“But she also loves us and will follow our advice,” said Montfallcon significantly. “Now, Tom, what have you to say concerning Arabia’s and Poland’s rivalry?”
“Since New Year’s this was hatching.” Tom Ffynne’s ruddy cheeks seemed to shine the brighter as, smiling, he reported his heavy news. “Casimir and Hassan left here deadly rivals, each thinking that with the other dead the Queen would be his. A familiar tale-the woman or the man is never asked, the rivals develop their feud as fully as the lack of facts permits. The fewer facts, the greater the development. The less interested the courted object, the more the rivals are certain she pines for one of them and will be his, if the other’s gone.”
“We know these failings, Tom.” Montfallcon was impatient by nature and, of late, had begun to lose the self- control he had for so long maintained. “But the specific rivalry…?”
“There’s to be a duel between Poland and Arabia.”
“No!” Montfallcon was amused, disbelieving.
“I have it from the Emir of Babylon, who’s close to the Caliph.”
“Where do they fight?”
“On a ship. A Turkish ship. In the very middle of the Middle Sea.”
“With swords?”
“With all the weapons of Chivalry.”
“Horsed? They can’t be!”
“So I hear. The ship is large-the whole deck will be given to the tournament. Lance, sword, mace and so on.”
“To the death?”
“Or a wounding.”
“But death’s possible? Is it, Tom?”
“Aye.”
“So we’ll have the threat of war between Arabia, whom we protect, and Poland, our best friend.” Montfallcon was very grey. He fell in his chair. He looked at his two friends. He bit his lip.
“And Tatary will move,” said Lord Ingleborough. “They are poised to detect a weakening in the fabric we’ve woven for thirteen years.”
“The Queen should choose one of them. That would stop ’em. But which?” Lord Montfallcon straightened his back. “Poland, whom our people can’t respect, or Arabia, who couldn’t give us the heir we’ll need? Which?”
Tom Ffynne put his finger along his nose. “Arabia. There’s plenty who’ll sire the heir for him.”
Montfallcon continued to brood. “A little more of this talk and there’ll be a hundred claimants for kinship with the Queen’s nine daughters. You know that, do you, gentlemen? You’ve considered that?”
“For the crown?”
“It’s likely.”
“Things aren’t so bad,” said Tom Ffynne.
“Not quite. But in thirteen years we have created the Golden Age. Such creation takes very little time. But it takes still less for terror to descend, willy-nilly, upon a nation. Gloriana should marry Arabia. Hassan is a citizen of Albion, after all. There are Roman precedents. Greek.”
“He’ll give us further trouble. For the Saracens wait only for our sanction to make war on Tatary. The Queen knows that. It is one of the reasons she’ll not consider marriage to Hassan. She fears that she will put too much power into the hands of another Hern.” Lord Ingleborough’s voice trembled as pain seized him.
“We shall have to control him,” said Montfallcon.
“There’ll be Saracens at the Court, seeking to control the Queen-and us,” said Tom Ffynne. “I think we’d be poorly off with Hassan as consort.”
“It could be made plain he
“In words?” said Lord Ingleborough. “Certainly, that can be agreed. But in actuality? He has ambitions to use Albion’s might against the Tatar Empire. All know that. And if there’s a hint of a marriage, we can be certain that the Tatars will attack Arabia, at least, before they are attacked. It’s better, Perion, to stand alone, behind the Queen. Or find a husband closer to home and scotch the reason for the fight. Albion’s seen worse threats.”
“War would destroy all we’ve achieved,” said Lord Montfallcon. He groaned. “How has this happened? In a few months we have become threatened from within as well as from without! I kept everything in perfect balance. How did I lose control?”
“With Lady Mary’s murder,” said Lord Ingleborough, “and dissension here, amongst us.”
“One murder? Impossible!”
“Perhaps Poland learned of your scheme to kidnap him, Perion,” said Tom Ffynne. “If so…”
“He’d need that verified. And there’s none, now, who can be believed. The main kidnapper’s dead.”
“You had him killed?” Lord Ingleborough struggled in his chair.
“Not I. Arabia.”
“Why?”
Montfallcon shrugged. “He over-reached himself in a matter of espionage.”
“On your behalf?”
“On Albion’s.”
“Now you have it!” said Lord Ingleborough. There was sweat on him. “It is as I always warned. Use the old methods-and you see the old results emerging.”
Montfallcon shook his head. “That’s nought to do with Lady Mary’s murder and the rest of the business with the Perrotts. For we must not forget them. If they attack Arabia…”
“They’ll be popular for it,” said Tom Ffynne.
“We’ll not be able to support them.” The Lord High Admiral was wincing as he spoke. “We cannot.”
“And if we stop ’em,” said Tom Ffynne, “half the nobles in Albion will be against us, as well as the commons. We could have some sort of uprising. Not a large one, possibly. But who knows? One thing leads swiftly to another.”
The pain in Ingleborough’s face was reflected in Montfallcon’s, who again saw his great dream fading, even as they spoke. He stood up. “There must be a way to save all that we have schemed for, all the good we have created!”
“Not by the old methods.” Lord Ingleborough drew Patch to him, as if to protect the lad from Montfallcon’s rage. “We acquired bad habits in Hern’s service, even as we worked against him. You cannot help yourself, Perion. You continue to use the instruments of secrecy and terror-modified, perhaps, but you still use them. You plot along conventional lines.”
“To protect our Queen and Albion!” Montfallcon did not raise his voice, but his tone intensified and was therefore much more fearsome. “To protect the innocence of the girl whose life we three protected for so long from the cruelty and caprice of the father! My whole soul has been invested in this service-as have yours. I refuse to accept your inference, Lisuarte, that my actions have been in any way misguided.”
“Or immoral?” Ingleborough spoke quietly his teeth clenching. The pain continued to increase in him. A hand to the heart again.
“Most morally have I protected Albion and all Albion means to us. The world’s not perfect. I have had to use certain tactics…but never have they touched the Queen. No stain…”
“Spilling blood for Albion is spilling blood in the Queen’s name.” Ingleborough sighed, lowering his chin upon his chest.
Tom Ffynne was up. “This is no good. If we three quarrel, then all we’ve achieved is surely lost.”
“I have never acted,” continued Lord Montfallcon, “unless the Queen (and therefore the Realm) was in some way threatened. Many of the dead were amiable enough, I suppose, but foolish, luring the Queen into like foolishness-indirectly, often. She never knew. We could not have the Realm discredited.”
“I fear your next admission,” groaned Ingleborough, “that you’ve had the Countess killed. And those others.”
“The Countess’s influence upon the Queen was never good. Her advice paid scant respect to Duty. And the Queen is Albion and Albion is Duty.”
Tom Ffynne cried: “Friends! No more of this. You drive yourselves to opposing ends of a brittle plank. When it snaps you’ll both fall. Let’s keep to the middle. Remember. Our business is to maintain the balance. It is what we have always agreed. And you, Lisuarte, are in monstrous bad pain. You must retire. I’ll talk to Perion. He claims
