cautiously he had selected these men, for qualities of character and intelligence. Again he began to question his own judgement, but was interrupted by, of all people, Sir Orlando Hawes, panting, in white, securing a button of his doublet, apologising for lateness. His ebony skin seemed to have an unhealthy cast to it and he, too, sweated, stinking strongly of lavender water and a woman’s bedchamber, as most of the others stank of roses or poppies. A fine collection of wilting blooms, Montfallcon thought. The first crisis close to home in nearly thirteen years and they broke. And yet, he wondered, could it be merely the murder that had changed them so? It seemed unlikely. He yearned for some of his old, grim colleagues, now dead or exiled or retired, who would have responded to the problem with practical understanding. A servant or two on the rack, a noble or two threatened with accusations of treachery, and the truth would have come shouting forth.
The doors were opened. They rose, even Ingleborough, at the Queen’s entrance. In heavy finery she moved slowly to her chair, and as they bowed they were blinded by the bright light from the window behind her. She stood at the table for a moment, contemplating them, thoughtful, then she sat down, allowing them to resume their own chairs.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Montfallcon was surprised by the animation in her voice. “What business have we?” she asked, when they had responded with their greetings.
Lord Ingleborough, forgetful of protocol, announced:
“Tom Ffynne’s ransom is accepted. He returns in his own vessel shortly.”
“Excellent news. But he must be chastised, my Lord Admiral. All his booty-if he has any-confiscated. And he must make over a sum towards his own ransom.”
Lord Ingleborough nodded, agreeing with this justice.
Montfallcon felt his own spirits lift. Lately the Queen had been careless of the Council’s business, offering scant guidance to them. Now she was once more valiant. A warmth bloomed within him that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. His Gloriana was showing her father’s strength again. The Council was becoming more animated, looking expectantly down the table to where the Queen sat, upright and smiling.
“Your Majesty,” he began, “in the matter of the murder of Lady Mary, I regret-”
She waved a royal hand. “That business is best forgot, my lord. Though we feel sympathy for poor, mad Sir Tancred, there seems little doubt he was the murderer, after all.”
She brought relief to them. They had, it seemed, waited only for her positive word. Darkness was dismissed from every skull.
“There remains the matter of the Perrott lads,” said Lord Montfallcon. “We have news they’re arming ships at rapid rate.”
“To attack Arabia?”
“It seems so, Your Majesty.”
“Then they must be stopped.”
“Agreed, Your Majesty. However, it is a delicate problem, for they act surreptitiously.”
“Summon them to Court. There’ll be no secrets in this State. We have always said so.”
“They will not come, Your Majesty.” Sir Amadis, as a Perrott relative, spoke with some embarrassment.
Sir Orlando said: “Cannot the guns be spiked, the ships holed?” He looked to Ingleborough.
“Possibly.” The old man drew a deep breath. “But this would only delay and worsen the situation.”
“Have you the men to do it?” asked Sir Orlando of Montfallcon.
Lord Montfallcon once again regretted Quire’s death. If he agreed, he would have to send Tinkler and Hogge and some like them. And they would bungle it. He might even be forced to recruit Webster and his garrulous mock- gentlemen.
“You hesitate, my lord.” Sir Orlando was again his stoical self.
The Queen looked on, frowning, unhappy.
“I do, Sir Orlando. I am not certain it is the best scheme. It is underhand.”
“Then we must be underhand, if the Perrotts are underhand.”
Now he realised that Hawes was speaking uncommonly wildly, believing himself to be forceful. Montfallcon became doubtful and looked to the silent Queen. “Your Majesty has never permitted such methods in the past. She has always been most sensible to the fact that the Crown must be seen to be without blemish.” Now that she appeared to acquiesce in the kind of scheme with which he was all too familiar, he grew alarmed. All his life he had protected her from knowledge of how he maintained her security, her diplomacy. To hear a scheme discussed in open forum and not immediately dismissed by her was shocking to him. “I think not.”
“Otherwise we risk an Arabian war, eh?” said Master Orme.
“Exactly, but-”
“Then let’s have one.” Master Palfreyman was on his feet. The Secretary for Arms was unusually fierce. “Let’s punish ’em. Show ’em their place. They have been allowed to scheme too long-murdering our folk, challenging our power, having the gall to propose marriage to our Queen. Let’s raze Baghdad, Your Majesty!”
The Queen was pale, as if by imitating her father’s mood she realised for the first time what could be released in her name, but she smiled. “There can be no war,” she said. “It has always been our agreed policy, with Sir Orlando, that war wastes lives and money, that it introduces a false sense of unity while it is being fought and creates unexpected dissension when it is over, for once men get the habit of making war they find it hard to lose, and must look for other wars, other enemies.”
“So we attack the brave Perrotts, instead. Betray their cause, which is a just one,” said sardonic Master Fowler. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” He sat down.
“The Perrotts have been summoned and refuse to come,” she told them. “Such disobedience angers us, but yet we sympathise. We forgive them their wrath. They have lost first a sister and then a father. But what proof is there that Arabia is at fault?”
“It is well-known, Your Majesty,” said Sir Amadis. “Some vengeance taken by Lord Shahryar before he returned to Baghdad. You must admit he hurried away soon after.”
“Recalled by his Caliph. This rumour sprang from nowhere. Sir Tancred, I insist, was the murderer.” She seemed to burn with regal fury. “I’ll not permit war. Never that, unless attacked.”
“Arabia proves herself aggressive, daily. She’ll strike soon enough.” This from saturnine Master Palfreyman again.
“If she strikes,” said Gloriana, “we’ll strike back. We are Albion. It is our duty to resist the old habits of the Age of Iron. Are not all of you here, as every one of our people, across three continents, convinced of that? Do you wish this delicate Golden Age to survive? To become sturdy? To become set, firm-moulded, inviolable? You do, gentlemen, I know. It is the dream we all share. The dream Lord Montfall-con and Lord Ingleborough dreamed while day by terrible day feet tramped the steps of the scaffold and the headsman’s axe was never dry. We show the whole world the road back to true Chivalry. We stand against injustice, immorality, cruelty, tyranny. And this is why we are secure. One base act on Albion’s part, and the structure crumbles, the dream is destroyed. I am your Gloriana, your Queen, your conscience and your Faith. I remind you of a Duty which I have not forgotten and which you must not forget.”
Montfallcon’s face was shining as he listened. He saw the expressions of selfishness, of rage, of disappointment, of cynicism, despair and malice melting from every face. Lord Ingleborough waved gouty fists and called “Hear! Hear!” in counterpoint, looking about him as if to challenge any who declined assent.
And Queen Gloriana laughed and grew to her full height, her stiffened collar a white, glowing aurora behind the blazing auburn of her hair, and the green-blue eyes in her head, the proud unflinching eyes, were the eyes of King Hern, whom some had believed to be the very Prince of Demons, the leader of the Wild Hunt, hiding antlers beneath his tall, iron crown; and the hands on her hips were the strong hands of her warrior forebears, while the smile, following the laughter, was the sweet, wistful smile of her mother, Flana, who, at the age of thirteen, had given her life for Gloriana’s. By this means, half-spontaneously, half-deliberately, she reminded her Council of her legend and her power; and of her origins which even they could believe, as she stood thus before them, were at least half supernatural.
Lord Montfallcon bowed before her. “You do well, madam, to remind us. We shall do our duty, every one of us.”
“One petty action,” she said, “and we betray all else.”
Then, disguising her own exhaustion and her inner fears, she bid them good morrow and left them to
