Li Pao, ambassador from the Court of Cathay, another vassal state; Lord Tatanka Iyotakay ambassador from the great Sioux Nation, in eagle feathers and white beaded buckskins; the Lady Yashi Akuya, ambassadress from the Isles of Nipponia; Prince Karloman, the old King’s son, to represent the Low Country Alliance; Count Rotomondo, Overlord of Paris; Master Ernst Schelyeanek, astronomer and physician, of Vienna; envoys from Virginia, amongst them hawk-nosed Lord Kansas and the tiny, contentious Baron of Ohio; Master Ishan the Mathematician from the Tatar protectorate of Anatolia; Caspar, the great engineer of Jawa; the Palestinian scholar Micah of Jerusalem; the explorer Murdoch, Thane of Hermiston, a white cape thrown carelessly over his plaids and bronze, a bonnet with white hawk’s feathers jaunty on his red curls; and many more dignitaries, scholars, scientists, magicians, alchemists, engineers, adventurers and soldiers, taking more than an hour and a half to pass before the throne.
Then came the first entertainment, in torchlight, as the Ice Knight (Lord Gorius Ransley) and the Fire Knight (Sir Tancred Belforest) tilted in full armour, on horseback, on the frozen surface at the river’s centre. Chips of ice flew, the breath of the horses was like dragon’s vapour, metal rang as lance met shield and both were unhorsed at once.
Above them, on the embankment, leaning with elbows against stone to look down at this scene, stood a figure made shapeless by the huge bearskin coat clothing him from head to foot, the bear’s skinned head forming a cap which hid the greater part of his face. Sometimes, when the light from the bouncing flames (on which geese and oxen now roasted) leapt high, his black, sardonic eyes would gleam.
Fire defeated Ice, according to arrangement.
Now he watched as the skating tumblers in the costumes of the Comedy-Harlekin and Pantalon, Cornetto and Isabella and the rest-began to leap and spin in time to the brisk and somewhat discordant music of the shivering consort on the platform, while beneath the awning the Queen bent her head to converse with her fellow sovereigns. Pages, their feet steadied by spiked irons, moved slowly through the gathering, bearing trays of boiling wine; cooks and their boys basted spitted meat; and on the far bank a huge scaffolding was being erected.
The figure in the bear coat left the wall and moved gradually down first one flight of steps and then another, until it stood with the crowd upon the ice, sipping a silver cup of claret, admiring the children of the nobles, Frost Fairies all, who carried the monstrous Twelfth Cake on a litter to the Queen, taking the meat and bread that he was offered and cramming it with some relish into his mouth as he continued to move here and there, keeping more by instinct than by judgement to the shadows, to the fringes of the crowd. There came a cracking from the far bank, a rush like mysterious wind as the observers gasped, and the first fireworks began to fizz and spin, forming a great G in an ornamental panel; then rockets shrieked and scattered diamond sparks and the whole of the ice was stark with sudden brilliance, causing the bearskinned figure to retreat a little to a corner where wharf steps met wall. Flaring cartridges fell upon the ice, which hissed, causing alarm or feigned consternation amongst those who took heed of it.
Red and green fire bellowed and the scaffolding shifted a little once again, so that the ice appeared to creak.
Lord Montfallcon heard the sound and was instantly active, calling for Lord Rhoone, who stood with Lady Rhoone and their two children, talking to tiny Master Wheldrake and insouciant, swaying Lady Lyst. “Rhoone! D’ye hear?”
“What?” Lord Rhoone handed his cup to his elder boy, who, glad of opportunity up to now denied him, began to sip.
“The ice, Rhoone. The ice is breaking. Out there.”
“It’s solid enough here, Montfallcon. It was tested. We still test it.”
“Nevertheless…”
Rhoone rubbed at his beard, looking about him with some dismay. “Well…”
“We must transfer to the embankment.” Lord Montfallcon looked to see the figure in the bear’s coat moving casually up the steps, strolling into the darkness. More fireworks howled and burst. Lord Montfallcon glared at the figure, half-lifted his hand, then lowered it. “Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” he cried. “We must return to shore. The ice threatens to crack.” But his voice could neither be heard above the roar and snap of the fireworks which still blazed, nor above the laughter and shouts of a drunken crowd.
Montfallcon pushed urgently through until he reached Gloriana’s side. She was laughing at something the King of Poland had just said, to Hassan al-Giafar’s annoyance, her face shining as she watched the explosions, which grew louder and brighter in increasingly rapid sequence.
“The ice, madam. There’s a danger it might collapse!”
A blinding burst of light and heat. Her lips parted. “Ah…”
“The ice is breaking!” screamed Montfallcon. “Your Majesty! The ice is breaking!”
The figure in the bearskin moved beside the embankment wall again, through the trees, looking back at the throng, hearing Montfallcon’s voice as it called now into silence. He paused to watch as slowly the gathering began to move, following the Queen. She left the ice and returned to her carriage. Then, with an amused lift of his shoulder, he ducked down behind a shrub, through a gap in the West Minster wall, and out into a narrow alley which would take him eastward to a house where further entertainment awaited him.
In the Queen’s sleigh, side by side, sat Poland and Arabia, while opposite them was the Queen herself, with her companion, the Countess of Scaith.
Shaggy Casimir the Fourteenth was in high spirits. “It’s been fine adventure, since I came to Albion! By the Gods, Your Majesty, I am glad I made my decision! If I’d come in state, with all my fleet and gentlemen, I’d have had a duller time, and no mistake.”
Hassan al-Giafar put the nail of the little finger of his right hand to a gap between his front teeth and picked at a piece of meat, staring moodily out of the window at the retreating river. “There was really no danger,” he said. “The ice is still firm.”
“My Lord Montfallcon exists night and day only for the Queen’s safety,” said Una with a smile of irony.
The young Caliph scowled. “Do you permit this man to monitor your every decision, madam?”
Gloriana was dismissive. “He has protected me since I was born. I fear that I am so used to it, Your Majesty, that I should feel strange without Montfallcon clucking somewhere in the background.”
King Casimir was shocked. “Hermes, madam! Are you never free?” He laid an innocent and sympathetic hand upon the Queen’s knee.
Gloriana found herself with a further problem in diplomacy, but she was rescued from it as the sleigh struck an obstacle and Casimir was flung, chuckling, back on his cushions, sliding against Hassan, who sniffed: “If this Montfallcon were my vizier, I should have him whipped for spoiling my entertainment.”
Gloriana smiled.
“But then, of course, I am a man,” said the Grand Caliph of Arabia.
“It’s true that women do tend to be more merciful,” observed King Casimir. “To abolish death by hanging from your land and replace it with exile seems to me an ideal solution, if one suffers at all from conflict of conscience. I, of course, am not bothered with such conflicts, since my power comes to me from the Parliament.”
“That is no power at all, in my opinion.” Hassan was determined to be contentious.
“Actually it is the same, if one accepts that power is given to one as a responsibility by the people one serves, eh?”
“I think we are all agreed on that,” Gloriana strove as usual, for equilibrium.
The place was reached and with bows and curtseys they went to their separate lodgings to enrobe themselves in their costumes and study their parts for the Masque.
Gloriana was met by Lord Montfallcon as she returned. “I must apologise, Your Majesty, for cutting short the entertainment. It seemed to me…”
Gloriana nodded dumbly. The strain of maintaining a balance of attention between the haughty Hassan and the confused Casimir had been greater than she had expected, and she would be glad of the hour she had to herself. “You do your duty, my Lord Chancellor, as I do mine,” she murmured. Her smile was thin. “Now you must don your disguise and join in the pleasure of the Masque. Do you know your lines?”
“I intend to read them, madam. There has not been time…”
“Of course. In an hour, then, my lord.” With a guilty movement of her hand she passed into her apartments
