Gloriana

and allowed the doors to be closed, for once, against her watchdog.

Lady Mary Perrott came forward, looking a little weary, as usual. Gloriana raised her arms. “Strip me off, Mary.” She removed her crown with a sigh. “And then, I pray you, stroke me for a while, to rid me of my aches and pains.”

Lady Mary took the crown and gestured for the maids to disrobe the Queen. Her costume was ready, near Gloriana’s. She was to go as a Valkyrie while her demanding lover Sir Tancred went as Baldur.

In her own rooms, the Countess of Scaith inspected the jewelled casket which had been sent to her. She read the note, in Hassan’s own hand. It thanked her for her courtesies and kindnesses (she recalled none) and begged her to remember him to the Queen with great affection. Una shook her head as her maids unlaced her, wondering if she should tell the Queen of this development or leave the story for an airing when they both relaxed. She decided on the latter.

In nothing but her shift she resumed her position on the couch, took another pipe of tobacco and cast her eyes over Master Wheldrake’s opening lines for the Masque.

In Winter, when the Year burns low

As Fire wherein no firebrands glow,

And Winds dishevel as they blow

The lovely stormy wings of snow,

The hearts of Northern men burn bright

With joy that mocks the Joy of Spring

To hear all Heaven’s keen clarions ring

Music that bids the Spirit sing

And Day gives thanks for Night.

They lacked his usual intensity, she thought, but then he was usually reluctant to write for the Court Entertainments, and it seemed that of late he had been particularly distracted, spending most of his time with that ruined intelligence, that fragile beauty, the haunted Lady Lyst.

The pipe smoked, Una considered her costume; then, with an effort, got to her feet and moved to the cupboard where it was kept. Her fellow Norns, the Lady Rhoone and Lady Cornfield, would expect her to be on time.

Una paused, looking about her, certain that she was watched, but the room was empty save for herself and the maid’s cat. She looked up into the shadows of the ceiling where a small grille admitted air, then shrugged and reached for her corselet.

In the Great Hall of the palace, decorated now in symbolic representation of icy mountains and doomy skies, the masquers took their sieges, wearing furs and brass and silver and all the barbaric magnificence of some Arctic castle’s denizens, while the audience, composed of most of those who had been presented earlier to the Queen, sat, rank upon rank, in chairs, and the musicians in the gallery began to play the music composed by Master Harvey for the occasion, full of sonorous horns and bass viols.

The Countess of Scaith, in hood and black fur, had already spoken her gloomy introduction and stood back so that Odin and Freyja might come forward. Odin, in eye-patch and flop-brimmed hat, a stuffed raven swaying on his shoulder, a plaster head in one hand, was played by reluctant Lord Montfallcon. Queen Gloriana played Freyja.

Lady Rhoone, as Skaal, the Norn of the Future, gave her lines in a voice to rival her huge husband’s (Lord Rhoone played Thor):

“Now Fimbul Winter falls upon the fields,

The Age of Knife and Axe and Cloven Shields,

And violent deeds are wreak’d on men of peace

While Odin, holding Mimer’s sever’d head,

Plans the Last Fight ‘gainst those living and those dead,

And in Black Grief’s Gulf the Fenris wolf’s releas’d!”

Awkwardly Lord Montfallcon held the plaster head aloft and read from the page he tried to hide, while in the farthest rank poor Wheldrake winced and clutched at his body, feeling an agony he could never experience at Lady Lyst’s hand.

“Harken! Heimdal’s horn is blown

And nine worlds wake!

Across our ancient bridge the Giants do come

And Bifrost breaks!

Soon Skoll shall swallow up the sun

The world-ash quakes!”

It was now Gloriana’s turn. She had seen Master Wheldrake and wondered if his grief were not, in some degree, inspired by guilt. She drew breath and, as Freyja, intoned:

“On Ironwood’s hill Storm Eagle’s wings

Flap wild wind across the world

While in Midgard commoners and kings

To Hela all are hurl’d

And Fjular-Suttung in disguise goes he

To steal the Sword of Victory.”

Next, burly Lord Rhoone, as Thor, sporting a good-sized hammer:

“The Gods of Asgard do not fear their Dusk

But to the Battle gladly go.

I’ll dare the Midgard serpent’s tearing tusk,

Destroy mankind’s most deadly foe,

Then die midst fire and snow!”

And on in this vein for a while before Una must step forward again to conclude the Masque with:

“Thus Ragnarok is come and Gods lie dead!

In noble conflict were they slain-

Bluff Thor, sly Loke, fair Frey-none fled

The final battle or the fiercest pain.

And so the World’s New Age they ascertain’d

That Glorious Albion might their burden bear

While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!”

Una noticed that Master Wheldrake had not waited for the applause but was already, with desperate glance to Lady Lyst, sliding from the hall. It seemed to Una that if the quality of Master Wheldrake’s masques continued in this course then the Queen must soon admit that a new poet should be found for the Court, but the hands of the audience were clapped with gusto and Casimir and Hassan leapt forward, almost colliding, to congratulate Gloriana on the beauty of her performance, the nobility of the lines, the wisdom of the sentiments, the appropriate sonorousness of the music, and Una was able to slip behind one of the screens on which the scenes had been painted and tear off her uncomfortable hood, finding that Lady Lyst was already there, giggling uncontrollably to