“Loved, as always, my lord. Revered.”
“Gossip?”
“Unimportant.”
“Aye?” A sceptical twitch of the eyebrows.
“Not…” began Tinkler awkwardly. “Not worthy…”
“What’s the gossip, Tinkler?”
“Of several murders, of a return to the days of Hern’s mad Court, of a Queen driven insane by her…”
“Unfulfilled lust?”
“You might say”
“What else?”
“Sir Thomas Perrott imprisoned by you, my lord, and tortured. The Perrotts banished and planning rebellion. And the Queen’s favourites ravishing any virtuous girl they can find.”
“Worthy of Quire, that gossip.” Lord Montfallcon’s short laugh was horrible. “The old days, in truth. What’s the remedy suggested in the ordinaries?”
“Every man and woman has a different one, sir.” Tinkler began to warm to his subject now that he knew what was expected of him.
“But in general.”
“There’s a common belief Her Majesty should marry, my lord. A strong man, they say. Like yourself.”
“They’d have me marry her?”
“No, sir. Well, not many.”
“Because I’m not trusted, eh?”
Tinkler blushed. “They think you too grim, sir, and too old.”
“So who?”
“A suitor, you mean, my lord?”
“Who does the mob think the Queen should marry?”
“A King, sir.”
“Poland?”
“No, sir, for Poland’s King is not considered strong enough for a hard-willed woman. As consort, many think that the Saracen monarch, who was much admired during this winter’s visit for a handsome, manly, martial King, would be the proper candidate.”
“Why? We are not at war.”
“The broadsheets. The street songs. I brought you some, my lord. All speak of it. Do they not? Of civil war. Of war with Arabia. Or war against the Tatars.”
“Where there’s a will to war, a war will always follow,” mused Montfallcon. “That intent must be changed.”
“I didn’t hear you, my lord, I regret.”
Montfallcon studied Tinkler. “So the Queen shall marry the Grand Caliph, who will master her, lead Albion to victory…”
“Many sympathise with the Perrotts, sir. The murder of Lady Mary sparked their imaginations.”
“Such murders always do. And that contained all the proper elements. Innocence destroyed!”
“So they believe the Perrotts will rise, my lord, and that many will join them. They think that the Perrotts will support the Queen and clear the palace of…” Again Tinkler paused.
“Of Hern’s old men?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“The Queen is virtuous. But not her servants?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“She’s too weak to rule alone?”
“Pretty much what they do say, my lord.”
Montfallcon lowered his head, fingered his lip, nodding slowly. “And they fear that a weak Queen means a weak Albion.”
“A strong-willed woman badly advised is closer to the mark.” Tinkler moved his dented velvet hat upon his head. “This is not shared opinion. Some disagree.”
“But Faith weakens, eh?”
“Not too much. Save for the murders, all would be forgotten in a day. Even the murders will be forgotten in time. If there had been no more-but I heard.”
“There have been no more murders.”
“The Countess of Scaith fled, I heard, after attempting to poison Lord Rhoone, killing his children.”
Lord Montfallcon waved a hand. “Nonsense. She fled for other reasons.”
“Some say you had her incarcerated, my lord. In Bran’s Tower. With Sir Tancred. Sir Tancred was popular, too.”
“And I never was.” Lord Montfallcon smiled. “How easy it is to give them heroes and villains. And I was content it should be thus, until that murder. If only I had Quire. What a beautiful ferret. What a golden-tongued spreader of tales. Well, it’s up to you, Tinkler. You must tell them how the Queen is strong, that she considers dismissing me, that I am close to the end, that my health fails, as does Lord Ingle-borough’s.”
Tinkler’s eyes were widening. “This cannot be, my lord.”
Montfallcon threw down gold. “Your pay’s safe, Master Tinkler. Tell them the Accession Tilt may be witnessed as usual, for a week from walls and roofs, by the commons, that the Queen will appear and that, shortly thereafter, she’ll begin her Annual Progress through the Realm. Tell them Sir Thomas Perrott was almost certainly murdered by the Countess of Scaith, who has herself fled Albion-that’s the truth-and that when the Perrotts realise this they’ll become wholly loyal and obedient again. We’ll not say, yet, if the Queen plans marriage, for that’s the best counter-rumour we have, and it would be foolish to use it too soon, before suitors were selected.”
“The Queen receives suitors, my lord?”
“Tell them that, if you wish.”
“I think it will cheer the commons to know all this,” said Tinkler soberly.
“Aye, it might.” Lord Montfallcon put a quill to his teeth and picked. “You may go, Tinkler.”
The obsequious quasi-Quire padded away. Lord Montfallcon rang his bell and the little page Patch, in green velvet, entered, doffing his cap and bowing low. “My master’s without, sir. With Sir Thomasin Ffynne.”
“Let them enter.”
Patch signed and stepped aside. Lackeys came slowly forward, with the poles of Lord Ingleborough’s litter upon their shoulders. In his chair, dreamy with pain, left hand on weakening heart, Ingleborough swayed as he was lowered. He reached out a knotted fist to Patch, who ran forward. There was love-father and son, husband and wife-between the two, and even Montfallcon was touched by the affection they displayed. Ingleborough was so consumed by gout that there was hardly a muscle free of some degree of agony, but his brain remained good, when he did not attempt to drug himself with drink or opiates. Behind him hobbled Sir Thomasin Ffynne, serious of face, in dark velvets and black linen. Patch closed the doors on the departing lackeys and, at a word from Lord Montfallcon, locked them.
Lord Montfallcon sighed. He offered Sir Tom a chair, which Sir Tom took, lifting the weight from his ivory foot. “It’s hot.” He massaged the joint above the foot. “Like the Indies.”
“Would that you’d gone there, Tom,” grumbled Ingleborough. “The diplomacy involved in freeing you! The Moors have been tardy as a matter of policy. Neptune knows why! They’ve ambitions…”
“We can be sure of that,” said Lord Montfallcon.
“It all smells of war.” Ingleborough winced, for he had clenched his hand too hard. Patch stroked the pulsing knots. “I’ve never known it more imminent, since Hern’s time. What’s the answer, Perion?”
“The Queen must marry.”
“But she won’t.”
“She must.”
“But she won’t.” Lord Ingleborough laughed. “Gods! She’s worse than Hern, for she can’t be deceived and flattered as he was. She knows us too well-we three in particular. She’s been privy to our casual talk since she was a child. She knows all our tricks.”
