“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.
THE NINTH CHAPTER
Una of Scaith drew deeply on the stem of the tobacco pipe and stretched herself at ease over her tapestry couch. She lay upon woodland scenes (the Hunt, Nymphs and Fauns, Diana and her Maidens) before a magnificent fire, her farthingale askew, like a badly hung bell, her bodice loosened, gauze-wired collar on one side of her pearl- stranded head, as she enjoyed the few minutes before the festivities and ceremonies which, as the Queen’s friend, she must attend. She stroked the orange back of a large cat which lay asleep against the couch, and she gave herself up to the tobacco while in the next room her maids prepared the rest of her ensemble.
The Countess hated almost all public events, particularly those where she was expected to perform some function-tonight the Queen had asked her to announce the programme at the beginning of every section, which meant she would have to be present through the entire celebration of the Twelfth, from Bounty Giving to the Final Feast, which was certain to last into the early hours. Worse, the whole of the first half of the evening was to be spent on the ice at West Minster, where the river had frozen so thickly it had been possible to light bonfires and roast a pig (last night an enterprising Venetian innkeeper had done this to his considerable profit), and she would be chilled to her bones as, of course, would everyone else; and, like everyone else, would resort too much to the mulled claret which would be the main beverage and chief source of heat. And later, in elaborate costumes, would come the Masque in the Great Hall, and, with it, further discomfort, for she was bound to roast as Urd the Norn. Others would be equally suffering here, as well-there would be a Thor, an Odin, a Hela and the rest, and Gloriana would be Fryja, Queen of the Gods, in Master Wheldrake’s subject entitled
Una’s pipe burned down and with a sigh she rose to adjust her clothes, to have her maids draw her together, covering her with a cloak of red velvet trimmed with green lake moire fur, the large hood shading her face. The maids escorted her to the outer door of her apartments (really an entire house built, like many others, into the main structure of the palace and facing out upon a broad yard in whose centre was an ornamental lake containing a good-sized artificial island). The Queen’s coach-cabined sleigh waited for her and footmen, in exaggerated coquard bonnets, short brocaded tabards and slashed canions of yellow and blue, attended her as she climbed aboard and plunged into darkness and soft cushions. A shout, a crack, and the vehicle lurched on its springs, to make the little journey around the path to the rather more elaborate facade of the private gateway of the Queen’s gardens and a gathering of guards forming ranks at the command of Lord Rhoone, whose breath billowed with every staccato utterance, reminding Una how cold it was. She kept her hands in the muff beneath her cape and stared miserably through the far window at the darkening ornamental garden on which more snow was beginning to fall. It seemed that winter drew deeper and might never end, unless it was with the ending of the world-and she was reminded, with a shiver, of the Fimbul Winter, and wondered, with morbid relish, if perhaps it really was the Eve of Ragnarok
