Lord Montfallcon wondered if Tinkler spoke significantly to remind him of service given to Albion. He looked at the thin-faced, snag-toothed scarecrow, fearing that he misjudged him, too, and that he might dismiss another Quire.
But Tinkler, glad of the gold, anxious to placate him, miserable as a dog deserted by its master, was not a substitute for the clever little Quire.
Lord Montfallcon became bitter. There had never been a servant as quick and brilliant. He had lost the best.
“If you see him, Master Tinkler-should he live-you’ll give him my most anxious felicitations?”
“I shall, sir, of course. We’re both loyal men, sir.”
“Aye.” Montfallcon picked up a letter, in code, from Bohemia. “You’ll point out to him how much I miss him, how much the Empire needs him, how greatly his skills and his arts are appreciated here.”
“It’s what he was wondering about, my lord. That.”
“What?”
“Whether you appreciated how finely he performed the deeds you set him. With what perfection he planned and composed his plots, to make all neat, to divert suspicion, to bring further information which might be of use. To put a stop to evil gossip and libels. He regarded himself as a poet might, my lord.”
“And I?”
“His most understanding audience.”
Lord Montfallcon sighed and let the coded note from Bohemia flutter down.
Tinkler, in a fit of honesty evidently against his own interests, burst out: “He’s murdered, my lord. I know. He’s dead. All those wits and all that courage, gone!”
“Bring me the proof of that, Tinkler, and I’ll pay you very well. Or bring me disproof, and I’ll pay you as much or more. Bring me Captain Quire, alive to this room, Master Tinkler, and I will guarantee a rich pension for the rest of your life.”
Tinkler lowered his head, then looked up quickly, as if another thought had formed.
Lord Montfallcon’s smile was grim. “And in the meanwhile, Tinkler, bring me what news you can from foreign sources. Your employment is secured.”
Tinkler bowed and retreated for the Spiders’ Door, to make his way along the very periphery of those forgotten vaults and catacombs, hidden in the palaces as Hades itself might be hidden in Heaven’s very heart.
While Tinkler broke, with some relief, into the damp, bright April air, Lord Montfallcon forced his hectic brain to dwell upon the matter of the forthcoming Celebration of Spring, at which the Queen must honour various worthies and placate a myriad of minor dignitaries. He was thankful that the main business would be left to Gallimari, Master of the Revels, and that only the diplomatic problems would be his. Such problems would be time-wasting, but at least they were not of any particular consequence. These public occasions were important in that they displayed the Queen’s presence to the people, reassured them of her greatness and Albion’s security, wealth and power.
He found Master Wheldrake’s verses, submitted to him yesterday, as he had requested, and carefully read them through. He had always been a trifle suspicious of Wheldrake, especially when the poet had first arrived at the palace with a reputation of sensuousness and impiety, but there was no doubt Wheldrake’s work had improved considerably under the influence and disciplines of the Court. Montfallcon regretted he had already drawn up the Spring Honours, but he determined to ask the Queen next season to bestow at least a baronetcy upon one who seemed to understand so well the Mysteries and Accountabilities of the Matter of Albion.
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
In a gown of white and green, stitched with tiny buttercups, daisies and daffodils, upon an open litter whose surrounding frame was woven with garlands of ivy, wallflowers, bluebells and marigolds, Queen Gloriana was borne by her bright gentlemen into the wide, walled park behind the palace. Here, fallow deer looked out from the dappled shade of oaks and poplars which thickly hid the high wall itself from view, while overhead, in the swaying Tree Walk, trumpeteers placed brazen instruments to lips and blew
For today she came as May Queen, into the grounds where the May Pole stood, and where courtiers already were arranged, as shepherds, shepherdesses, milkmaids and their swains; a scattering of Cupids and a Pan, some fauns, five dryads, and one gigantic Lamb. From the Tree Walk and from galleries in the palace, many other noble visitors watched the ceremony.
The litter was lowered, the gentlemen (among them the Countess of Scaith in huntsman’s garb, with bow and quiver) took their positions on either side while the company made its obeisance and the trumpets sounded again.
High above on a balcony overlooking the park, Lord Montfallcon stood, giving his eye first to the pretty scene below and then to the grey cloud which gathered as it sped from the west, to obscure the sun. It had always been his regret that he had no control over the weather and that Doctor Dee, who might have been excellently employed in this manner, had discovered no magical method to exert Man’s power upon the elements. Doctor Dee would suffer with the rest, should it rain, for he was amongst them, in woolly satyr’s disguise, together with Lady Lyst (a water nymph in blue silk), Sir Amadis Cornfield (an elegant cowboy), Lady Pamela Cornfield (a shepherdess with crook and taxidermist’s ewe), Sir Vivien and Lady Cynthia Rich (huntsman and huntress) and Master Ernest Wheldrake, in some sort of elaborate avian disguise (perhaps a nightingale) with nodding plumage and gilded beak, to read his greeting to the May Queen. As the first large spots of rain began to fall, Lord Montfallcon craned to hear the distant piping….
Master Wheldrake pulled a sodden feather or two away from his eyes and read a little more rapidly as the ink began to spread across the parchment and blot lines he had made no effort to memorise.
“Well put as ever, Master Wheldrake!” The May Queen waved her silver sceptre, twined with myrtle, while lackeys rushed to throw green canvas over the litter’s frame and protect Gloriana from the drenching the others must expect before the awnings were around them.
Rain thudded like running feet above her head as she took up the sword which hobbling Lord Ingleborough brought her on a cushion, and dubbed brave sailors “Sir” before, as she put it, they drowned whilst awaiting their
