“Discover from him something of the nature of his anxiety. I should not like to offend the loyal admiral.”
“He has no loyalties but to you,” agreed Una. “These old men of your father’s place a higher value on you than do the young ones, I think, for they remember…”
“Aye.” Gloriana became distant. She misliked memories of her father or comparisons, for she had loved the monster increasingly as he grew older and sicklier and, at the end, had learned to sympathise with him, knowing that he had been too weakened by the burden she herself was barely strong enough to shoulder. “Appointments, today?”
“You wished an audience for Doctor Dee. That is arranged to follow the meeting of the Privy Council. Then there is nothing until after you have dined (at twelve until two) with the ambassador from Cathay and the ambassador from Bengahl.”
“They dispute some border?”
“Lord Montfallcon has a paper and a solution. He’ll tell you of that this morning.”
“After we’ve dined?”
“Your children and their governesses. Until four. At five, a ceremony in the Audience Chamber.”
“The foreign dignitaries, eh?”
“The usual presents and assurances, for New Year’s Day. At six, the mayor and aldermen-presents and assurances. At seven, you agreed to consider the case of the new buildings by Greyfrairs. At eight, supper: the Lords Kansas and Washington.”
“Ah, my romantic Virginians! I look forward to supper.”
“After supper only one thing. Sir Tancred Belforest requests an audience.”
“Some new scheme of chivalrous daring?”
“I think this is a private matter.”
“Excellent.” Gloriana laughed as she entered her dressing room, ringing the bell for her maids. “It will make me happy to grant at least one boon to the poor Champion; he yearns eternally to please me, but all he knows is battle and gymnastics. Have you any inkling of his desire?”
“I would say he asks your permission to marry Mary Perrott.”
“Oh, gladly, gladly. I love them both. And I’d grant any boon to distract his noble concentration!” The maids of honour entered. Pretty girls, every one had been a lover of the Queen and had been employed as a result, for she could not dismiss any who had tried to please her and who did not wish to be free. “So the day is relatively light.”
“Depending on Tom Ffynne’s news. He could bring reports of wars-in the West Indies.”
“We are not concerned with the West Indies. Save for Panama, they do not come under our protection, thank the gods. Unless they should attack Virginia-but which of their nations is powerful enough?”
“With Iberian help?”
“Oh, with Iberian help, aye. But I think the West Indians mistrust Iberia now, so many of their peoples have been sent to the slaughter. No, for danger, we must needs look closer to home, dearest Una.” She leant to kiss her secretary as maids tugged at her stays to produce the conventional peasecod-bellied figure demanded of her station. She grunted as the wind left her. “Ugh!”
“I’ll go to tell Sir Tancred he is blessed.”
Una departed while Gloriana continued to suffer the somewhat comforting constrictions of her costume as she fitted, tight and tidy, like some man-o’-war, for her day’s duties: stomacher and farthingale, a starched wired ruff, stockings of silk and tall-heeled shoes, embroidered petticoat, gown of golden velvet set with jewels of a dozen kinds and little stitched flowers, cloak of dark red velvet trimmed with ermine, hair bound with pearl strands and topped by a coronet, face powdered, gloves on hands, rings on gloves, mace and sceptre held to left and right, until she was ready to glide about her business, surrounded, a frigate by gulls, by her little pages and maids (some of whom took up her train), on her way to the Privy Chamber where her Councillors awaited her. She sailed down corridors hung with silken flags, with tapestries and paintings; corridors decorated with glowing panels showing scenes of Albion’s glories and vicissitudes, beasts, heroes, pastoral scenes, scenes of exotic Oriental, African or Virginian landscapes. And she passed courtiers, who bowed to her, or curtseyed to her, who complimented her, and with some she must share a “Good morning” or an enquiry as to health; she passed squires and ladies-in-waiting, equerries, stewards, butlers, footmen, servants of every description. Her feet trod on carpets, mosaics, tiles, polished wood, some silver, a little gold, marble and lead. She took a corner, gracefully, through the First, Second and Third Audience Chambers, her skirt’s hoop swaying, where courtiers and petitioners awaited her favour and Gentlemen Pensioners, her personal guard, Lord Rhoone’s men, in scarlet and dark green, saluted her with their pikes while footmen pushed open the doors of the Audience Room, which she crossed without pause to enter the Privy Chamber, where her Councillors rose, bowed, waited until she seated herself in her chair at the head of the long table before resuming their own positions, those twelve gentlemen in gowns of rich materials, with golden chains upon their chests. Through the splendid window at Gloriana’s back came light filtered by the thousand colours in the huge stained scene of Emperor and Tribute: Gloriana’s father pictured as King Arthur, with London as New Troy (legend’s citadel of that Mystical Golden Age Britannia, founded by Gloriana’s ancestor, Prince Brutus, seven thousand years before), with representatives of all the nations of the world bringing gifts to lay upon the ninety-nine steps of the Emperor’s throne where maidens, Wisdom, Truth, Beauty and Mercy, flanked a radiant crown. Privately Gloriana considered the window to be in poor taste, but respect for tradition and her father’s memory demanded she retain it. Six to a side of the dark table, with silver-chased ink-horns, goose quills, sand- shakers and paper in order before them, her Privy Councillors sat, twelve familiar faces, according to their rank. On her immediate right, Lord Perion Montfallcon, in his blacks and greys, and his great grey leonine head half-bowed, as if he slumbered, her Lord Chancellor and Principal Secretary; on her immediate left, pensive, aquiline, with a long, square-cut white beard, in brown cap and cloak, a belted doublet and a golden chain made up of six-pointed stars, sat Doctor John Dee, her Councillor of Philosophy. Next to Lord Montfallcon, Sir Orlando Hawes, the blackamoor, thin and pinched, in plain dark blue, with a parsimonious collar of lighter blue lace, a chain of silver, small black eyes upon his papers, her Lord High Treasurer; opposite him, stiff as stone, controlling the pain of gout, a ruddy-faced and stern old man, Albion’s most famous navigator, Lisuarte Armstrong, Fourth Baron of Ingleborough, Lord Admiral of Albion, in purple velvet and white lace, his chain heavy, like an anchor’s, on his neck, his eyes blue as the palest northern oceans. Next on the right was Gorius, Lord Ransley Lord High Steward of Albion, in ruff and cuffs of pale gold, quilted doublet of deepest russet, his chain of office embellished with rubies; then Sir Amadis Cornfield, Keeper of the Royal Purse. In white and blue striped silk, turned back at neck and wrist to display a crimson lining, over which was laid a large loose collar and broad cuffs, his linen, and in his silver chain, thin and delicate, made to match the silver buttons of his coat, he was a handsome, sardonic, wide-mouthed, dark-haired gallant, taking his duties seriously. He appeared to be studying some aspect of the window he had not noticed before. Facing Sir Amadis was Sir Vivien Rich, plump and hairy, in country-woven clothes making him resemble some yeoman farmer, this Vice Chamberlain to the Queen. Seated almost primly beside Sir Amadis was Master Florestan Wallis, the famous scholar, all in black, sporting no chain, but a small badge on his breast, his thin, straight hair covering his shoulders, his strong lips pursed; he was Secretary for the High Tongue of Albion, the language of official proclamations and ceremony, and he was a writer of small plays performed at Court. The next pair: Perigot Fowler, Master of the Horse, in dark browns, and Isador Palfreyman, Secretary for War, in blood-red. Both bearded, almost twins. Lastly on the right Auberon Orme, Master of the Great Wardrobe, in somewhat unseasonal lilac and Lincoln green, with a huge ruff from both these colours, emphasising the length of his nose, the smallness of his mouth, the suggestion of crimson in the whites of the eyes; and, on the left, Marcilius Gallimari, a dark, amused Neopolitan, his doublet slashed, puffed and gallooned to reveal almost as many colours as those of the window; his hair was waved and there was a diamond in one ear, an emerald in the other; he had a thin, pointed beard and just the trace of a moustache, this talented Master of the Revels.
The Queen smiled. “There’s a light, merry atmosphere in the chamber this morning. Am I to take it that the holiday continues?”
Montfallcon climbed to portentous feet. “In most matters, Your Majesty. The world is quiet. As the grave, today. But Sir Thomasin Ffynne brings news…”
“I know. I intend to see him when this conference is done.”
“Then Your Majesty’s aware of what he has to say?” A significant grunt.
“Not yet, Lord Montfallcon.”
“Come, come, my Lord Chancellor!” Doctor Dee was his old rival. “You hint so ominously one might suspect
