Gloriana

THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER

The public rooms almost entirely abandoned, the Queen entertained her guests in the caverns, the heavy-scented interconnected rooms of her seraglio, where celebrants were waited on by boys and girls with oiled, naked bodies, and all manner of strange people-dwarves, giants, hermaphrodites. Where last year the theme of her Autumn Masque had been the Feast of Bacchus, this year was a more directly Bacchanalian affair, looked upon by a sleepy Queen and a sardonic Quire from their common couch on a dais above the main floor where, as if they revelled in some northern Byzantium, guests lay upon cushions and grew lazy with food and lust and wine.

Hidden musicians played languid music to which some of Master Priest’s dancers, led by Alys Finch and Phil Starling, capered rather slowly. It was as if the world wound down, in luxury and impious carelessness. A few lamps and torches gave the scene light, but darkness was sought by all, and the colours of their costumes, as well as the furnishings, were all deep.

Sir Ernest Wheldrake, stripped to the waist and revealing a criss-crossed back, lifted a winecup to Lady Lyst’s near-senseless lips. With his other hand he held his book, from which he read:

“Red was the fruit of the vine

As if it bled,

Ruby red, the grape sublime

And magical its power

So that it said ‘Stop’ to Time,

As hour by mooning hour

And head to swooning head

We shared that bower,

That bower sublime,

Thee and thine, me and mine,

And pined for the love of the dead.”

Frowning, Lady Lyst opened her eyes, the wine dribbling down her chin, and stared with some curiosity at the small bunch of lilies in her right hand. She closed her eyes again and began to breathe more deeply.

Sir Ernest was about to read again when the twin giants, black and white, pushed open the asymmetrical doors of the room to allow Doctor Dee, in his gown of magical symbols, his scrolls, to hurry in, with Master Tolcharde, in his best, behind him, and the Thane of Hermiston, in clan plaids, coming last.

“Why,” said Phil Starling from the floor, putting an arrogant hand upon an unremarkable hip, “here’s Master Tolcharde all puffed and stuffed and ruffed and covered over in jewels.” There was some laughter, but not from Quire or the Queen. Doctor Dee frowned at Phil in distaste, Master Wallis pulled at the boy, who tugged away, grinning, moving from place to place, greeting his several friends, while Wallis opened mouth and eyes to implore him, then turned.

The Thane of Hermiston stood as if he had received the Gorgon’s glare. “Arioch! What’s all here?” His great beard bristled. “I’ve seen no worse in all my travels between the worlds.”

This made the Queen smile. She raised fingers. “Come to us, my dearest Thane. Have you news of your adventures? Have you more captives to bring us, as you brought us Captain Quire?”

The Thane blushed, then glared at Quire. “Captain, this woman has corrupted ye!”

The Queen was amused again. “On the contrary, sir!”

“What is this place?”

“It is a place of pleasure,” she said.

“Madam…” Doctor Dee’s face was drawn. He had a long, partially healing scar down the side of his face. He had tried to hide it with his white hair. “We brought the Thane to you because he wishes to tell you something.”

“Is it amusing, dear Thane? Remember, you attend the Autumn Feast.”

“Amusing? No, it is not, madam. I have seen the Margrave of Simla. Tatars line the Empire’s borders and ready themselves to attack us. They have news that war shall begin in the middle of this month. There is a traitor here, who informs them.”

“Who is the traitor, sir?” Easily.

“The Margrave does not know.”

The Queen looked down to Sir Orlando Hawes, who sat a little uncomfortably on his cushions. “You see a great deal of the Tatar ambassador, Sir Orlando. Has he said much to you?”

Sir Orlando shrugged. “Nothing definite, madam. I think the Tatars want war, as everyone else seems to want it. But you are unwilling to hear such talk, I know.”

“It is not very specific, sir.”

“Oubacha Khan has hinted that Tatary means to attack parts of India and Cathay as soon as war begins between the other nations. They think it will be easy work then, for, as he put it, the whole globe will be on fire.” Sir Orlando spoke with careless voice, as one who no longer has hope of convincing another of his opinion.

“But no certain news?”

“No, madam. When the Perrotts go against Arabia, it will doubtless be the sign.”

“Have some Perrotts brought to Court,” she said.

He looked hopefully at her. “Tomorrow, madam?”

“Next week,” she said.

“Aye, madam.”

Quire whispered: “Perhaps you should act a little more swiftly in this. A threat, say, to the Perrotts, that they stand to be executed as traitors.”

“There is no execution in Albion.”

“Just the threat.”

“Aye. Sir Orlando!” She called again. “Have the Perrotts informed that they commit acts of treachery against the Realm. Remind them of the old penalty.”

Sir Amadis Cornfield looked up from where he sulked. He rubbed at his forehead as if to clear his mind.

“Is that all ye’ll do with my news, madam?” asked the Thane.

“What else can we do, sir?”

“Investigate. The Realm slips closer to Chaos by the day!”

She took a large cup of wine down into her, as if to answer him. “I’ll have no unnecessary bloodshed, sir, as well you know.”

“Ye’ve kept the world from large wars for thirteen years,” he said. “Now ye set the match to the cannon which will signal the hugest war of all. I have seen such worldwide wars in my journeys. I have seen whole continents wasted-burned to nothing. Is this to be Albion’s fate?”

“Of course not, sir.”

The Thane scowled. “I’ll be away, to seek a saner place than this.” He looked to Quire. “She seduces ye, sage, with all her wiles and obfuscations.”

Quire was silent.

The Thane looked to Dee and Tolcharde, even to Quire, as if he expected them to accompany him, but they remained. He strode from the seraglio, an angry skirl of tartan. “The woman should be married! It should all be dismantled! Bah!”

Master Tolcharde was tactful, waiting for his friend to leave; then he stepped forward, awkward in his finery. “Madam, I have been promising you this spectacle for some months.” Diffidently. “It is ready at last. If the consort will play the music I have prepared for them, your dancers shall appear.”

“We are eager, Master Tolcharde.” She spoke gratefully at his bald and sweating head.

A wave to the musicians’ gallery and brisk, brilliant music began to play, in considerable contrast to that which had begun the evening. The Queen took another glass of wine. Quire leaned back in the couch, absently stroking her arm.

Master Tolcharde clapped his hands. From the far end of the long room figures began to appear. They were dancers clad in glittering costumes, so light-footed and elegant as to make Master Priest’s troupe seem crippled. They danced closer and closer, pirouetting, leaping, touching hands, and, as they neared the cleared arena, it seemed they bore frozen masks upon their faces-metallic masks, with eyes that were blank and mouths which showed no expression. There was Harlekin, in chequered costume, and several different clowns-a zany, a Pierrot-Columbina, Isabella-the Doctor and old Pantalon. There was Scaramouche, with swagger and sword, a red-faced musketeer. And they danced in a line before the Queen; then, with a single movement, they bowed and curtseyed as the music momentarily stopped. Every part of the costumes was of metal. The hands and feet were metal, glaring with colour. The faces were metal.

“Behold,” said Master Tolcharde with pride, “my Mechanical Harlekinade!”

“They are not human, Master Tolcharde?” The Queen gasped. “Not a scrap? They are so beautiful!”

“Metal through and through, madam. There have never been finer creatures made.”

(Doctor Dee enjoyed a look with Captain Quire.)

They began to dance again; acting out an entire play: of love thwarted, of love gained, of love attacked and love revenged. And though their hard metal faces showed no expression, their mechanical bodies movingly expressed the tale. Gloriana settled closer to Quire and Quire to Gloriana. The play continued. Harlekin thought himself deceived by Columbina, for Isabella was jealous and wanted Harlekin for herself, so made it appear that Columbina made love to Scaramouche. In turn, out of spite, Harlekin gave himself to Isabella, only to discover the truth too late, and, as he rushed to tell Columbina, he was killed by her vengeful knife. Upon learning the truth, she herself took poison. The last movement of the dance was a slow, funeral step, echoing the earlier dance of Master Priest’s ensemble.

Most of the audience was considerably moved, particularly Cornfield, Ransley and Wallis, all of whom felt themselves betrayed in love. Alys Finch wept a great deal, too, and was comforted by Sir Orlando.

Quire did not care for the mime, but since the Queen found it satisfying, he clapped enthusiastically. The mechanical creatures danced away.

“You must present them again, sir,” the Queen told Master Tolcharde. “Many times. Do they perform other tales?”

Master Tolcharde was apologetic. “Not yet, madam. Just that one. But they can be adjusted. For comedy as well as tragedy. If you will allow me, I’ll bring them to your next entertainment.”

“Again and again, Master Tolcharde. We thank you.”

Tolcharde had never been more pleased. Beaming, he followed in the wake of his Harlekinade.

Quire thought he had seen the dead dancing. He got up. He required, he said, to relieve himself.

As he went by, Sir Amadis plucked at his cloak. “Captain Quire?” The tone was pleading. From a distance, on golden cushions, suffering the attentions of two geishas, Ransley glowered.

“Aye, Sir Amadis? What can I do for you?”

“Your ward-your charge-your dell-the girl.”

“Alys is not my responsibility, sir. Not any longer. Once I protected her virginity, but now there is nothing to protect.” Quire was firm. He was moral.

“But you spoke for me once.”

“I should not have done so.”

“Will you speak for me again, Captain?”

“I cannot, Sir Amadis. You must speak for yourself”

Ransley had risen and was stumbling over to them. “Be wary, Amadis, of any plotting you do. I can hear. I can hear.”

Quire pulled himself away from them. “I cannot. You must decide this for yourselves, gentlemen. I am not a god.”

’You have a god’s power, Quire,” Lord Gorius said. “In some respects, at least. Zeus! How you’ve seduced us all!”

Quire paused, his back to them. “How’s that, my lord?”

“Look at us. Drunk, besotted with lust, like some tyrannical Roman Court of old. And all your doing, Quire.”

“Indeed.” Quire swung about. “Then I must be a god, as you say, my lord.”

“When the inquest’s done on the death of Albion’s honour, at the end of the world-not far off, I’d say-the verdict’ll be murder. And the murderer, sir, shall be named Quire.”

Quire scratched the back of his head. “The corruption lies in the fact that a myth was used to manufacture an imitation of reality. Could Albion fall so swiftly if the foundations were secure?”

“You don’t deny…?”

“I deny everything, my lord.”

“What of Alys Finch?” Lord Gorius became weak. “Won’t you intercede? Or select one of us?”

“I am not a god,” said Quire. “I am not even a King. I am Quire. You must settle your problem for yourselves.” He continued on his way, leaving Ransley and Cornfield in conference, mouths to ears.

Sir Orlando Hawes was talking politics to Alys Finch, who had the flatterer’s trick of rephrasing the words of her companion and handing them back as her own opinion. “I blame Montfallcon. He clung so desperately to his belief. He felt the only way to hold the Empire together was by making Gloriana seem a goddess and, to ensure she believed the tale herself, keeping her in innocence of all he did to preserve the legend. He clung on to the point of madness. As it happens, I believe he is a victim of Quire’s as much as he believed others were Quire’s victims. I gather evidence, even now, but not so publicly as Montfallcon.”

“You think Captain Quire a villain then, with his eye upon the throne?”

“I have no great dislike for Quire. He would make an excellent King. If his motives were not at odds with mine I’d tolerate him. But Albion’s fabric rots before our eyes. The glamorous tapestry Montfallcon wove cannot be allowed to drop all at once and reveal the reality beneath-neither nobles nor commons could accept it. The curtain must be raised inch by inch, over a period of years.”

“There are holes in the tapestry already. That is why so many nobles side with the Perrotts. They see corruption beneath the brocade-or think they do.”

“There’s no real corruption here. Just a bereaved woman’s euphoria, which will pass. But Quire has let the extremes of it be seen. Some view the entirety-a little entertainment like this one-and think it must represent a greater, unseen horror. Romance inspires the imagination and makes imagination grow-but if that imagination’s misapplied, searching for ugliness rather than for beauty, then a terrible force is unleashed.”

“You share Captain Quire’s dislike of Romance.” “I share that. But I do not share his hatreds, Alys. And worst, most destructive of all, is his hatred of himself. It is what binds him so, though neither will admit it, to the Queen.”

“You think he loves the Queen truly?”

“If it is possible for Quire to love anything.”

“You were speaking of Oubacha Khan and the expedition you plan with him-following Montfallcon’s tracks into the walls.”

“Aye. The cat, Oubacha Khan thinks, might lead us to the Countess of Scaith. It’s a faint hope-but we go secretly, with fifty Tatars, fully armed. They’ll easily defeat the rabble, I’m certain. They are the greatest fighters in the world. Oubacha Khan, you see, loves the Countess. He thinks her the victim of a plot-either Montfallcon’s or Quire’s-and would find her, even if it means finding her corpse.”

“You dredged the well, you two?”

“Aye, and discovered only a vagabond, probably some denizen of the walls.”

“When do you leave?”

“Very soon.”

“You’ll tell Montfallcon?”

“No. He’s bound to betray us-inadvertently. He is no longer in control of any of his senses. He has not been for some time, or he would long since have detected Quire’s work, since the murder of Lady Mary. He now speaks of destruction as the only answer to our ills.”

Alys Finch saw her master, Quire, returning, and she frowned to herself.

Quire was stopped by a weeping Wallis. “Quire-Captain-the boy betrays me,” Wallis whispered. “Speak to him. I am dying with the pain he causes me.”

Quire smiled down at poor Wallis and patted him on the head. “Of course, I shall.” He looked about for Phil. Starling was enjoying the attentions of half a dozen ladies and seraglio gallants, but he saw Quire at once and he laughed, mocking them both. Quire sighed. “He lacks grace, that youth. He always did.”

“You must make him behave.” Wallis was tense.

Quire’s gesture was not encouraging. “How?”

“He is your responsibility.”

Quire smiled slowly. “As the Queen discards them, I accumulate them.” He would be happier when his work was finished.

“He kills me,” said Wallis simply.

“Find another,” said Quire. “There are so many here. They’d be flattered by attention from one of your station.”

“I love him.”

“Ah,” said Quire. He was looking over to where Sir Amadis and Lord Gorius were rising, ready to leave. He put a hand to his lips. Then he saw the Queen. She was very drunk, beckoning to him. “I must go. Duty, Master Wallis.”

Abandoning the wretched Secretary, he moved between the cushions, ascending the dais at Gloriana’s summons.

“Let us retire,” she said. She could scarcely speak for drunkenness.

Quire saw that Sir Ernest had fallen over the sleeping body of Lady Lyst and now slept also. Half the guests were in a like state. The denizens of the seraglio crept quietly back to their various quarters. Quire let Gloriana put a hand on his shoulder and steady herself. She towered over him. He summoned more of his strength than he would normally reveal and began to help her down the steps.

“My children,” she said.

Quire was puzzled.

“I promised to see the girls.” She pointed towards the end of the hall. “They are through there. In the adjoining apartments. Not in contact, of course, with…”

“I know,” he said. “But it will have to be tomorrow. You spend the day with them tomorrow.”

She remembered, or was prepared to think that she did. She let him lead her past the twin guards, along the passage, through one set of rooms, until finally they reached her ordinary bedchamber. With a jingle of jewels, she fell upon the bed and immediately was snoring.

Quire had helped her to this state and was satisfied she would sleep for several hours. Employing a tenderness which had become a habit with him, he dragged off most of her trinkets and what clothes would come away easily, pulled a coverlet over her and left the room. A finger to his lips and servants were aware of the Queen’s condition. He went to the main door into the corridor and was about to open it when he heard voices murmuring on the other side. A phrase: “Are we to be ruled by a whore and a cutpurse?” He gave himself a crack to see through. “It must be destroyed. It is Albion’s shame. There is a way.”

The Thane of Hermiston and Lord Montfallcon were speaking softly as they walked together along the passage. Quire had not expected this combination. They were unlikely companions. He did not think there was much to fear from them, however. Doubtless their respective delusions brought them together. He closed the crack and when they were gone he was off along a familiar route to the East Wing, where he would later keep an appointment. He went early because it was always his habit to be on the scene much sooner than he was expected. By this means he had, in other days, kept himself alive.

He reached the gallery overlooking the garden where, that spring, Gloriana had played her role as May Queen. He walked swiftly. Moonlight passed through all the many windows so that it was almost as bright within the gallery as it was in the garden below. Casually, Quire looked out as he moved. Then he paused and found himself a shadow into which he could withdraw. He could hear peculiar sounds coming from the garden, a creaking and a rustling, a clattering, as if someone tried to chop branches from the trees. He let his eyes grow used to the darkness and began to notice that the growth which surrounded the entire garden, providing food and shelter for the deer, seemed to be swaying. He realised that someone was on the Tree Walk. He had used it himself, once or twice, and knew that it was firm. At last he heard sharp, almost regular sounds-snick-snick, snick-snick-and saw two figures come into view. They were fighting with swords as the Tree Walk swayed and groaned. They staggered this way and that, falling against the rope rails, sometimes making the walk swing at right angles, clinging on as they continued to duel.

Quire watched for some time, conscious that now he might be keeping his visitor waiting, but he must see the outcome, even though he had guessed who the duelists were. After all, he had almost encouraged the fight.

Snick-snick, snick-snick. It was as if some mad gardener had chosen this hour to trim the trees. The creaking grew more animated. The rustling increased. The duellists shuffled and danced along the Tree Walk, sometimes in sight, sometimes not.

Then there was a silence, a lack of movement. Quire saw a figure standing, leaning hard against the rope, then the walk tipped and he went down.

Quire ran for the steps which would take him into the garden.

When he reached the body, the victor was standing there. Sir Amadis was breathing deeply as he sheathed his sword. “I think I killed him,” he said, “before he fell. I hope so. Poor Gorius.”

“This is stupidity,” said Quire.

“You saw it? How many other witnesses?”

“Who knows?” Quire believed there was only himself. “You’ll be imprisoned for this. Exiled.”

“I wanted Alys. As did he.”

“She’ll have no part of you now.”

“I know.”

“You must return to your wife,” said Quire on impulse. He became thoughtful. “Aye-to Kent. The Perrotts will protect you.”

“What shall I tell them?”

“That you are a victim. That you quarrelled over their position-that Ransley called the Perrotts traitors and wanted them hanged. He tried to murder you. Something of the sort. They’ll receive you in Kent, as you know.”

“Aye. My wife wanted me with her. I could not. My loyalty. My lust.”

“If you’re still loyal to the Queen, then save her a scandal.” Quire was delighted. This would confirm the Perrotts in their hatred. It would ensure that their fleet sailed. “Go you now. You can be in Kent by morning. A horse is all you need.”

Sir Amadis looked doubtfully at Quire. “You are eager to be rid of me, Captain.”

“You know I’ve always sought your friendship. Now I seek to save you from retribution, that’s all.”

“Kent’s the answer, right enough.” Sir Amadis was already parting from Quire. “I’ll do my best to make them see sense and save Albion from war. If I can do that…”

“You will be more powerful than Quire,” said Quire under his breath as he waved.

He walked without haste back to the gallery, congratulating himself that he was free of two encumbrances and that his luck stayed with him.

He met Lord Shahryar in what had been a laundry. Once servants had laboured here for Hern. The sweat and the steam had gone up, the water down, running over the flagstones, going the gods knew where. The rounded ceilings were still caked with soap which had risen with the steam, and the whole place stank of lye. Quire leaned against a wooden tub and smiled at Lord Shahryar, who did not find this a fit meeting-place.

“Another few days, that’s all,” said Quire very quietly, “and the Perrotts sail.”

“Our fleet’s already on the move, but will harbour in Iberia. Until we need to come to Albion’s rescue.” Lord Shahryar’s tone was depressed. “Is it really happening, Quire?”

“Aye,” said Quire. “Really.” It seemed he shared the Saracen’s mood.

“We’ll restore the glory” Shahryar was eager. “It is in reality scarcely harmed at all. The people will respond well to handsome Hassan.”

“Aye. You’ll have an even better lie, within a year, than Montfallcon could conceive.”

Shahryar noticed Quire’s own bitterness. “You wouldn’t thwart us, would you?”

“Now? How could I? It is all too far gone.”

“What will you do?”

“Find another patron, I suppose.” He did not like the drift of the conversation.

Shahryar laughed. “So. You’ve come to love her. It’s the classic tale.”

“I’m fond of the poor creature, now that she is on the verge of defeat. I am always fond of my victims, sir.”

“No! It’s more than that. You hesitate.” Shahryar took a step or two nearer. “I wonder if you would betray us if you could. There are means. Sir Thomasin Ffynne is ready at Portsmouth with a great fleet, to forestall the Perrotts. Yet if it were turned on us…”

“Fear not, my lord. I’ve kept my word. I am renowned for it.”

“And renowned for hiding the truth by means of a well-chosen platitude.” Lord Shahryar shrugged. “Well, I must trust you. But I have often wondered why you went so readily from Montfallcon’s service and into mine.”

“That day? It was fated. I had lost my temper with Lord Montfallcon. I was piqued. If you had captured me on another day, this whole story would have been a different one. I’d have thwarted all your plans, in Montfallcon’s name. But, perhaps in haste I gave my word-and I kept it.”

“You have a regretful tone, Captain Quire.”

Quire had finished with him. Before Shahryar realised it he had begun his journey back to Gloriana’s room, for she would be waking soon.

But she was already awake when he arrived. She was pale and her mind was clogged. Sir Orlando Hawes stood by the bed. He nodded to Quire as Quire appeared.

“What’s this? Is the Queen ill?” Quire went to her. He was surprised when she waved him away, intent on the note she read and re-read.

“What is it?” Quire asked Hawes. “War declared?” He hated this ignorance. He lived for knowledge. “What’s in the note?”

Gloriana showed it to him. It was from Wallis.

“We found him. In one of those little rooms off the main seraglio,” said Sir Orlando. He was sad, but he was triumphant, too. “He used a leaf from Sir Ernest’s book, and the poet’s pen and inkhorn. He had stabbed himself with a dagger. Through the heart. Neatly, with proper calculation.”

Gloriana began to weep. “Oh, Quire!” She accused him.

The note was addressed to him.

To Captain Quire. Sir, Being in doubt as to your advice, I have decided to do away with doubt and pain for ever and take this step. You did me a service and caused me great misery thereby, but the fault lies with me. I believe I have repaid any debt I have to you, and thus may take my leave with clear conscience. I have betrayed the Queen’s faith and cannot thank you for your help in this. But I am avenged

–

betrayed by you and by your creature as I know you have betrayed so many

–

to their deaths. I remain, I suppose until life vanishes entirely, your servant. Florestan Wallis, Secretary for the High Tongue of Albion. By this deed, once more a loyal friend of the Queen.

“You are lost, Quire,” said Sir Orlando. “This poor fellow has accused you and died to prove his case.”