gold, and the musicians wore dark green wool; in several layers, judging by their bulk. More trumpets blew a fanfaronade from the embankment, to hamper their tuning further, and the Queen looked questioningly at Una, who paused. Then, she rose, as slowly the courtiers, having filed down from above, assembled.
A figure in rippling ivory appeared upon the carpet leading to the throne. He doffed an ermine cap, falling to one knee. It was Marcilius Gallimari, Master of the Queen’s Revels.
“Your Majesty.”
“Is all prepared, Master Gallimari?”
“It is, Your Majesty! They are ready!” He spoke with intense, earnest enthusiasm.
“Then we’ll begin. Countess.”
Una coughed quietly into her hand. Master Gallimari stepped into the shadows of the awning, to pass through the guards and vanish. Then Una cried:
“The Queen bestows her bounty on the Yuletide widows and the season’s orphans. Let them come forward now and receive their right.”
The courtiers stepped to either side and a footboy handed Una a cushion on which rested a score of kidskin purses. Una took one of the purses and placed it in the Queen’s palm as the first nervous commoner, a plump matron, came humbly up the carpet, her eyes lowered, a shy smile on her lips, in linen shawl and apron, to curtsey. “Your Majesty. The folk of the Southcheap send their loyal respects to Your Majesty and pray the plague will never come upon them.”
“We thank you and the people of Southcheap. Your name?”
“Mistress Starling, Your Majesty, widow of Starling the chandler.”
“Be wise, Mistress Starling, with this, and we pray you to do your duty. We are sorry for your grief.”
“I thank Her Majesty.” A shaking hand accepted the purse.
Then came two swarthy children, fingers linked, a boy and a girl, bobbing all the way.
“Your father and your mother are dead? How so?” Gloriana took a second purse from Una.
“Lost upon the river, Your Majesty,” said the boy, “where they worked at their ferry, up above the Wapping Stairs.”
“We are sorry for your grief.” The words were ritual but the sentiment was not. Gloriana took a further purse, so that the children might have one each.
As the ceremony continued, Una stared beyond the crowds, at the far embankment, the twin of the northern one, with its columns and torches and fanciful stonework, its painted ceramics. Where the embankment turned, to her right, she could see a line of gargoyles on the piles, with mooring rings in their grinning mouths; above the gargoyles were the trees which grew over the high walls, their dark branches turned to stiff grey strands of velvet by the lantern’s light, and then, a little further on, was the Water Gate of West Minster and its grille decorated with iron devils.
The Bounty given, Lord Montfallcon came to stand beside the throne and whisper to the Queen while trumpets announced the two Guests of Honour, and the Queen’s Tribune called out their names. Then, side by side they came, in ceremonial stockings and gowns, magnificent with jade, with diamonds, aquamarines, turquoises, sapphires and all manner of other pale gems.
“His Royal Highness King Casimir the Fourteenth Emperor Elect of Great Poland. His Royal Highness the Grand Caliph Hassan al-Giafar, Lord of All Arabia.”
Two crowned heads bowed before the third. The crown of Poland’s Casimir was white gold, with gothic spikes and very light emeralds, while Hassan al-Giafar wore a turban about which was set a Moorish coronet, all floral abstracts, in silver and mother-of-pearl, and though their gowns were simple, according to tradition, they were trimmed with the richest threads permitted.
They used the High Speech for this ceremony. Forkbearded Arabia spoke first.
“Gloriana, who is Ishtar upon Earth, Goddess of Us All, Whose Name is Honoured in the World’s Four Corners and Whose Fame is Feared, Who is the Sun to Light our Days and the Moon to Illuminate our Nights, whose Splendour Dulls the Stars, We, Caliph Hassan al-Giafar, Descendent of the First Calligraphers of Sheena, Protector of the Raschid, Father of the Nomad, Chief of the Deserts, the Rivers and the Seas, Shield against the Tatar, Overlord of Baghdad and the Fifty Cities, bring thee the greetings and the felicitations of all our folk.”
The Queen rose, taking the sceptre handed her by Una and lifting it as if, obscurely, she blessed the Caliph.
“Albion welcomes thee, great King. We are honoured by thine attendance at our ceremonies.” She seated herself as Poland, fumbling with his cloak, his crown askew over one shaggy eyebrow, his hair falling across his face, his beard coming loose from its careful knots, blinked vaguely, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Um…” began Poland. “Your Majesty.”
Hassan al-Giafar’s handsome hooded eyes showed a hint of amused contempt as they looked upon his confused rival.
“Firstly-thank you-or thank your men-for my rescue. I am much obliged to you. It was foolish of me to trust those villains. I regret the trouble I have caused.”
“No trouble,” murmured the Queen. “But is there not some formal greeting, Your Majesty?”
He was grateful for the reminder. “Your Majesty, Queen Gloriana. Greetings from Poland.” He frowned. “I am-we are Casimir-Emperor Elect of Greater Poland-you know that, eh? Just announced. There’s a formal phrase, but I fear I’ve forgotten it-King of Scandinavia, what? And all the lands from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Great Jove! So I am. Well, it’s a Republic, of course. And a Union of Republics, essentially. Autonomous. But I serve my turn, I suppose, as a symbol. Oh, dear-I had a ring to give you. There are other presents…” He looked behind him. “The presents? It was a lovely ring…. Didn’t expect to have to appear in public like this. Rather shy of ceremonies. The presents…?”
The Caliph was snapping his fingers for his own gifts, carried by turbaned boys. Gloriana inspected the usual treasures (including a necklace of carnelians and gold) and accepted them with ritual thanks, while Poland spoke anxiously to his aide, old Count Korzeniowski, and sent him on an errand.
“There were also several elephants, Your Majesty,” the Caliph told her gravely, “but it was thought inadvisable to bring them onto the ice.”
Una smiled behind her hand, imagining the effect of so many elephants losing their footing and crashing into the waters of the Thames.
There was a pause, after the Caliph’s procession had come and gone. Casimir of Poland looked up. “Aha!” He waved. Another procession, of fur-clad footmen, with precious ikons and beautifully worked jewellery, lacking the magnificence of the Caliph’s gifts but carrying the stamp of artists’ perfection.
“There are some things missing, you see. Not much. We were lucky. But…” Casimir searched beneath his robes. “There was a ring. With a ruby. You might think it vulgar, of course. I had hoped…. However, there is a time and a place, I know-don’t have much in the way of formal ceremonies in Poland, these days-you must forgive me if I give offence….”
“The gifts are exquisitely beautiful, King Casimir.”
“They are, aren’t they! But the ring…. There was some fine Vienna stuff. Did that come? The ring. Gods! It’s lost!”
“The brigands…?” murmured Gloriana.
“The villains! The most beautiful of all my gifts.”
“We shall catch the leader, never fear,” she promised.
Lord Montfallcon cleared his throat to speak. “Her Majesty is grateful to both Your Majesties….”
Gloriana, recovering, nodded. “Albion welcomes thee, great Kings. We are honoured by thine attendance at our ceremonies.”
And chairs were fetched, almost thrones, for the two guests, both placed on the right of the Queen, and at angles so that one should not seem to take precedence, and the Countess of Scaith must smile and whisper and play host to the monarchs while the Queen received the rest of her guests:
Rudolf of Bohemia, the Scientist King, Casimir’s vassal; Prince Aleneon de Medici of Florenza, a youth whose chivalrous love for the Queen was famous; the Aztec ambassador, Prince Comius Sha-T’Lee of Chlaksahloo (who believed himself a demi-god and Gloriana a goddess) in golden feathers and feathered cloak; the Chevalier Presival- le-Gallois of Britannia; Oubacha Khan, in painted armour, iron and fur, envoy from the Tatar Empire; Prince Lobkowitz, in black and silver, from independent Prague; Prince Hira of Hindoostan, a protectorate of Albion’s; Lord
