“They would not act against the Queen’s interest, surely?” Lady Rhoone discovered that she was still hungry and signed for a servant to return with a tray of fries. She watched as they were piled upon her pewter. “The Perrotts are famous for their loyalty.”
“There’s a hint they believe themselves betrayed by the Queen.”
“And the Queen?”
“She believes she has betrayed them, for the Lady Mary was under her protection. She believes she’s betrayed a trust. So when the Perrotts put it to her that she protected the murderer, from political considerations, she swore that she did not, yet in such a tone they believed she lied. For her voice shook, d’you see, my love?”
“They took this for an admission?”
“Aye.”
“Ah, the poor Queen. As if her grief were not already overbearing!” Lady Rhoone sadly chewed a fry. “And she with no artifice at all to disguise her true feelings, save her dignity, which is natural. Did not Montfallcon speak to the Perrotts?”
“They mistrust him. They always have, for in Hern’s time Montfallcon betrayed their uncle to his death.”
“So they have precedents.”
“Exactly. Old scores, which their father buried on Gloriana’s accession. He was loyal and he was ambitious for his girls. One married well, to Sir Amadis Cornfield, and another fairly well, to young Sir Lepsius Lee (who had been a lover of the Queen’s), and all three girls were much in favour at Court. Through this favour Sir Thomas Perrott expanded his estates and his fleets, giving good service to Albion in return, as all would swear. But now the sons call their sisters little better than traitors and, I heard, at least five of their ships are already refitted as war- vessels. Montfallcon, of course, is at his wits’ end.”
“Great Mithras, Bramandil, my lord! You are suggesting civil war? In Albion? Under the Queen?”
“Not civil war, for none would join the Perrotts. Not yet, anyhow. But a bloody uprising to disturb the Realm and shatter the faith of the common folk. Unless the Perrotts are allowed to attack Arabia-meaning war with one of our own protectorates, and the most powerful. So civil war of sorts abroad, indeed, if the Perrotts are not stopped.”
“And Sir Tom Ffynne?”
“The Queen has paid what is virtually a ransom for his restoration. She has agreed to make amends for the shipping he destroyed in the seafight. With his return, Her Majesty will receive advice, at least. And he’ll not be affected by the madness affecting the rest of the Court since Lady Mary’s murder. He’ll have intelligence from Arabia, also.”
“You think, my love, that Arabia is responsible for the murder?”
“I think it unlikely. Lord Shahryar struck me always as a practical man.”
“Then someone works to turn one against the other?” Lady Rhoone frowned, surprised at her own insight. “It can only be that.”
“In whose interest is such disruption?” Lord Rhoone moved his bulk and stood, feet spread, stretching in his green and red uniform, his brass breastplate seeming to swell as his chest swelled. “The Court depends on stability. This is not Hern’s time, when advantage could be gained by murder and treachery. Now advantage is gained by service, charity and loyalty.”
“Some foreign plot?”
“We are all too ready,” said Lord Rhoone wisely, “to blame some outside source for our dismay. I am ever reluctant to shift the blame onto strangers before I am certain that the malaise is not indigenous.”
His wife embraced him, her great bosom engulfing his armour. “You are too just, dear heart. Too cautious. Too kindly for your position.”
“I protect the Queen.”
“And sturdily.”
“To protect her, I must not give rein to the night-horses of the imagination, which would bear my thoughts off, willy-nilly, away from my simple duty. Therefore I refuse speculation. As does Lord Montfallcon, though his task is harder. If the Court suffers a summer madness worse than some it has suffered in the past, then it is my task to counter it with common sense.”
She kissed him. “But you would not object if I were to visit our estates, taking the children with me?”
“My own thoughts. Go soon.”
Lord Rhoone lifted his massive head to stare pensively at a plate of apples.
THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER
Iguanas and peacocks gave a singular, tropical quality to the Queen’s summer lawns as they stalked and prowled the grass, the flower beds and the terraces of her gardens. The strange, leathery smell of the huge iridescent reptiles, brought as a present by Sir Tom Ffynne and kept through most of the year sleeping near the furnaces heating the palace, reached Gloriana’s nostrils through her open windows as she studied the plans presented to her by Master Marcilius Gallimari, Master of her Revels.
“It will as usual be a bright and elaborate affair, Your Majesty,” he told her eagerly, “with all the trappings of ancestral Chivalry. In the great courtyard, to remind the people of their fortune. With yourself as Queen Urganda, to attend the Tilt.”
She sighed. “The plans seem most cleverly conceived, Master Gallimari.” She leaned back upon her couch and moved a lassitudinous fan near her face. She was clad all in light-coloured linens, muslins, lace and silk, with a little lace cap upon her glowing hair. “I assure you of my approval.”
“I shall ask Master Wheldrake for some verses-since the topic is so close to his heart.”
“Verses? Of course. And you should commission a few lines, at least, from Master Wallis, or he will be offended.”
“Perhaps a prelude and a song?”
“Excellent.”
“Master Tolcharde will create the illusions. And the parts-of knights, gods, goddesses, monsters and so forth?”
“Choose whom you will.”
“Some already have chosen their own parts. Your permission is required, Your Majesty.” His dark face sought a smile.
“They have it.”
Master Gallimari was somewhat frustrated; disheartened by the Queen’s evident uninterest in his elaborate entertainment, planned for Accession Day. He had, however, become used to her apparent indifference since the Spring Festivities. He was sure, sometimes, that she blamed him for Lady Mary’s death. Hesitating, in the hope of detecting denial or confirmation of his fears, he added: “And the music, Your Majesty?”
“Commission some.”
“Composer and consort must be paid.”
“We shall pay them.”
“And dancers.”
“Master Priest can supply dancers, as usual.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
Master Gallimari looked down upon the heavy, tragic face of Albion’s Queen. “Your Majesty is not displeased?”
“With the Summer Entertainment? Your inventions, as ever, Master Gallimari, are excellent. There should be jolly sport.”
He was certain he detected irony.
“It seems, Your Majesty, that you have lost interest in my work. If there is something lacking…”
