black crow’s feathers stuck into a worn band, black ringlets falling to the shoulders, black brows shadowing glinting eyes, pale features, long nose, a lantern jaw, thin, sensual lips; a cloak clasped about the neck with twisting silver, boots of black, broken leather, hands hidden, head down, walking boldly for the bridge, crossing it as Wheldrake stared (recognising the figure from somewhere but not recalling where), and moving between the ranks of kneeling knights as the leading maiden and the faun ran forward to put garlands about his neck: presenting himself as Palmerin, the Peasant Knight, appraising the gathered courtiers on both banks and in galleries, seeking friends and enemies in one long look before the head bowed as it reached the carriage and the leg was made:
“My Queen.”
From behind her veil Gloriana’s expression was one of astonishment, quickly hidden, for the stranger was speaking Lord Rhoone’s lines-the lines that the Countess of Scaith would have spoken were she here-and Gloriana guessed that Rhoone was sick and had sent some servant as a substitute. She refused to consider the crazily flickering thought-that another Champion was dead before he could perform his role today.
The dark, cold, sardonic eyes were looking through her veil as if they peered through flesh and into her soul. She was fixed by the gaze. And there was humour in his eyes, too, which attracted her. It was as if she had been sent another Una.
And through the rest of the Masque Queen Gloriana found herself forgetting fear, forgetting duty, forgetting grief, fascinated by those wonderful, intelligent, unkind eyes.
Of the courtiers who stood as knights of this and that, somewhat bewildered by the newcomer, so confident in his lines, so familiar in his attitude, there were some who knew him and smiled as men might smile who recognise a friend turned up in paradoxical circumstances. Sir Amadis Cornfield recognised him as the gentleman who had been gracious enough to secure him the favours of Alys Finch, the girl who led the dance today; Master Florestan Wallis recognised him as the protector of his paramour, the lovely “Philomena,” who played the faun in Josias Priest’s troop; Lord Gorius Ransley also recognised him as the friendly intermediary between himself and Alys Finch, who promised consolation soon; Lord Rhoone, peering cheerfully from his tent and a willing party to the joke, knew him for the apothecary who had supplied the antidote and saved the lives of his wife and children; while Doctor John Dee, staggering forward in conical cap and swirling blue robes, to play his personation of Merlin, Urganda’s consort, paused upon the bridge, recognising this “Sir Palmerin” as the benefactor, the seer that had supplied him with his whole desire.
But standing in the gallery, face gaunt with rage and consternation, Lord Montfallcon recognised his ear, his mouth, his sword, his instrument, and knew how thoroughly and with what audacious cunning he had been deceived and manipulated by Captain Quire, who was even now offering his arm to Queen Gloriana, speaking verse neither by Wheldrake nor by Wallis, and leading her, compliant, against the progress of the Masque, towards the bridge.
The crowd was delighted by the sentiments and the outcome. Noble and commoner wed was ever a favourite theme, and reinforced the Masque’s intent, to show how, in all ways, Albion was a unity. The Queen had not been meant to leave her throne, but here was Quire leading her around the square, waving his hat, while she, elated by surprise, waved her wand, to the mob’s huge delight, to the applause of her nobles. The maidens and the faun continued to dance before them, while the twelve paladins, horsed once again, rode behind, with a bemused Merlin, having been usurped his handful of couplets, hobbled in their wake, shaking his head.
That this display, though vulgar, served perfectly his needs, Montfallcon admitted to himself, even as he trembled in his anger. Quire had always boasted of his understanding of the mob, and now he proved it.
But to see that creature, that symbol of every ignoble deed, every perverse trick, every lie and deceit, used secretly by him to maintain the Realm, arm in arm with the innocent girl whom Montfallcon had protected through the years from any hint of infamy or guilt, whom he had protected against cynicism, against the understanding that some iron had been mixed in with the gold, perforce, to give it the strength it needed-to see that appalling pairing of vice and virtue-brought the blood thundering into his skull and made him want to scream from the window, there and then, for the Guard to drag Quire to the island, to bring out block and axe, to behead the upstart on the spot where, from this same window, Hern had watched a thousand far more innocent heads fall in a single day, when the lake had turned dark red with his victims’ lifeblood, including that of five members of Montfallcon’s immediate family, whom Montfallcon had let perish without a defending word, so that Gloriana might live to gain the throne.
But, being reminded of those deaths, Montfallcon was also reminded of his self-control. He drew deep breaths, he tried to smile. All around him the nobles of Albion, of Arabia, of Tatary of Poland, of the world, were clapping as Captain Quire led the Queen for a second turn about the courtyard.
And, from without, the cheering, stamping, whistling, cap-waving crowd threatened to shake the whole palace to the ground.
Montfallcon moved slowly along the gallery, looking down at the scene, then he opened a door into a tunnel and, within a short while, stood alone in the silence and the darkness of Hern’s Throne Room, listening to the beating of his own heart, the hissing of his own breath.
“Oh, what a destroyer Romance can be.”
It was as if he confided his thoughts to Hern’s ghost, for he was almost friendly in his tone. It had been Montfallcon who had killed the King, whispering him into the final madness, encouraging him to put the noose about his throat, to jump from the battlement above, to hang against the wall, with dead, bulging eyes staring into the same courtyard where Quire defied both convention and retribution and brought the Summer Pageant to a joyous peak.
THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
An Earldom for the Perrott, then a Perrott for the Queen.” Lord Montfallcon’s lip quivered as he saw how simply all could be saved. “Though she’ll have to be rid of certain encumbrances. The seraglio, the children…” He was back in the old Throne Room, after two days in which he had kept to his bed, cooling his head and scheming. “As for Quire, I cannot do what has to be done. It must be for Ingleborough to speak to her, to tell her enough, to warn her…” He rubbed an itching nose. He blinked about him in the dusty light from above.
“I feel that it is safer.”
“Than your own study?”
“I feel that, aye.”
Ffynne shrugged. “This recalls unwanted memories.”
From the tunnels beyond the old Throne Room there came the noise of several crazed clocks, and through the doors came lackeys with Lord Ingleborough upon their sticks, the sticks supporting a chair. Ingleborough’s white, knotted face swung overhead, tight with pain. Patch, in blue and silver, ran beside the litter.
Lord Montfallcon moved his hand and pointed at a place, at the flagstones; the litter was lowered, the lackeys waved away. The three men sat there in the beam of dirty sunlight-Montfallcon with folded robes upon the throne’s first step, Tom Ffynne, his leg stretched out beside him, upon the stone block, Ingleborough in his chair. Patch, discreet boy, paced his way around the vaulted perimeter.
“So this Shepherd Knight, this son of Tatyrus, shares the Queen’s bed already!” Tom Ffynne was admiring. “That can’t be what’s worrying you so much, Perion, can it? He’s not the first commoner.”
