loyalties but to you,” agreed Una. “These old men of your father’s place a higher value on you than do the young ones, I think, for they remember…”

“Aye.” Gloriana became distant. She misliked memories of her father or comparisons, for she had loved the monster increasingly as he grew older and sicklier and, at the end, had learned to sympathise with him, knowing that he had been too weakened by the burden she herself was barely strong enough to shoulder. “Appointments, today?”

“You wished an audience for Doctor Dee. That is arranged to follow the meeting of the Privy Council. Then there is nothing until after you have dined (at twelve until two) with the ambassador from Cathay and the ambassador from Bengahl.”

“They dispute some border?”

“Lord Montfallcon has a paper and a solution. He’ll tell you of that this morning.”

“After we’ve dined?”

“Your children and their governesses. Until four. At five, a ceremony in the Audience Chamber.”

“The foreign dignitaries, eh?”

“The usual presents and assurances, for New Year’s Day. At six, the mayor and aldermen-presents and assurances. At seven, you agreed to consider the case of the new buildings by Greyfrairs. At eight, supper: the Lords Kansas and Washington.”

“Ah, my romantic Virginians! I look forward to supper.”

“After supper only one thing. Sir Tancred Belforest requests an audience.”

“Some new scheme of chivalrous daring?”

“I think this is a private matter.”

“Excellent.” Gloriana laughed as she entered her dressing room, ringing the bell for her maids. “It will make me happy to grant at least one boon to the poor Champion; he yearns eternally to please me, but all he knows is battle and gymnastics. Have you any inkling of his desire?”

“I would say he asks your permission to marry Mary Perrott.”

“Oh, gladly, gladly. I love them both. And I’d grant any boon to distract his noble concentration!” The maids of honour entered. Pretty girls, every one had been a lover of the Queen and had been employed as a result, for she could not dismiss any who had tried to please her and who did not wish to be free. “So the day is relatively light.”

“Depending on Tom Ffynne’s news. He could bring reports of wars-in the West Indies.”

“We are not concerned with the West Indies. Save for Panama, they do not come under our protection, thank the gods. Unless they should attack Virginia-but which of their nations is powerful enough?”

“With Iberian help?”

“Oh, with Iberian help, aye. But I think the West Indians mistrust Iberia now, so many of their peoples have been sent to the slaughter. No, for danger, we must needs look closer to home, dearest Una.” She leant to kiss her secretary as maids tugged at her stays to produce the conventional peasecod-bellied figure demanded of her station. She grunted as the wind left her. “Ugh!”

“I’ll go to tell Sir Tancred he is blessed.”

Una departed while Gloriana continued to suffer the somewhat comforting constrictions of her costume as she fitted, tight and tidy, like some man-o’-war, for her day’s duties: stomacher and farthingale, a starched wired ruff, stockings of silk and tall-heeled shoes, embroidered petticoat, gown of golden velvet set with jewels of a dozen kinds and little stitched flowers, cloak of dark red velvet trimmed with ermine, hair bound with pearl strands and topped by a coronet, face powdered, gloves on hands, rings on gloves, mace and sceptre held to left and right, until she was ready to glide about her business, surrounded, a frigate by gulls, by her little pages and maids (some of whom took up her train), on her way to the Privy Chamber where her Councillors awaited her. She sailed down corridors hung with silken flags, with tapestries and paintings; corridors decorated with glowing panels showing scenes of Albion’s glories and vicissitudes, beasts, heroes, pastoral scenes, scenes of exotic Oriental, African or Virginian landscapes. And she passed courtiers, who bowed to her, or curtseyed to her, who complimented her, and with some she must share a “Good morning” or an enquiry as to health; she passed squires and ladies-in-waiting, equerries, stewards, butlers, footmen, servants of every description. Her feet trod on carpets, mosaics, tiles, polished wood, some silver, a little gold, marble and lead. She took a corner, gracefully, through the First, Second and Third Audience Chambers, her skirt’s hoop swaying, where courtiers and petitioners awaited her favour and Gentlemen Pensioners, her personal guard, Lord Rhoone’s men, in scarlet and dark green, saluted her with their pikes while footmen pushed open the doors of the Audience Room, which she crossed without pause to enter the Privy Chamber, where her Councillors rose, bowed, waited until she seated herself in her chair at the head of the long table before resuming their own positions, those twelve gentlemen in gowns of rich materials, with golden chains upon their chests. Through the splendid window at Gloriana’s back came light filtered by the thousand colours in the huge stained scene of Emperor and Tribute: Gloriana’s father pictured as King Arthur, with London as New Troy (legend’s citadel of that Mystical Golden Age Britannia, founded by Gloriana’s ancestor, Prince Brutus, seven thousand years before), with representatives of all the nations of the world bringing gifts to lay upon the ninety-nine steps of the Emperor’s throne where maidens, Wisdom, Truth, Beauty and Mercy, flanked a radiant crown. Privately Gloriana considered the window to be in poor taste, but respect for tradition and her father’s memory demanded she retain it. Six to a side of the dark table, with silver-chased ink-horns, goose quills, sand-shakers and paper in order before them, her Privy Councillors sat, twelve familiar faces, according to their rank. On her immediate right, Lord Perion Montfallcon, in his blacks and greys, and his great grey leonine head half-bowed, as if he slumbered, her Lord Chancellor and Principal Secretary; on her immediate left, pensive, aquiline, with a long, square-cut white beard, in brown cap and cloak, a belted doublet and a golden chain made up of six-pointed stars, sat Doctor John Dee, her Councillor of Philosophy. Next to Lord Montfallcon, Sir Orlando Hawes, the blackamoor, thin and pinched, in plain dark blue, with a parsimonious collar of lighter blue lace, a chain of silver, small black eyes upon his papers, her Lord High Treasurer; opposite him, stiff as stone, controlling the pain of gout, a ruddy-faced and stern old man, Albion’s most famous navigator, Lisuarte Armstrong, Fourth Baron of Ingleborough, Lord Admiral of Albion, in purple velvet and white lace, his chain heavy, like an anchor’s, on his neck, his eyes blue as the palest northern oceans. Next on the right was Gorius, Lord Ransley Lord High Steward of Albion, in ruff and cuffs of pale gold, quilted doublet of deepest russet, his chain of office embellished with rubies; then Sir Amadis Cornfield, Keeper of the Royal Purse. In white and blue striped silk, turned back at neck and wrist to display a crimson lining, over which was laid a large loose collar and broad cuffs, his linen, and in his silver chain, thin and delicate, made to match the silver buttons of his coat, he was a handsome, sardonic, wide-mouthed, dark-haired gallant, taking his duties seriously. He appeared to be studying some aspect of the window he had not noticed before. Facing Sir Amadis was Sir Vivien Rich, plump and hairy, in country-woven clothes making him resemble some yeoman farmer, this Vice Chamberlain to the Queen. Seated almost primly beside Sir Amadis was Master Florestan Wallis, the famous scholar, all in black, sporting no chain, but a small badge on his breast, his thin, straight hair covering his shoulders, his strong lips pursed; he was Secretary for the High Tongue of Albion, the language of official proclamations and ceremony, and he was a writer of small plays performed at Court. The next pair: Perigot Fowler, Master of the Horse, in dark browns, and Isador Palfreyman, Secretary for War, in blood-red. Both bearded, almost twins. Lastly on the right Auberon Orme, Master of the Great Wardrobe, in somewhat unseasonal lilac and Lincoln green, with a huge ruff from both these colours, emphasising the length of his nose, the smallness of his mouth, the suggestion of crimson in the whites of the eyes; and, on the left, Marcilius Gallimari, a dark, amused Neopolitan, his doublet slashed, puffed and gallooned to reveal almost as many colours as those of the window; his hair was waved and there was a diamond in one ear, an emerald in the other; he had a thin, pointed beard and just the trace of a moustache, this talented Master of the Revels.

The Queen smiled. “There’s a light, merry atmosphere in the chamber this morning. Am I to take it that the holiday continues?”

Montfallcon climbed to portentous feet. “In most matters, Your Majesty. The world is quiet. As the grave, today. But Sir Thomasin Ffynne brings news…”

“I know. I intend to see him when this conference is done.”

“Then Your Majesty’s aware of what he has to say?” A significant grunt.

“Not yet, Lord Montfallcon.”

“Come, come, my Lord Chancellor!” Doctor Dee was his old rival. “You hint so ominously one might suspect the world ends, at last! Are you dissatisfied because there is no threat current upon Albion? Would you like an omen? Shall I consult the Talmud? Shall I conjure you a disaster? Release a few devils from bottles, find a dark future in the stars, frighten us all with talk of the possible plagues one might catch if this warning isn’t heeded or that one ignored?” Being virtually without timbre, his voice always made some think he spoke, as now, sardonically; by others he was almost always taken literally. Thus he surrounded himself with more ambiguity than he could ever understand and was often, in turn, greatly baffled by his fellows, simply because, unknowingly, unreasonably (he could not help his voice), he had baffled them.

Perion Montfallcon was by no means baffled, for he was used to Dee’s raillery. Neither loved the other even a little. Lord Montfallcon made a display of patience, giving his attention wholly to the Queen. “Your Majesty, it is a small matter, but it could be the nut from which would grow an exceedingly tangled root.”

Anxious to avoid a full-fledged drama between these two seasoned players, Queen Gloriana raised both hands. “Then shall we have Tom Ffynne before us now, to explain?”

“Well…” Lord Montfallcon shrugged. “It can do no harm. He is without, in the First Presence Chamber.”

“Then have him fetched, my lord.”

Lord Montfallcon turned from his chair and moved slowly for the little door behind him which led to the anteroom between the Privy Chamber and his own offices. He opened the door, gave a word to a footman; a pause, then in stumped Ffynne. Sir Tom had trimmed his beard a little for the occasion and there were five purple ostrich feathers in his hat, a short, pleated bottle-green cape on his left shoulder, a white, starched ruff, emerald-green doublet, belted at his corseted middle, wide gallyslop hose tied below the knee with ribbons, white stockings and gold-buckled black shoes. He had donned his best. His little twinkling eyes widened a trifle as he saw the Queen and he doffed his hat, bowing low, clip-clumping forward on his carved foot which had been so designed that the stump of his ankle could be pinned perfectly into it. “Your Majesty.”

“Good day to you, Sir Thomasin. We expected you earlier. Were there storms?”

“Many, Your Majesty. Every league of the way. We were badly damaged. All rigging gone but a couple of stays, most yards down by the time we sighted the coast of Iberia. We limped through the Narrow Sea and put into The Havre to make minor repairs before coming on. That was four days ago.”

“Your news is of France, then?”

“No, Your Majesty. It was got from France. While we were in the harbour, further delayed by the incompetents sent us as joiners and sailmakers, there came to port a large, old-fashioned galleon, of some forty oars. She flew the Polish flag and I became curious, for she was evidently a ceremonial craft, with a great deal of gilt and gold braid on ropes and rails. She wallowed in and dropped anchor quite close to us. Being interested, I sent my compliments to the master, who consequently invited me aboard. He was a civil old gentleman. A noble, too. And glad to meet me, for he was full of Queen Gloriana and Albion and eager for any happy intelligence concerning both. He praised our land and its Queen and flattered me, when he learned my name, with remembrances of my own adventurings.”

“So that’s your news, eh, Sir Thomasin,” said Doctor Dee, entirely to spite Lord Montfallcon. “We are loved by Poland.”

“Doctor Dee!” The Queen flashed an eye and the Doctor subsided.

“Certainly,” continued Ffynne, “for this ship is even now awaiting Poland’s King, who comes overland, by coach, to board her-and from The Havre he intends to sail for London.”

“For what purpose?” Sir Amadis Cornfield drew reluctant eyes from the windows. “The King himself? Without a fleet? With no retinue?”

“He comes as a suitor,” said Tom Ffynne quietly. “Nay, almost a bridegroom. He seems, according to my noble Pole, convinced that Your Majesty will accept him in marriage.”

“Ah.” Gloriana’s sideways look to Lord Montfallcon was embarrassed.

“Madam?” The Lord Chancellor lifted his head.

“An oversight, my lord. I had meant to inform you. I sent letters to the King of Poland.”

“Consenting to marriage?”

“Of course not. It was while you were suffering the fever, in November last. There came a message from Poland. Formal enough. Suggesting a visit-a private visit from the King-perhaps a secret visit, now I think on it-but a visit incognito, at any rate. I agreed. Two swiftly penned letters, one assuring him of our affection for his nation, the other suggesting an early date in the New Year. No reply received. Perhaps it went astray. He is reckoned a kindly man and I was curious to meet him.”

“And from this he deduces-doubtless because he interprets Your Majesty’s gesture in terms of some custom in his own country-that you are ready to hear his proposals of marriage.” Lord Montfallcon cleared his throat and pressed a palm flat against his chest. “And if you refuse him, madam?”

“He must be informed that he has misinterpreted our letters.”

“And will suspect a plot. Poland is a good friend. Her Empire’s a powerful one, stretching from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, with forty vassal states. Between us we hold off Tatary-”

“We are familiar with the political geography of Europe, Lord Montfallcon.” Doctor Dee drew a long nail down the side of his jaw. “You suggest that if Poland believes himself a rejected suitor-a jilted lover, even-he will revenge himself with war upon us?”

“Not war,” Lord Montfallcon spoke as if he answered his own voice, “probably not war, but strained relations we cannot afford. Tatary’s ever ready. And Arabia’s ambitious, too.”

“Then perhaps I should marry Poland.” Queen Gloriana was for a moment a wild young girl. “Eh? Would that save us, my lord?”

“The Grand Caliph of Arabia comes soon upon a State Visit,” Lord Montfallcon mused. “There is every hint he, too, intends a proposal. Then, next month, there’s the Theocrat of Iberia-but he knows his cause to be hopeless, since there could not possibly be issue. Yet Arabia, Arabia…” He became decisive: “There’s nothing else for it! They must appear together!”

“But Poland’s imminent,” pointed out Tom Ffynne. “Any day he arrives in The Havre. One more day or so, and he’s docking in London!”

“When was he due to arrive?” Montfallcon paced back and forth alongside the table while his fellow Councillors tried to follow both his reasoning and his movement.

“Forty-eight hours, I think, behind me. And I left on the morning tide, yesterday.”

“So we have perhaps three days.”

“At most.”

“I am deeply sorry, Lord Montfallcon, for forgetting to inform you…” Gloriana’s voice was small.

Suddenly Lord Montfallcon straightened, ceased his musing, shrugged. “No matter, madam. It will be an embarrassment, nothing more. We must pray Poland’s delayed a little longer and coincides with Arabia.”

“But why should that improve the situation, my lord?”

“It is a question of pride, madam. If you should wound the pride of one or both, then our relations deteriorate, naturally. But if Poland wounds the pride of Arabia, or vice versa, we are strengthened. Neither thinks ill of the Queen, each thinks worse of the other. I consider not the immediate problems, madam, as you know, but those potential problems. Arabia and Poland would make an unlikely alliance, but not an impossible one. They share a seaboard-the Middle Sea-and yet the entrance to that sea is pretty well controlled by Iberia, who, in turn, would ally herself with Arabia against us.”

“Ah, the convolutions of your thinking, sir!” A black hand raised as if to ward off assault, Sir Orlando Hawes spoke for the first time. “Do they baffle only me?” He spoke with courtesy. He admired Montfallcon.

“They baffle all of us, save the Lord Chancellor, I think.” Queen Gloriana rustled a cuff. “Yet I respect his concerns, for he has more than once anticipated an important threat to this Realm. We must leave it to your diplomacy, my lord. And I shall honour any decision you take.”

A low bow. “Thank you, madam. I am almost certain the matter will resolve itself.”

“I am entirely to blame, sir, for this trouble. The exchange of letters occurred when…I was obsessed with so many other problems.…It seems…”

Lord Montfallcon was firm. “The Queen need not explain herself.”

“He’s considered something of a clown, I gather, this Poland.” Lisuarte Ingleborough made an inquiring eye. “Or, at least, an eccentric. Strange that he sent no emissaries. If that had been done, we should not now be so surprised.”

“Lord Ingleborough speaks the truth, as I understand it.” Tom Ffynne fingered the plumes of his hat. “Count Korniovsky-if I remember his outlandish name accurately-said much the same, though not directly. His master has little grasp of statecraft, is primarily obsessed with music and such things. Platonically speaking, the nation’s entirely decadent. There is a parliament in Poland, representing the interests of commons and nobles alike, and this makes all the King’s decisions for him, Your Majesty, so it’s said.” The little admiral gave vent to a high-pitched giggle. “A strange land that has a King and doesn’t use him, eh?”

Queen Gloriana smiled slowly, almost wistfully. “Well, we thank thee greatly for this service, Tom Ffynne. Have you more news? Of your own venturings in the West Indies?”

“Golden ballast saw us through the storms, Your Majesty, and it’s still aboard, at Charing Cross, awaiting your pleasure, in the holds of the Tristram and Isolde.”

“You have an inventory, Sir Thomasin?” Sir Orlando Hawes’s manner was almost warm towards the mariner.

“Aye, sir.” Tom Ffynne hobbled forward, drawing a roll of paper from his belt and, bowing with great ceremony, handed it up to Queen Gloriana. She unrolled the document, but it was obvious to most of those who watched her that she did not read it.

“Enough to build and fit a whole squadron of ships!” Gloriana rolled the document and passed it to Lord Montfallcon, who gave it to Sir Orlando. “Would you divide a tenth part between yourself and your crew, Sir Tom?”

“You are generous, madam.”

“A tenth of this!” Like a startled stallion, the Lord High Treasurer’s nostrils flared. “It’s too much! A twelfth, Your Majesty-”

“For so many lives risked?”

Sir Orlando sniffed. “Very well, madam.”

Queen Gloriana peered the length of the table. “Master Gallimari. Are entertainments prepared for all today’s functions?”

“They are, Your Majesty. While you dine, the music of Master Pavealli-”

“Excellent. I am sure all other choices will be appropriate. And the gown for this evening is ready, eh, Master Orne?”

“To the last button, madam.”

“And you, Master Wallis, have prepared the speech for this afternoon?”

“Two, Your Majesty-one for foreign ambassadors, one for London’s mayor.”

“And there are no decisions I need make concerning dinner or supper, I gather. And, Sir Vivien, I regret we shall not be able to go to the hunt until next week, but I beg you hunt without us.”

Thus the Queen improved the atmosphere in the Council Chamber, causing all to laugh, for Sir Vivien’s passion was a standing joke.

Slowly Gloriana got to her feet, smiling back at her suddenly jovial Councillors. They rose, in formal respect. “There are no urgent matters, then? That was the only pressing problem, Lord Montfallcon?”

“It was, madam.” The old Chancellor bowed and handed her a scroll. “Here’s my suggested solution for Cathay and Bengahl.” She accepted it.

“I bid you all adieu, gentleman.”

Thirteen legs bent. Gloriana departed this worshipping concourse and was at once surrounded, again, by pages and maids, on her voyage back to her own lodgings where she might gain, with luck, half an hour in which to indulge an inquest on the matter of Poland with her co-conspirator in innocence, the Countess of Scaith.

Perion Montfallcon, frowning, signed first to Lisuarte Ingleborough and then to Sir Tom; the three were cronies, survivors of a tyranny they had sworn must never return. Montfallcon bid a hasty farewell to his fellow Councillors, and led the two through the small door, across the antechamber, into his own offices. These were huge rooms. They were filled with books of Law and History. Some of the volumes were as large as Montfallcon himself. The rooms were lit by high windows arranged so that none might ever spy upon the occupants. Diffused light entered, seeming to settle near the ceilings, and scarcely any of it reached the floor where the three men now stood, beside Lord Montfall-con’s ordered desk.

The Lord Chancellor sighed and rubbed his heavy nose, shaking his head. “It is the first time she has acted so whimsically. Was it because I lay on my sick-bed and she felt abandoned by me? ‘Tis the action of a foolish child. From birth she was never that.”

The Lord Admiral leaned his bones on the desk. “Perhaps she yearns to be unburdened?”

Tom Ffynne refused the notion. “She is too conscious of her responsibility. Perhaps she was ill.”

“More likely.” Montfallcon rubbed at an arm which seemed suddenly to ache as if he’d been in battle. “Yet-did you detect pain? Perhaps, for a few moments while she penned and sent those letters, she hoped to be free.”

“It would be the only time she’s displayed such an aberration.” Lord Ingleborough sighed and laid a hand flat against his left thigh. His own agony threatened to wrench his body entirely out of shape.

Lord Montfallcon said: “We must make it our duty to ensure it does not occur again. And save her pain, if possible.”

“You grow sentimental, Perion.” Tom Ffynne uttered, quietly, a chuckle which had chilled the blood of thousands. “But how are we to solve the dilemma?”

“It must solve itself,” said Ingleborough. “Surely?”

Montfallcon shook a determined head. “There’s another way. There’s more than one, but I’ll try the least dramatic first. I’m used to such manipulations. If the Queen but knew what I do to ensure her Faith and that of her subjects! In this case the art is to trick and delay all suitors, to keep all in hope, to give no true assurances, to offend none, to weary the persistent and to give a touch of encouragement to the crestfallen. Thus I play the flirt for the Queen.” And he performed a small, uncharacteristic dance, which perhaps he thought flirtatious, before he sat himself down. “Decadent Poland comes from this direction, warlike Arabia from that. The secret is to let them arrive at about the same time in the hope they’ll collide-look, as it were, into a mirror and mis-like the reflection-and leave in dudgeon.”

“But Poland comes too soon for that!” Tom Ffynne insisted.

“Then I’ll stop him.”

“How?”

“Sabotage. His ship can be delayed awhile at The Havre.”

“He’ll find another.”

“True. Then closer to home-” A knock on the door and a frown from Lord Montfallcon. “Enter.”

A young page came in. There was a sealed envelope in his extended right hand. He bowed to the company. “My lord, a message from Sir Christopher, to be delivered urgently.”

Lord Montfallcon received the envelope and broke off the seals, reading swiftly, then glaring. “The very man I considered-the only man I considered-and he’s pronounced a murderer and hunted. By Zeus, I’d be glad to see that toad hopping on a stake.”

“A servant of yours?” Tom Ffynne grinned. “A bad servant, by the sound of him.”

“No, no. The best I have. There’s none so clever. There’s none so wicked-but he has overextended himself, it seems. And an Arabian princeling, at that. Of course! Sir Launcelot’s Arab!”

“We’d be illuminated, Lisuarte and I,” said Tom Ffynne, and twinkled very merrily, making it obvious to his two friends that he was more than a little curious as to the letter’s contents. But Lord Montfallcon screwed the message up, then burned it, without thinking, in a grate already black with past papers.

“There’s no more.” Lord Montfallcon became cunning. “Now I must plot to save my toad, my unwelcome familiar, from his roasting. How may I defeat the Law we both support?”

“This seems secret and weighty.” Sir Thomasin Ffynne limped for the door. “Will you dine with me, Lord High Admiral? Or better yet, make me your guest to dinner?”

“Gladly, Tom.” Lord Ingleborough, noblest of these survivors, seemed troubled by the Chancellor’s words, as well as by his actions. “By the gods, Perion, I hope you will not bring back the bad days with these schemes of yours.”

“I scheme only to prevent that event, Lord Ingleborough.” With gravity the Lord Chancellor bowed to his friends and wished them good appetite before pulling at a rope to sound the bell that would bring Tinkler from the shadows to bear a message to his master, Quire.