Gloriana

THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

Lord Ingleborough lay with his hand clutched about the arm of his chair, with his head upon the rest behind him, square before the open door of his lodgings, which opened onto a small, homely courtyard that, in turn, opened onto the great square beyond. In Ingleborough’s courtyard grew marigolds and roses, while a small fountain played from the centre of a pool. It was a warm evening and he was watching insects form patterns with the water’s spray. His footmen waited on him, with brandy wine to hand, while from time to time he would ask after the missing Patch, affectionately believing the lad to have strayed off, indulging, as he sometimes did, in games with his fellows. The gate of the courtyard opened with a creak, to make him focus his eyes, in the hope of seeing Patch. But the approaching figure was somewhat taller (though by no means a tall man) and wore faded black. It was Captain Quire, the Queen’s new favourite, the man whom tomorrow Ingleborough had promised to accuse. Ingleborough thought it possible that Montfallcon, in his fury, had apprised Quire of this intent and that Quire now came to placate him, or to parley. The old man straightened in his chair.

Captain Quire had already doffed his headgear, to display the mass of thick black hair framing his face. His sombrero was beneath his cloak, in hidden right hand, while his hidden left was upon the hidden pommel of the sword which the Queen, in her infatuation-naming him her Champion-had allowed him to retain.

“My Lord High Admiral.” The man’s voice was level and even gentle in its tones. He bowed civilly. “You enjoy these evenings, my lord?”

“The warmth loosens my bones a little, Captain Quire.” Ingleborough, always the most sentimental of the three survivors, found himself unable to adopt any kind of haughtiness to the stranger, particularly since he had also taken a large amount of brandy and so further mellowed a mellow nature. “They are seizing up, you know, day by day. Petrifying, my physician says.” He twisted his lips-a smile. “Soon I shall be all stone, and the agony, at least, shall be gone. I’ll stand over there,” a nod into the courtyard, “and save a mason the trouble of carving my memorial.”

Captain Quire allowed amusement to show.

“Some wine, Captain?” Ingleborough made a painful movement.

“Thank you, sir, but I will not.”

“You do not have the look of a drinker. Are you one of those who believes all wine an evil?”

“Merely a time-waster, my lord. A clouder. Nations have been made great or brought to disaster by the stuff. I acknowledge its power. And power is not necessarily evil.”

“I’ve heard you’ve a taste for power.”

“You’ve heard of me, my lord. I’m flattered. From whom?”

“Lord Montfallcon, who is my old friend. He tells me you were in his employ.”

“He was my patron for a while, aye.” Quire leaned against the doorframe so that he was half in shadow, half in light, sideways to the Lord High Admiral.

“I formed the impression from him that you were a rough sort of fellow.” Lord Ingleborough was studying him. “And something of a villain.”

“I do have that reputation in certain quarters, my lord. As has Lord Montfallcon. And Sir Thomasin Ffynne. All have had to be harsh, on occasions, for expediency’s sake.”

“And I?”

Quire seemed almost surprised. “You, my lord? You have led an exemplary life, all things considered. Oddly, you are not thought secretly wicked.”

“Oho, Captain. You came to flatter me, after all!”

“No, my lord. Besides, Lord Montfallcon and Sir Thomasin are in the main admired for their cunning. I was not praising you.”

“But I am more pious, eh?”

“Innocent of blood, at least.” Quire continued to speak softly and casually, as if he passed a little time with a sick friend whom he regularly visited. “And it must have been a rare soul could remain innocent through King Hern’s reign.”

“I have never been called innocent before. Why, I’m a known sodomist. All these footmen of mine-these young men-have been my lovers.” Ingleborough shifted in his chair. He turned to look at his grinning servants. He was piqued. “Innocent!” Yet Quire had managed to please him. “Ho, ho!” He winced as the pain ran through him. “Hypocrates, Hypocrates! I do so need thy aid! More wine, Crozier.” The footman filled a pewter cup with brandy from a jug and put the cup to Ingleborough’s lips. “I thank you.”

He looked sharply up at Quire. “I’ve played my share in building the new Albion, you know. I’ve gone against my chosen beliefs once or twice, for the Queen’s sake-to protect the Realm. And I’ll protect the Realm against any enemy.”

“As would we all, I think. I have served the Queen’s interests consistently.”

“Have you, truly?”

Captain Quire put a finger to a lifted lip. “Well, sir, shall we say that I have taken actions which others have told me were in the Queen’s interest?”

“You have no opinion? Is that what you are saying? Or are you sceptical?”

“I have no opinion.”

“Then you are amoral.”

“I think, my lord, that that is probably what I am.” Quire smiled delightedly as if Ingleborough had all of a sudden enlightened him. “Amoral. As any artist must be, in many respects-save, of course, in the defence of his art.”

“You are an artist, sir?” Ingleborough gestured rapidly for more wine to be poured into him. “In paint? In stone? Or are you a playwright? A poet? A writer of prose?”

“Closer to the last, I would say.”

“You are modest. You must tell me more of your art,” Ingleborough had taken a strong liking to Quire, though his opinion of the man would not alter his pledge to Montfallcon.

“I think not, my lord.”

“You must. You have my attention, Captain Quire. Why hide a talent? Tell me what you do. Music? Mime? Or are you, in your private rooms, a dancer?”

Quire laughed. “No, sir. But I’ll give you an example of my art if it’s to you alone.”

“Excellent. I’ll dismiss the servants.” He moved his head slightly and was interpreted. The footmen left their master and Quire together.

“Lord Montfallcon has told you that I aided him in his policies,” said Quire, as if he had overheard that morning’s conversation. “He has mentioned a Saracen, the King of Poland. I laboured mightily in his cause, my lord. I travelled the whole globe. I have been to the famous land of Panama, where the Queen’s ex-Secretary now rules as King. I put him there, on Albion’s behalf. And since then savage, bloody, unthinking customs have given way to civilised justice. I have always despised savages, my lord, as I despise all who are ignorant and put precedent before interpretation. Such habits give birth to hypocrisy.”

“Not knowingly, Captain Quire.”

“Of course not, sir. But enlightenment is better.”

“Much better, Captain.” Lord Ingleborough humoured his visitor. “God-worship is a great destroyer of Man’s dignity, for instance.”

“Quite so. Well, I’ll not list all my achievements, but they have spanned the world.”

“But you mentioned your art. A demonstration.”

“That is my art.”

“Espionage?”

“If you like. Part of it. Politics in general.”

“And you do have a moral purpose. Albeit a general one-of enlightenment.”

Quire listened keenly. He considered Lord Ingleborough’s statement. “Possibly I have. Aye. A very general one.”

“Continue.”

Quire’s stance grew more relaxed. “My art encompasses many talents. I work directly upon the stuff of the world, whereas other artists seek only to influence it, or represent it.”

“A difficult art. There must be dangers in it, not found by other artists.”

“Of course. My life and liberty are constantly at risk.” Quire became serious. “Constantly, my lord. When, tomorrow morning, you visit the Queen, on Lord Montfallcon’s behalf, you will be putting my plans and possibly my liberty in danger.”

Lord Ingleborough smiled, almost forgetting his pain. “So Montfallcon has told you. And you are here to plead.”

“No, my lord.”

“Then to charm me into giving up my word.”

“I meant, my lord, that Lord Montfallcon has told me nothing directly and that I am not here to plead. I overheard your conversation. I saw you gathering and followed. I am, as Lord Montfallcon guessed, familiar with the palace’s secret parts.”

“You were eavesdropping, eh? Well, I’ve done the same, in the old days. Did you kill the Countess of Scaith?”

“No.”

“I thought not.”

“You believe Lord Montfallcon slew her?” Quire’s tone was neutral.

“Well, he was never her friend.”

“The rumour says she’s fled the land.”

“There’s no evidence. More evidence to say she’s dead. But we are off the original subject, Captain Quire.” Lord Ingleborough’s strength was leaving him again. The twilight grew steadily deeper. “Well, I had best tell you what I intend to do. It is my duty to honour my word to Montfallcon and inform the Queen of her danger from you. You have confessed to me that you are a killer, a spy, and worse. I admire your honesty as I admire all honesty-honest cruelty, honest greed, honest crime. I prefer it, as many of us, to the hypocritical kind. And I’ll tell that to the Queen.”

“She knows what I am already,” said Quire in a small, furious voice.

“You have told her everything?”

“She recognises me for the artist that I am. She is deceived because she would rather be deceived by me than by you, or Lord Montfallcon or the Grand Caliph of Arabia.”

“I understand you. But I must list your crimes-as Montfallcon sees them-in the morning. I do not think you mean personal harm to the Queen. Not now. But I think you could, in time, do great harm to the Realm, and corrupt the Queen. You are much cleverer, you see, than Lord Montfallcon gave me to understand.”

Captain Quire bowed acknowledgement. “If you had been my patron, this position would not have come about between us.”

“What are your plans, Captain Quire? What do you seek to achieve here?”

“To amplify and define my senses,” said Captain Quire. “I answer the same to all such questions.”

“But you must have plans. Are you loyal to Albion?”

“Anyone can claim that. What is loyalty? A belief that what one does for another is the best thing one can do? Well, I do not interpret. I have been told that what I do is best for Albion.”

“So you do serve a master. Who?”

“I have a patron, my lord.”

Ingleborough gasped as pain came hard into him again. Quire stepped to the brandy and poured, putting the cup to the writhing lips.

“Thank you, Captain Quire. Who is this patron?”

“It is not my habit to disclose such names.”

“You spoke freely of Montfallcon.”

“Never when in his service, my lord.”

“This patron’s task for you?”

“The same, he tells me, as Lord Montfallcon’s. To save Albion.”

“But he is at odds with Montfallcon?”

“In some respects.”

“Perrott? Is Perrott alive and employing you?”

Quire shook his head. It was growing cool. He stirred. “So you will speak with the Queen?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Captain Quire folded back his cloak and displayed a scabbarded dagger.

Lord Ingleborough looked at him through the gloom and shrugged. “Murder me? With so many witnesses?”

“Of course not. I am not sufficiently well-established at Court.”

“Yet your gesture was calculated.”

“I promised an example of my art.”

“So you did.”

Quire looked into the darkness of the courtyard. “Well, I have caught your catamite.”

“You have Patch!” Lord Ingleborough raised both swollen hands to his face. “Ah!”

“I secured him as soon as I knew your intention. I have been playing with him this afternoon.” The dagger was touched. “He’s mine. Yours again, if you swear silence regarding me.”

“No.” Ingleborough was shaking, his voice all but inaudible. “Oh, I will not.”

“He’ll be safe. If you tell he’ll be killed.”

“No.”

“You admitted you had no evidence against me. The Queen will want some. She will be anxious to retain the friend she has in me. You can imagine that, my lord.”

“Of course. But I must do my duty-all the more so now. I must warn the Queen.”

“Then Patch will begin to die.”

“Spare him.” The voice was a far-away wind. “I beg you. You’ll serve no purpose in harming Patch. I love him.”

Captain Quire drew out the slender dagger in his gloved fist. “Already my little pudding prick has pricked poor Patch’s little pudding. Heated and inserted-so…why he’ll die the old, famous buggers’ death.”

Lord Ingleborough groaned.

“Promise silence, my lord-from Patch as well as yourself, of course-and your page shall be restored.”

“No.”

“You cling to a word reluctantly given-and slay, in terror and in pain, your darling.”

Lord Ingleborough was weeping. The side of his mouth twisted.

Quire straightened up. “Shall I go to fetch him, my lord?”

“Just bring him back, Quire.” His speech slurred.

“And…?”

“Bring him back, I beg you.”

“You’ll be silent?”

“No.”

“Then I must keep my word, too. Whatever befalls, I’ll bring you a memento. An eye? Or a tender, tiny testicle?”

“Please spare him.”

“No.”

“I love him.”

“That’s the point of my capturing him.”

Ingleborough began to tremble. His mouth opened and shut rapidly. His eyes glared and his colour became quite ruddy, then turned blue.

With some delight Captain Quire recognised the symptoms. “Easy, my lord. Your heart is failing.” He took the brandy from the table and held it a little way from the hand that reached for it. “Frequently it is the heart which fails first, when folk are afflicted as you. An uncle of mine…No, no-wine can only do harm. Shall you die and not save Patch? Patch must perish, without you to force silence. Tell me, my lord.”

Ingleborough whimpered from the back of his throat. His mouth went wide, wide, as if a rope strangled him. His tongue came forth. The eyes popped.

Quire called out with great concern in his voice:

“Footmen! Quickly! Your master’s ill!”

The young servants were slow in arriving, for they had been playing cards, several rooms distant.

They found Quire trying to put brandy into their master’s mouth. It was Crozier who removed the jug from Quire’s hand, saying sadly: “It is too late, sir. He is dead. I think he died happily. You cheered him mightily, sir. But perhaps the stimulation was too much.”

“I fear that you are right,” agreed Quire.