herself Fearing that if she caught Lady Lyst’s eye she would also be infected, Una returned to the front and was immediately taken up by Lord Montfallcon, who was almost gay He was most definitely warmer than usual towards her, for he disliked her, regarding her as a rival to the Queen’s ear, a disruptive voice that lured the Queen away from duty “Fine words, eh?” said Montfallcon. “Wheldrake excelled himself this Twelfth. We must give him a knighthood in the spring. I’ll speak to the Queen. ‘That Glorious Albion might their burden bear, While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!’ Very true, eh?”
Delighting to find their normal roles so thoroughly reversed, Una grinned, “Oh, yes, my lord! Very true, my lord!' — and heard a further burst from behind the screen. She moved, with Montfallcon on her arm, towards the centre of the Great Hall, where the Queen enjoyed the flattery of kings and princes and, in her present mood, might set an earldom on the shoulders of the poet whom, a few minutes before, she had been ready to thrash as thoroughly as, in his secret thoughts, he desired. Thus with inadequate verse did Master Wheldrake find honour and lose the only reward he would ever value.
Doctor Dee passed by, giving his close attention to the words of his old friend King Rudolf of Bohemia, who was explaining the results of his latest experiments.
“And was the transmutation then attained?” asked Dee. Una saw him lift his eye in one swift, stealthy glance at the Queen’s neck.
“Unfortunately the success was only partial. The theme of the Masque reminds me of something I was reading concerning the true nature of the dwarves who featured in the old sagas. They were, in fact, powerful sorcerers, not originally of this planet, who journeyed from another world, bearing with them all the alchemical secrets they had learned there. This is the basis of our own fragmentary scientific knowledge, you see. If their writings could be found-perhaps somewhere in the North Pole-we should truly be embarking on a new age in mankind’s history. I have sent out three or four expeditions, but unfortunately none has, as yet, returned….”
The music, lively and delicate now, had begun again, and, still in costume, masquers joined with audience in the Trippe, a complicated form of gallimard, which was currently in fashion, but not at all suited to someone dressed in the costume of the Norn of the Present. Una of Scaith began to look forward to the Feast.
In the wide yard of the Gryffyn Inn there blazed a magnificent Twelfth Night bonfire hot enough to warm everyone who stood around it. Hot enough to warm even those who lounged in the open galleries above, pouring beer upon the heads of friends and enemies, guffawing at the antics of the troupe of dwarf fiddlers who pranced in a circle around the fire and squeaked and scraped in a boisterous parody of music. Feeling for the parts of their companions denied them, for one reason or another, through the earlier days of the festival, tearing at pieces of meat and bread and cheese, capering, dancing or merely swaying from side to side, pissing, farting and vomiting in less than private corners of the innyard, claiming everlasting affection for acquaintances of that night or eternal hatred for their oldest comrades, they filled every space. The cold air seemed to burn and was rich enough to nourish anyone who breathed it, carrying as it did the fumes of boiled beef and roasted fowls, of wine and rum, of sweat and spunk, of blistering wood and melted snow. There came yells of laughter from all corners of the inn, and sometimes, as when Tinkler was pushed backwards into the fire by a doxy who did not favour him, the laughter was so loud that the timbers trembled. Here, too, were professional clowns-some of those who had earlier entertained the Queen herself-the zanies, the harlekin, the bragging, strutting gallant, the old dotard, the beautiful ladies-in clothes of an Italian cut, though most of them were native to London-in their cups thanks to the Queen’s gold and giving to this audience free what the Queen had paid for.
Into the noisy mob, with his arm about the waist of his paramour, stalked cocky Captain Quire, his sword jutting behind him like the wagging tail of a triumphant mongrel who has found the way into the butcher’s store. The elaborate white and silver costume of his companion, the little tinsel crown upon the coiffeured head, face powdered white, eyes hugely exaggerated, lips a startling crimson, were in evident parody of the Queen as she had appeared during the festivities on the ice.
Tinkler, patting at the back of his singed coat, staggered up to greet his master and was shocked. “Hermes, Captain, what’s this?”
“Our very own Queen, Tink, come to see her people. Pay your respects, Sir Tinkler. Let’s see you make a good leg.”
And Tinkler, infected as always by Quire’s confidence, fell in with the charade at once and bowed deep, whipping off his tattered cap, his snag tooth twisting upwards in a grin. “Welcome, Your Majesty-to the-the Court of King Booze!” He giggled and staggered, grabbing hold of dark-chinned Hogge, who passed with two tankards in either hand. “May I present to Your Majesty Lord Grunt of Hogge and'-he pulled on the wrist of the wench who had pushed him into the fire-'Lady Sow, his beautiful wife.” She pushed him again and he sat down in the slushy mud of the yard, still grinning. “But which Queen is it we honour? What’s her name?”
“Why, it’s Philomena,” said Quire, struggling from the bearskin coat to reveal his own black cloak beneath. From his belt he took his folded sombrero and smoothed it out, brushing at the crow’s feathers. “Queen Philomena- the Queen of Love!” Quire pinched his queen upon the painted cheek, upon the silken bottom, and caused a simper, though the huge, hot eyes were also a little startled, a little wary. The pair moved closer to the bonfire and Quire took one of Hogge’s tankards for himself, another for the Queen. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Gryffyn. A cheer, if you please, for your sovereign, Queen Philomena, who dubs this night a Night of Love and bids you celebrate in her name.”
As the crowd began to cheer, and some of them cried out bawdy promises to Quire’s queen, the captain looked about him in mock astonishment.
“I see no throne. What’s become of it? Where’s the Queen’s great Chair of State? What shall she sit upon?”
The answer was loud and conventional. Quire continued to play to the crowd. He held up his hands. “You are bad hosts. Sir Harlekin here will tell you that the Queen’s guests were better treated.” He put his arm around the patch-coated shoulder of the comedian, who hiccuped theatrically in his face and scratched his eye under his mask. “All had chairs, did they not?”
“They did, sir.”
“Good, solid chairs?”
“Excellent chairs, sir. Your Queen’s a beauty and I’d swear she’s-”
But already a large, high-backed chair was being passed over the heads of the mob and placed so that it was framed by the firelight behind. Again Quire bowed. “Be seated, madam, if you please.” With an awkward curtsey the mock-queen sat and stared around at the newfound Court, who, slack-mouthed, stared back. It seemed that she was drunk, or drugged, for her eyes were glazed and her own mouth moved oddly, though she showed lechery enough for Quire whenever he tickled her and licked her ear and whispered into it.
“Oh, Phil, how you’d satisfy the Caliph now-so much better than the real Queen.” Quire grinned, and hugged his concubine tighter.
And Phil Starling, gone quite Eros-mad, simpered at his lover, his master, and looked at the wonderful ruby ring upon his finger and could not believe that such riches could be his.
THE TENTH CHAPTER
It seemed so permanent,” said Lady Lyst, kneeling on her window seat and looking down into the February morning. “I thought the snow had come to stay forever. Look, Wheldrake, it’s melting. See, crocuses and snowdrops!” She stared over her shoulder at her untidy room, scattered with books, papers, ink, instruments, dresses, bottles, stuffed animals and living birds, where her tiny crimson-combed lover strutted, in a black dressing gown, a sheet of paper in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Um,” he said. “Well, spring won’t be long now. Listen'-and he quoted the sheet:
