Gloriana

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

Lying flat, with her eyes close against the grille which was immediately and coincidentally opposite to that which Jephraim Tallow had used on New Year’s Eve, the mad woman stared into the hall, her ears filled with the beauty of the choir’s single voice as it entertained the dining nobles below. She was starved, as she usually was, but she was not hungry Thin fingers held the grille, occasionally combing the tangled, red-brown hair or scratching at the grey flesh of her long body while parasites ran in and out of her rags, unheeded. There was a seraphic smile upon her filthy face-the music and the beauty of the diners filled her with so much pleasure that she was almost crying. Already sweetmeats and savouries had been served and wine waved away, heralding the end of the meal. As another might watch a favourite play, she tried to will the guests to stay, but gradually they rose, taking their leave of the grey lord in his chair at the head of the table, going about their business.

The mad woman focused all her attention on the two who remained. The Arabian ambassador and the lord, who was her greatest hero and whose name she knew, as she knew most of those at Court.

“Montfallcon,” she whispered, “the Queen’s trusted adviser. Her Right Hand. Incorruptible, clever Montfallcon!”

The choir’s chant ended and the choristers began to file from the hall, so that now she could overhear some of what was being said between Montfallcon and the proud, brown man, in braided white silk and gold-twined plaited ropes at head, wrists, neck and waist.

“…my master married to the Queen? Security for all time, for us both. Such an alliance!” she heard the Moor remark.

“We are already allies, however.” Montfallcon smiled delicately. “Arabia and Albion.”

“Save that Arabia’s hampered against expansion because Albion protects her. We are frustrated in our ambitions-as are all children who have grown and whose parents do not recognise the fact.”

Montfallcon laughed aloud. “Come now, Lord Shahryar, you cannot misjudge my intelligence or expect me to misjudge yours. Arabia is protected by Albion because she has not the resources to defend herself against the Tatar Empire. She has no alliance with Poland because Poland shares her fear of the Tatars but hopes the Tatars will leave Poland alone and concentrate on Arabia, if Arabia is weak. On the other hand-”

“My point, my lord, is that Arabia is no longer weak.”

“Of course she isn’t, for she has Albion’s aid.”

“And the Tatar Empire could be conquered.”

“Gloriana will not make war unless the security of the Realm is threatened-and is seen to be threatened. We fight only if invaded. Tatary knows this and therefore does not invade. The Queen hopes by this policy eventually to create habits in nations, so that they will not automatically go to war to gain their ends. She visualises a great Council, a League-”

“Lord Montfallcon’s tone betrays him.” Lord Shahryar smiled. “He believes no more than I in this easy feminine pacifism. Oh, such yearnings are to be admired in any woman. Yet a balance must be established between the Male and the Female instincts. But here there is no balance. There should be a man, as strong in his way as the Queen. My master, the Grand Caliph, is strong-”

“But the Queen does not wish to marry. She regards marriage as a further burden-and she already has many responsibilities.”

“She favours others?”

“She favours none. She is flattered, of course, by the Grand Caliph’s attentions.”

Lord Shahryar stroked his head. “It is for me now to remind you of my intelligence, Lord Montfallcon. What I have said, regarding the Queen and her needs, is well-meant. We are concerned for her.”

“Then we share that,” said Lord Montfallcon. “And if you respect her, as I do, you will respect her wishes, her decisions, as I do.”

“You do nothing without her approval?”

“She is my Queen. She is Albion. She is the Realm.” Lord Montfallcon lifted his chin. “She is the Law.”

“Not always effective.”

“What?”

“Your Law. It seems it does not bring criminals to justice on every occasion.”

“I cannot understand you.”

“My nephew, Ibram, was killed in London, even as I took ship from ben Gahshi. I arrived to learn of his death-murdered-and that his murderer has gone free.”

“King? He’s to be transported next week.”

“There was another involved, however-the one who actually performed the deed-whom you spoke for, as I hear it, my lord.”

“There was another accused, aye. I spoke for him because in truth he was on my business and could not have become involved in the brawl, even if he was the kind of knave who would.”

“So you are completely certain of your servant’s innocence?” Lord Shahryar looked hard at Lord Montfallcon. “This black-clad swordsman, this spy of yours-”

“Quire? A spy? A courier for the Queen, no more.”

“Quire’s the name.” Lord Shahryar nodded. “I’d forgotten it. This Quire is known for his duelling skills. He lured my nephew into a fight in order to rob him, do you think?”

“I know Quire well. He would never waste his time in such a scheme. He is too proud.”

“You give your word then, my lord, that your Captain Quire could not possibly have killed my nephew.”

“I give my word, Lord Shahryar.” Lord Montfallcon stared unblinkingly into the Arabian’s eyes.

“Can I, perhaps, interview him-just to satisfy myself that he has not deceived you?” continued Lord Shahryar softly.

“He is on another mission for me. He is not in London.”

“Where?”

“He helps in this business concerning the King of Poland. If you listen to rumours, my lord, you’ll have heard that one, eh?”

“That Casimir was taken by brigands, for ransom? Yes. Do you think he’s still alive?”

“A ransom note was received by the Polish merchants. The villains think they have nothing more than an ordinary aristocrat in their hands.”

“Well, I trust he fares better with your justice and its keeping than did my nephew.” The Saracen rose in his chair. “Albion fast becomes a lawless land, it seems, with brigands and murderers allowed to range wherever they will, slaying nobles, capturing kings…”

“There are no murderers in your own land, my lord?”

“Some, of course.”

“There were many more before Albion protected you and brought her Law to you.”

“When King Hern sat on this nation’s throne, that’s true,” said Lord Shahryar pointedly. “If the land is to be properly ruled, then there must be a man-”

“The Queen is the greatest sovereign Albion has ever known. The world envies us our monarch.”

“As a mother she is sometimes just a little too fond of her children. Thus she cannot see either their faults or the faults of those who, pretending friendship, threaten them. With a good, stern husband at her side-”

“She has the help of men such as myself.” Lord Montfall-con inspected a dish of dried figs, selected one and placed it on the plate before him. “Are we not experienced-and stern?”

“But you are not her equal, my lord.”

“Her equal, my lord, does not exist.”

“I’d hoped to convince you of our sincerity, of my master’s admiration for your mistress, of the need to unify our two lands completely in the traditional manner of kings. The Grand Caliph is young, virile and handsome. If you have heard any rumours concerning him, I assure you that they are without foundation.”

“The Queen allows no suitors, my lord. That way she favours no one. Your master could be old, diseased, a follower of the habits of Sodom, he would stand as excellent a chance as any other.”

“So you will not speak for us? I’d hoped you would. Yet I thought the King of Poland came incognito for one reason only.”

“If so, he was misled. He was not encouraged.”

“No love letters from the Queen?”

“None, sir.”

“So that is why he’s captured?” Lord Shahryar grinned to himself.

“You are too devious, my lord. I have ceased to follow you.”

“I suspect that my nephew was slain because he tried to spy on Her Majesty. I suspect that King Casimir was taken because he hoped to woo the Queen in secret.”

Lord Montfallcon began to laugh. “We are not savages, Lord Shahryar, in Albion! Our diplomacy is entirely of a subtler sort!”

The Moorish lord pushed back his chair. He was glowering, but attempted to disguise or dismiss the expression. “I must apologise, my lord.”

“My good lord, I accept your apology. There is much more amusement in your suggestion than there could possibly be insult!”

Lord Montfallcon stood up and embraced the Saracen, who made an effort to smile. “I must assure you of our greatest friendship. We admire Arabia over all other nations of the world.”

“As we admire Albion. When the Grand Caliph arrives tomorrow-”

“Our partnership requires no traditional union to ensure it shall survive a thousand years.”

“Our concern is for the Queen, as well as Albion.”

“They are the same.”

The mad woman above crept away crawling on hands and knees through the dust, to her next vantage point, where, through a small window which could scarcely be detected from the floor, she observed Master Ernest Wheldrake, naked and draped in gold chains, kneeling before his mistress, the amiable Lady Lyst, as she sipped from the goblet in her hand, the mock crown askew over one eye, swiping a leisurely whip as he grovelled ecstatically and moaned some name which the mad woman could not catch. The scene was altogether too familiar and she crawled on, seeking something fresher for her entertainment. Another ten minutes and she was able to take up her usual place at the mousehole looking into Lord Ingleborough’s bedroom, but the old lord was not in evidence. She caught sight, briefly, of his catamite, Patch, playing with some wooden soldiers, but he did not return. She wriggled on, to see how Sir Tancred and Lady Mary Perrott fared in their relationship. She was greatly jealous of this relationship, largely because it seemed so perfect. She envied it the more because she herself required a diet of Romance and intrigue rather than mere Sensation, which as often as not saddened her. She had never known the love Sir Tancred gave to Lady Mary, though she dreamed of possessing it one day.

But it was to be a dull tour for the mad woman. Neither Sir Tancred nor Lady Mary was present. Lord Rhoone snored in his formal uniform, at his desk, black beard pushed against his lips by his green ruff, speckled with cream. Sir Amadis Cornfield was also behind his desk, bent over his accounts and receipts, his fingers dark with ink. Una, Countess of Scaith, was disrobing, removing the complicated dress she had had to wear while entertaining the Saracen ambassador on the Queen’s behalf. There would be nobody in Lord Montfallcon’s study, so the mad woman decided not to descend the chute which would take her there. She considered a visit to the seraglio, but this, too, depressed her. She spent a little while watching the mummers rehearsing the mime they were to perform for the Twelfth Night festivities tomorrow, but she did not have much interest in symbolic drama. She was returning to her crypt, passing on the other side of the dusty and web-festooned glass of the forgotten organery when she observed a shadow, making its way towards Lord Montfallcon’s secret entrance, and she paused, hidden in gloom, to see who visited the Chancellor.

It was Tinkler. He was jaunty.

The mad woman drew her tall body back in case Tinkler should glimpse it. Doubtless this valet was in Montfallcon’s employ and had come to receive his instructions. The King of Poland would be rescued by morning. She had overheard the scheme discussed. She chuckled to herself, shaking her head in admiration of her two heroes-Montfallcon, whom she dreamed of as a father, and Quire, whom she yearned for as a lover. The scheme appeared to be working exactly as they had planned.