Gloriana

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

In burning gold and blazing silver, in shimmering jet and glinting steel, in plate and chain, in surcoats of the finest rippling silk, in bright blues and reds, in greens and yellows, in purples and browns, in a dancing sea of rainbow plumes, with lances bound with samite scarves, with shields fabulously charged, with standards starched and brilliant, their horses clad as gaudily and armoured as fancifully as they, the Queen’s Jousters clattered through the wide gates into the Great Square and began their procession around the perimeter. Above them, on walls and roofs, according to ancient privilege, from four sides the commons roared and cheered their favourites. From the old balcony on the East Wing, where her father and grandfather had sat, Queen Gloriana waved to her knights, distributed roses (flung at random) and was saluted, to louder shouts and wilder huzzahs by a crowd delirious from the pageantry and the heat of high summer. Lances were raised and dipped; bucklers were displayed while heralds called the Rolls of Arms. From throughout the Realm the knights had come to compete before the Queen. Here were famous names-Tirante, Duke of Lyonesse, from the Isles of the West; Sir Gandalac of the Vale of Lune in the North Country; Sir Esplandian of Valentia; Sir Hector of the Ranach in Hibernia; Sir Turquine of Lincoln; all with their yeomen, their pages and their gentlemen, their heralds and their squires. And from beyond Albion came Sir Hakan of Tauron, the Huron King, with his armour all decorated with war-feathers and beads; Sir Herlwin of Wicheetaw; King Desrame of Mauretania; the Emir of Saragossa; Prince Hira of BomBai; the Sultan Matroco of Aethiopia; Prince Shan of Cathay; Sir Bulamwe of Benin-many of them familiar to the crowd, for they attended the Tilt every year, competing not only in arms, but in the splendour of their accoutrements, their weapons, their horses and their attendants; who were clad in fantastical costumes as fauns, wild-men, godlings. Some brought beasts, such as unicorns, elephants and cameleopards, to draw their marvellous chariots; some rode as if to hounds, with packs of trained hyaenas, or apes; and Sir Miles Cockaigne, whose boast was that he had never won a fight in his whole career, had fiddlers and dancers in his entourage, while his yeomen carried sack-buts instead of arms and he himself, in chequered surcoat and loose, lozenge-linked motley-coloured mail, came as Sir Harlekin the Bold, to bring laughter to both Queen and crowd.

All sought to please Gloriana, yet the nobles from the castles and the great houses of Albion, who maintained their estates and tenants in her name and the name of Chivalry, who administered her laws, who belonged to that generation which worshipped her and for whom she was a symbol of faithfulness and idealism, they studied her, anxious for affirmation which she must supply, knowing how easily the virtues of Romance can transmogrify and become the vices of Cynicism. Through her, and with her absolute support, Montfallcon had re-fashioned the mood of Albion, through a subtle use of pageantry and myth-telling a golden lie in the strong belief that it stood, in time, to become a silver truth-a lie which almost all were ready to accept, for the same reasons as Montfallcon gave it out. And the Accession celebrations, which would last the full week, were a visible sign of their participation in and commitment to those principles. So they saluted Gloriana, and were merry, fighting in good friendship and according to complicated Chivalric codes, in a display to please the commons, to confirm their loyalty to all that Gloriana meant, to compete not merely in matters of physical grace, but in rituals of honour and humility, to give visible reality to their will towards spirituality, towards the true meaning of Chivalry.

The Queen, withdrawing into the long gallery, where, as was the royal habit, she might sit and watch the tourney through the glass which protected her from dust and, to a degree, from noise, behaved in manner so easily that some of those who did not know her might have thought her callous, that she forgot lost friends so swiftly. Many foreign ambassadors filled the gallery, as well as favourite maids of honour and companions, their suitors, relatives of Privy Councillors, wives and children of the competitors below, acquaintances of the Queen from the provinces who took this chance to visit her, as well as the best part of the Privy Council itself, which would not today attend the Tilt, but would wait upon her, in the colours of Romance, on the last day, Accession Day, when she must appear as Queen Urganda the Unknown, mysterious and beneficent sorceress of legend, friend of heroes, saviour of the noble and the brave.

Gloriana acted the role of Gracious Sovereign with an energy derived from unfamiliar anger at the injustice of her position. Montfallcon had insisted she be there, recalling to her those pledges she had made to him even before she took the throne, reminding her of Albion’s heritage, its meaning and its worth. Her conscience had been awakened by him, but not her spirit. She had seen the sense of his insistence, but nonetheless resented it. She had always, in the past twelve years, enjoyed her Accession Day ceremonies, culminating in the Masque in which she played the central role, but with Una gone, with Mary gone, with kind, silly Sir Tancred gone, she could only feel their absence more poignantly, and she mourned for them while she smiled and chatted and from time to time lifted a gay hand to the window.

She felt betrayed-by the innocent Una, by the knowing Montfallcon, by council, companions and friends-for she had no friends now, only subjects, dependents, her servants, her secrets. Such feelings drove her to great displays of wit. She was no longer herself. She played Gloriana’s part at full stretch, and few guessed she might soon snap, and of the few who guessed, fewer cared. She was like a splendid flagship, all sails unfurled to catch the wind, all colours flying, brass and woodwork, gilding and paint flashing in the sunlight, cheered on by everyone who watched her glide across the water, and none to know that, below the waterline, she had no rudder and no anchor.

The first tourney commenced, in the special yard erected upon the large artificial island in the middle of the ornamental lake, so that the whole mass of people might have a fair view of the proceedings.

Sir Timon of the Bridge of Graveny a young knight in blue and white, jousted against the more experienced Sir Peregrine of Kilcolman Castle, in red, gold and black, and Sir Timon was soon unhorsed, whereupon Sir Peregrine dismounted, took two pikes and, helping his antagonist to his feet, handed him one so that they might continue their fight until one fell or five pikes broke. In their heavy, fanciful tilting armour, in closed helms and full plate, the knights moved slowly and deliberately about the field, and, like dancers in an ancient mime, struck at one another with stylised gracefulness. Above them, surrounding them, the crowd was quiet, sweating in the August heat and conscious of the discomfort of the jousters, who roasted slowly as they fought.

Lord Oubacha Khan caught Queen Gloriana’s eye as she turned from the scene. He smiled and bowed and she cried out: “Good my lord, come and sit with me. It has been a while since we talked.”

The tall Tatar, in his golden surcoat and silver mail, the formal costume of a noble of his own land, approached and kissed the Queen’s hand. “I was concerned,” he said in a low voice, “of the well-being of the Countess of Scaith.”

Gloriana drew him down upon the couch. “As are we all, my lord.” She spoke lightly.

“I admired the lady very much.”

Gloriana did not drop her guard, but she was sure she read sincerity in the Oriental’s dark eyes. “As did I, Lord Oubacha Khan.”

“There is talk that she is dead.”

“And talk that she is fled. And talk, indeed, my lord, that she has gone to live with your own master, in Tatary, at your Muscovian capital.”

Oubacha Khan smiled very slightly. “Would that she had, Your Majesty.”

“You do not seem to think she was a murderess.”

“I do not care. If she is alive, I would find her.”

Gloriana was surprised by his intensity, but she remained a formal Queen. “That is Lord Rhoone’s responsibility, and Lord Montfallcon’s.”

Oubacha Khan murmured a secret. “My own people also search.”

“In Albion?”

“Everywhere, Your Majesty.”

“Then you must be sure to tell Lord Rhoone of anything you hear, my lord.”

“I shall, of course, Your Majesty. But strangely we have heard nothing. There is no evidence she left the palace at all.”

“Ah, indeed?” So painful was the subject that Queen Gloriana turned away, pretending boredom, so that she should hide her true feelings, her interest.

“We continue to search.”

“We have heard, my lord, that Tatar merchants do good trade,” began Gloriana in a voice slightly higher than was natural, “with the peoples of our East Indian provinces, the mountain states of Pathania and Afghania especially. Do your merchants grow rich?”

He, too, became a public man. He said: “Merchants grow rich or they perish, Your Majesty. Some grow rich, doubtless.”

“Trade between nations brings knowledge and knowledge brings wisdom, my lord. Do your merchants become wise, also?” She performed the function Montfallcon expected of her, so that she need not think of Una.

“The Tatar nation is famous for its wisdom, Your Majesty.”

“Wisdom teaches that trade builds peace and prosperity, while war brings only poverty and further strife.” She pursued this conscientious reasoning, yet seemed to the Khan to be half entranced as her attention went to the window.

“There is a kind of wisdom, Your Majesty,” he continued, virtually as automatic as she, “that is merely caution disguised by sophistry. There is another kind, unadorned, that tells us that too much emphasis on the merchant’s needs creates a nation both morally and physically weak, a prey to stronger nations.”

“So would many of our Stoics agree, in this land,” she said. “But the world should support all manner of philosophies, I think, and it should be the duty of the righteous to protect the weak while encouraging the strong.” She hardly knew what she said, for the words were almost rote, diplomatic habit; yet Oubacha Khan, though he responded in similar terms, found them significant.

“For there is considerable strength in apparent weakness,” she continued, casting another glance towards the Tilt, where two new knights now fought. “Of course, the Tatar people are famous for their subtlety, and must know that.”

Oubacha Khan said: “That belief can become dangerous to the one who holds it. Strength can melt away without his realising.”

“Unless he is reminded always of the necessity for maintaining his strength, my lord.” She smiled, rising to watch as the knights levelled their lances and, mantling streaming, went upon one another at full gallop. There came a crash, a cheer, as both knights broke their spears but retained their seats, returning to their positions for fresh weapons. “If I, for instance, should grow weak, you, as a friend, would be ready to remind me, I am sure.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Oubacha Khan had enjoyed the exchange much more than had the Queen. He understood her to mean that Tatary’s gathering of arms along Arabia’s borders would act as a signal for Albion to grow alert. And he was satisfied, for this was what he expected of diplomacy.

“My Lord of Kansas!” The Queen greeted the bronzed, long face with genuine pleasure. “You have not yet returned to your Virginian estates?”

“Soon, Your Majesty. There is a great deal to keep me here. And I would not miss the Tilt.” The soft-spoken noble smiled, bowing to kiss her gloved hand. He was clad in doublet and puffed hose of varying yellows, with a short purple cape upon his shoulder, a broad-brimmed, befeathered hat upon his head, and this he removed as he bent.

She teased him. “You are most gaudily dressed, for a Stoic, my lord.”

“I am dressed, today, for a Queen,” he said.

“You become a perfect courtier, my lord.” As Oubacha Khan politely departed, she patted the couch to bring Lord Kansas down beside her.

He grinned, complying. “In honesty, madam, I feel like a stuffed pumpkin.”

She was comically grave. “You look very handsome, my lord. Do you enjoy the Tilt?”

“I do.”

“You do not take part?”

“No, madam. I’ve little experience at formal arms and I haven’t the retainers sufficient to support me. Not here.”

“You brought a very small household, so I heard.”

“It’s my habit, madam, for often I travel only in the company of soldiers, as you know.”

“You have tilts in Virginia. I have read of them.”

“Elaborate ones, Your Majesty.”

“But, as a Stoic, you deplore the pomp, eh?”

“I accept its necessity, madam. Here, at any rate. I share with the Countess of Scaith"-it was evident that he regretted his lack of tact, but he continued almost without pause-“a preference for simpler methods of maintaining the State’s dignity. But they will come, in time, I think. Old memories must be crushed beneath a weight of gallantry.”

“I shared that belief, also,” said the Queen. “I envy you your pastoral Virginian life. Is it peaceful, in Kansas, my lord?”

“Too peaceful for a man of my kind, sometimes, madam. You know the Virginian temperament, by and large, I suppose. We enjoy the land. We are secure. At peace with our fellow nations and, now, with Albion.”

“The rebellions were small enough.”

“And not against the Realm, only its representative.” He made it clear he referred to Hern.

“Yes.” Gloriana rubbed an eye and dipped her chin into her ruff. “But if there were war? Would the Virginian nobles pledge support to us?”

Lord Kansas was surprised. “War?”

She put fingers upon his forearm. “There are no wars starting today, my lord. Not, at least, that we know of. I merely asked a speculative question.”

“Virginia would come to war. Reluctantly. But she would come.”

“It is as I thought.”

“This Perrott business, madam. Surely it has not reached such proportions…?”

“It has reached nowhere, my lord. Save that the Perrotts are justly angered at the slaying of their sister and the disappearance of their father. But they will cool.”

“There are none at the Tilt.”

“You have noticed?” She admitted a weary smile. “Aye. They stay away this year. The Perrotts and their kinsmen. Who can blame them? But they will, I assure you, come round.”

“I hope so, madam. Sir Amadis. His wife was a Perrott, eh?”

“Recalled to home. Sir Amadis had leave to go with her, but declined. They are separated. It will not last. Sir Lepsius Lee has gone to Kent with his wife, taking his retainers from the Court.”

“You are not hurt by such disloyalty, madam?”

“We are the Realm, my lord, and thus have no human feelings.” Her expression hooded, she looked again towards the tournament. She kept her hand on his arm. “Your direct farmer’s ways are refreshing to us, Lord Kansas, but not always suited to Court life.”

He chuckled. “You’ll forgive me?”

“You charm us, as always, my lord.”

Lord Montfallcon approached with narrowed eyes. “My Lord of Kansas?”

Kansas rose and Kansas bowed. “Your grace.”

At that moment Queen Gloriana understood her Lord Chancellor: he saw the Virginian noble as a possible suitor. Did he approve? And did Kansas pay court to her? She wondered. She looked at one and then the other. She waved a fan against her cheek.

“You have grown to love our Court, apparently,” said Lord Montfallcon.

“As I love the whole island.” Kansas hesitated. He seemed reluctant to speak further, perhaps because he feared Montfallcon’s oversensitive interpretation.

The grey lord moved in black robes slowly towards the Queen, almost as if he menaced her, and Lord Kansas began to raise his hand, by impulse, perhaps to stop him. Then he dropped the hand to the pommel of his dress dagger.

“Madam,” said Lord Montfallcon, hardly conscious of these gestures, “the ambassador from Cathay would speak with you.”

“Let him approach, my lord.” Gloriana smiled farewell to Kansas and returned to Duty.

And Duty she did, throughout the week, as the sun grew hotter and hotter, the crowd more boisterous, the Chivalric contests more glamorous, with silk, steel and water, dust and haze combining to create a scene which came, daily, to resemble a dream. She attended banquets and enchanted everyone. She bestowed honours, accepted gifts, gave out praise to all, while the general opinion was that this was the finest of Summer Festivals, that it would never be equalled in perfection and merriment. Not a knight, nor yeoman, nor ambassador, nor lady, nor dignitary, nor merchant, but left the Queen’s presence with joyful heart and hopeful step. And if the Queen had come to rely a little more each day upon her paint pots to maintain her bloom, none made adverse comment upon the fact, or even saw, as silent Sir Thomasin Ffynne or aching Ingleborough saw, how pale she became.

And Lord Montfallcon, moving amongst the guests, amplifying and sustaining the Queen’s good work, refused to see, or to listen to Tom Ffynne or Lisuarte Ingleborough when they mentioned it to him. He had become almost hearty towards his potential enemies, to his many acquaintances, but grew colder towards his friends.

Meanwhile, Sir Amadis Cornfield attended only those ceremonies at which he must be missed, while speeding often to the old East Wing; and Doctor Dee, absent-minded but amiable, came forth from his lodgings only rarely, ever careful to lock his door behind him; and Lord Gorius Ransley, at different times, lurked the passages of the old palace; and Master Florestan Wallis came weak and breathing very heavily to his own duties, when beholden. Even loyal Lord Rhoone spent more of his hours in private company with his wife and children than was usual, but this was to be expected.

And when the Queen missed Master Wheldrake or Lady Lyst, she knew what they feared and did not ask for them. Besides, Master Wheldrake was still at work on his last verses for Accession Day. Lord Shahryar returned from Baghdad, bearing the compliments of his master, Hassan, the Grand Caliph, and bringing expensive gifts, but he would say nothing of a rumour concerning a duel forthcoming upon the deck of a ship. And Lord Montfallcon was hard put to smile on the man who had robbed him of his best servant, Quire.

Sir Vivien Rich took part in a tilt and won it, but was much bruised, complaining he would not be able to sit a horse for a month and would therefore miss the early September hunting. Sir Orlando Hawes challenged a cousin, the Nubian knight of great renown, Sir Vulturnus, and, by chance, defeated him, thereafter going about the Court in something of a daze.

There were expeditions to the fields beyond the city and great open-air evening feasts, much drunkenness, so that some of the guests were lost, to be found next day in haylofts, ricks, hedges or ditches, or, upon two or three occasions, the comfortable beds of farmers’ widows.

The August air burned, but it also soothed; and if tempers rose they were soon shrivelled by the universal good cheer. Parties of courtiers, out riding early, or at twilight, could look across the beautiful hills and see the corn being gathered, see the richly decorated barges on the long straight canals leading to the river, and the city and the ships loading and unloading the cargoes of a wealthy world; and they could see a peaceful, happy, industrious Albion, and know that the Queen’s rule was good. The shades of Lady Mary and the rest had vanished. News reaching the Perrotts caused a weakening of their general hatred, and some Perrotts counselled their kinsmen to consider making peace with the Queen, who had always been their friend. Poles, Saracens and Tatars mingled with the folk of Albion, proving themselves human, decent men and women, and Mars fell back below the horizon.

Accession Day itself dawned, and in the morning the last four fights were fought, to decide the two Champions who would, that evening, tilt once more before the Queen and the winner receive the garland from the Queen’s own hand. Between these two events would come the Masque, attended by the Queen and members of her Court, to personate the characters and speak the lines. There was much happy anticipation of this event, the peak of the celebrations. Praise for Gloriana was on all lips; scandal was banished; the morality, bravery and piety of the Realm was assured, so that Lord Montfallcon’s stern features bore an expression that was almost pleasant.

In her apartments, surrounded by companions, by maids and pages, pale Gloriana suffered herself to be painted and disguised in the magnificent, glittering costume of her role: damask silk and starched linen, velvet and brocade, stitched with thousands of jewels-sapphires, amethysts, turquoises, rubies, pearls and, predominantly, diamonds. On her stranded head was a tall, pointed crown, with a thin veil of lace, to add mystery to her countenance. Behind her head rose a wired collar, so high as to give an overall stretch of seven feet, so that she would tower over every knight. Corseted, bound, entwined with ribbons, weighted with metal and precious stones, embellished with rouge and kohl, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and silently yearned for Una, who would laugh with her, make a joke of what she did, yet never seem cynical, always be sympathetic to both her private feelings and the demands of her public duties. Her bright, lonely grieving eyes stared from within the paint and gradually grew hard.

She was ready.

Led by attendants, she entered Master Tolcharde’s carriage, which would bear her to the island, where Master Wheldrake already proclaimed the story of the Masque.

“Now that great sorceress, Urganda, did she come,

As ever from her Land Unknown,

In sea-borne chariot, a fiery sphere,

To our Firm Isle, where every year

Twelve paladins of bold renown

Assembled them a fight to make

And fame to take as Champion.”

Master Wheldrake’s voice lacked its usual steadiness as he piped his lines to a respectful crowd. He wore a simple toga, a laurel crown and sandals, and was perhaps the most comfortably clad of all the people there, whether they watched from the gallery, the surrounding pavilions or the roofs and walls of the palace itself. He read from a scroll, and, as he read, the participants began to ride over the little bridge from courtyard to island-each knight in a predominant colour, each bearing a large shield charged with the device of the character he represented.

“These famous knights each bore great arms:

The first he was the Knight of Silver Charm,

The second the Knight of the Flaming Brand,

The third was called the Jewelled Hand,

The fourth was named the Unthron’d King,

The fifth the Knight of the Broken Spear,

The sixth, of youngest year, was Golden Ring.”

As Wheldrake spoke, the named knight raised his lance-Sir Amadis Cornfield in silver mail; Lord Vortigern of Glastonbury, in scarlet armour, his shield charged with the flaming sword; Sir Orlando Hawes, in greens and red, with the jewelled gauntlet upon his right hand and the same motif on his buckler and surcoat; Sir Felixmarte of Hyrcania, whose arms were a divided crown, and whose armour was of brass; Master Auberon Orme, in blue edged with silver, with the broken lance as his badge; and Master Perigot Fowler, in golden armour, with the ring as his charge. Facing these six, on the other side of the island (now fringed with small imitation trees, over which the horsemen loomed), were the remaining six knights, and it was to these that Master Wheldrake now pointed.

“The seventh brave knight was Raven Head;

The eighth was the Son Consider’d Dead,

And nine the Knight of the Moon was he,

While ten was call’d Prometheus Set Free,

The eleventh was he of the Misty Foss

And the twelfth, whose eyes had lost their sight,

Was the noble knight of the bright Black Cross.”

Here was Master Isador Palfreyman, with his black armour and his raven crest; Master Marcilius Gallimari, in unmarked armour; Sir Sylvanus Spence, brother of young Sir Peregrine, with his pale yellow armour and his arms displaying a radiant moon; Lord Gorius Ransley, in fiery scarlet, with appropriate symbols; Sir Cirus of Malta in pale grey; Sir Vivien Rich was last, in pure white armour bearing black crosses, his helm already closed to signify his blindness.

Master Wheldrake withdrew across the bridge as a trumpet was blown-a signal for the knights to charge, couple by couple, with specially weakened lances which broke at once. Then all dismounted and began to fight, with monstrous clashing broadswords, on foot.

For a while this mock battle continued to be waged, with several of the contestants showing every sign of fatigue, until suddenly, from a silken pavilion close to the West Wing, there appeared a vast bronze sphere, rolling on mighty wheels of brass, decorated with raised motifs of myriad description, rumbling and groaning and pulled and pushed by dwarves dressed in grotesque dolphin costumes so that they seemed to slither along the ground. From the sides of the sphere, in cunning sockets, fireworks fizzed and screamed as the elaborate contraption was trundled towards the bridge, while Master Wheldrake, his voice almost a gull’s shriek above the noise, continued to recite:

“So for almost seven days they were engag’d,

Weapon for weapon, gauge for flaunted gauge,

Each hero of equal skill and might

Fought all from morning until night

Until upon the seventh day there came,

To cause these lords their noble sport to still,

A noise so shrill: A carriage built of flame!”

Across the shivering bridge rolled the sphere, the dolphin-dwarves dragging it to the far side of the island and then jumping into the lake to swim for their lives to the shore, while the knights, in pretence of great awe, fell upon their knees, raised their hands, dropped their weapons and stared at the carriage, which was now silent. Master Florestan Wallis clambered to his feet, forced open a reluctant helm, waved his arms and cried to the crowd:

What magical terror can this be

Come to fright my fellow knights and me!”

(his own lines-he disdained to be supplied by Wheldrake) while Sir Amadis Cornfield, as the Knight of the Silver Charm, sang out:

“This is Leviathan of which our legends speak,

And ’pon our Firm Isle shall great destruction wreak!”

(and Wheldrake sneered from the other side of the bridge and shrugged in an effort to show the uncaring crowd that he was not the author of this poor stuff). But one must indulge a Minister of the Crown, he thought, even though that Minister be feeble-minded, sexless, full of much learning and no knowledge, bombastic, possessed of an ear which could not tell a nightingale’s song from a lapdog’s fart…

Wheldrake watched through weary eyes as the two sides of the carriage fell apart to reveal an enormous green serpent, all of papier mache, with glittering scales, rolling eyes, lolling tongue and clashing teeth, one of Master Tolcharde’s best creations. That the crowd found this by far the grandest entertainment so far was obvious from its noise. A score or so of maidens, in flimsy linen, came past Wheldrake now. The garlanded nymphs were dancers supplied by Master Josias Priest, who simpered nearby, urging the girls on. They were all young, their figures as yet not quite fully defined, boyish, attractively hermaphrodite, led by one of the most beautiful creatures Wheldrake had ever seen. (Mithras! What an exquisite, youthful tyrant she would make!) Now behind them came a faun, with huge, wicked, lustful eyes, capering and blowing upon a reed pipe, while from another pavilion, hidden from the crowd, music began to play, to represent the faun’s ethereal voice.

The green serpent moved free of the sphere, towards the knights, who lined themselves before it, raising their weapons, preparing for the fray.

Then, a further transformation, as the serpent seemed to shrivel and collapse, to become a lovely barge bearing a beautiful giantess seated upon a coral throne. Six and a half feet tall, magnificent, auburn-haired, radiating virtue, a pointed silver crown upon her veiled head, flaming with jewels enough to blind those who beheld her, she raised a pearly wand and smiled upon the dazzled heroes, while her maidens danced about them, covering them with flowers, and the fauns leapt and twisted, seeming to fill the air with his silvery music as the maidens sweetly sang:

“With golden flutes and harps we hail our Queen,

The wonderful Urganda, the Wise Unseen,

Now doth she beg ye gentle knights your war to cease

And, laying down your arms, to swear enduring peace.

For there’s no greater sorceress in all our wide Globe’s span,

Than this grand Monarch, whom all Heroes woo,

Whose voice and heart are ever true, this Queen of Fairy Land!”

And Wheldrake glared at Florestan Wallis, who, with more flourishes and crow-caws, called out:

My peers! This is the noblest Sovereign

To whom we all swear fealty and love.

By fighting thus we shame her name!

Farewell war-eagle-Welcome dove!”

Then music and maidens continued with the song:

“As Man’s ignorance a hideous form can oft create,

And sick imaginings small lies inflate,

Thus too can truth and beauty wear a fierce disguise

So that her enemies shall all be hard appris’d

That though the kindlier virtues are encouraged,

As in that distant noble land of Albion,

Urganda’s wrath can burn full strong, and fill the hearts of evil men with dread!”

Master Florestan Wallis’s eyes were upon the faun, who seemed to fascinate him, so that there was a pause before he recalled his next contortion:

“But madam, how shall we choose our Champion,

To rule above the others and make all One,

To order spirit as Time doth order Space,

If not by test of martial arms and grace?”

Wheldrake leaned heavily on the bridge and glanced towards the pavilion from which, very soon, Lord Bramandil Rhoone must ride, in his role.

The Queen spoke (Wallis’s lines, for diplomacy’s sake):

“Noble-blooded paladins, there’s one I’ll give to you

Who is my chosen Champion, his peers are few,

Yet from no landed castle does this hero come,

Though noble is his soul and of vices he has none.

For years his only weapon was a shepherd’s hook,

The sky his roof, the fluttering fire his book.

His name ye will not find in Herald’s Rolls,

But carved upon a beam of some poor peasant’s fold,

The lowly pasture was this brave knight’s domain

And yet I’ll warrant that ye all do know his name

This goodly Peasant Knight, so free of sin-

My great lords-bow the knee to Palmerin!”

They were bending already, but Wheldrake, looking towards Lord Rhoone’s pavilion, was astonished to see a small, unmounted figure leaving it. The figure was clad in faded black, with a wide-brimmed black hat, a couple of black crow’s feathers stuck into a worn band, black ringlets falling to the shoulders, black brows shadowing glinting eyes, pale features, long nose, a lantern jaw, thin, sensual lips; a cloak clasped about the neck with twisting silver, boots of black, broken leather, hands hidden, head down, walking boldly for the bridge, crossing it as Wheldrake stared (recognising the figure from somewhere but not recalling where), and moving between the ranks of kneeling knights as the leading maiden and the faun ran forward to put garlands about his neck: presenting himself as Palmerin, the Peasant Knight, appraising the gathered courtiers on both banks and in galleries, seeking friends and enemies in one long look before the head bowed as it reached the carriage and the leg was made:

“My Queen.”

From behind her veil Gloriana’s expression was one of astonishment, quickly hidden, for the stranger was speaking Lord Rhoone’s lines-the lines that the Countess of Scaith would have spoken were she here-and Gloriana guessed that Rhoone was sick and had sent some servant as a substitute. She refused to consider the crazily flickering thought-that another Champion was dead before he could perform his role today.

My lady, though I be of lowly station,

Most loyally I’ve served your name and nation.”

The dark, cold, sardonic eyes were looking through her veil as if they peered through flesh and into her soul. She was fixed by the gaze. And there was humour in his eyes, too, which attracted her. It was as if she had been sent another Una.

And through the rest of the Masque Queen Gloriana found herself forgetting fear, forgetting duty, forgetting grief, fascinated by those wonderful, intelligent, unkind eyes.

Of the courtiers who stood as knights of this and that, somewhat bewildered by the newcomer, so confident in his lines, so familiar in his attitude, there were some who knew him and smiled as men might smile who recognise a friend turned up in paradoxical circumstances. Sir Amadis Cornfield recognised him as the gentleman who had been gracious enough to secure him the favours of Alys Finch, the girl who led the dance today; Master Florestan Wallis recognised him as the protector of his paramour, the lovely “Philomena,” who played the faun in Josias Priest’s troop; Lord Gorius Ransley also recognised him as the friendly intermediary between himself and Alys Finch, who promised consolation soon; Lord Rhoone, peering cheerfully from his tent and a willing party to the joke, knew him for the apothecary who had supplied the antidote and saved the lives of his wife and children; while Doctor John Dee, staggering forward in conical cap and swirling blue robes, to play his personation of Merlin, Urganda’s consort, paused upon the bridge, recognising this “Sir Palmerin” as the benefactor, the seer that had supplied him with his whole desire.

But standing in the gallery, face gaunt with rage and consternation, Lord Montfallcon recognised his ear, his mouth, his sword, his instrument, and knew how thoroughly and with what audacious cunning he had been deceived and manipulated by Captain Quire, who was even now offering his arm to Queen Gloriana, speaking verse neither by Wheldrake nor by Wallis, and leading her, compliant, against the progress of the Masque, towards the bridge.

“So shall they come together, side by side,

And simple shepherd take the mighty for his bride.”

The crowd was delighted by the sentiments and the outcome. Noble and commoner wed was ever a favourite theme, and reinforced the Masque’s intent, to show how, in all ways, Albion was a unity. The Queen had not been meant to leave her throne, but here was Quire leading her around the square, waving his hat, while she, elated by surprise, waved her wand, to the mob’s huge delight, to the applause of her nobles. The maidens and the faun continued to dance before them, while the twelve paladins, horsed once again, rode behind, with a bemused Merlin, having been usurped his handful of couplets, hobbled in their wake, shaking his head.

That this display, though vulgar, served perfectly his needs, Montfallcon admitted to himself, even as he trembled in his anger. Quire had always boasted of his understanding of the mob, and now he proved it.

But to see that creature, that symbol of every ignoble deed, every perverse trick, every lie and deceit, used secretly by him to maintain the Realm, arm in arm with the innocent girl whom Montfallcon had protected through the years from any hint of infamy or guilt, whom he had protected against cynicism, against the understanding that some iron had been mixed in with the gold, perforce, to give it the strength it needed-to see that appalling pairing of vice and virtue-brought the blood thundering into his skull and made him want to scream from the window, there and then, for the Guard to drag Quire to the island, to bring out block and axe, to behead the upstart on the spot where, from this same window, Hern had watched a thousand far more innocent heads fall in a single day, when the lake had turned dark red with his victims’ lifeblood, including that of five members of Montfallcon’s immediate family, whom Montfallcon had let perish without a defending word, so that Gloriana might live to gain the throne.

But, being reminded of those deaths, Montfallcon was also reminded of his self-control. He drew deep breaths, he tried to smile. All around him the nobles of Albion, of Arabia, of Tatary of Poland, of the world, were clapping as Captain Quire led the Queen for a second turn about the courtyard.

And, from without, the cheering, stamping, whistling, cap-waving crowd threatened to shake the whole palace to the ground.

Montfallcon moved slowly along the gallery, looking down at the scene, then he opened a door into a tunnel and, within a short while, stood alone in the silence and the darkness of Hern’s Throne Room, listening to the beating of his own heart, the hissing of his own breath.

“Oh, what a destroyer Romance can be.”

It was as if he confided his thoughts to Hern’s ghost, for he was almost friendly in his tone. It had been Montfallcon who had killed the King, whispering him into the final madness, encouraging him to put the noose about his throat, to jump from the battlement above, to hang against the wall, with dead, bulging eyes staring into the same courtyard where Quire defied both convention and retribution and brought the Summer Pageant to a joyous peak.