first, when folk are afflicted as you. An uncle of mine…No, no-wine can only do harm. Shall you die and not save Patch? Patch must perish, without you to force silence. Tell me, my lord.”
Ingleborough whimpered from the back of his throat. His mouth went wide, wide, as if a rope strangled him. His tongue came forth. The eyes popped.
Quire called out with great concern in his voice:
“Footmen! Quickly! Your master’s ill!”
The young servants were slow in arriving, for they had been playing cards, several rooms distant.
They found Quire trying to put brandy into their master’s mouth. It was Crozier who removed the jug from Quire’s hand, saying sadly: “It is too late, sir. He is dead. I think he died happily. You cheered him mightily, sir. But perhaps the stimulation was too much.”
“I fear that you are right,” agreed Quire.
THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
Her costume, worn in answer to the day’s great heat as well as to advertise her mood, was of Oriental influence-glowing silks and cotton veils, many strands of pearls and ornaments of baroque Saracen gold. Quire remained, in black, at her side, upon a couch placed next to her chair by the open window of her Withdrawing Room. She had retired here, disdaining the Audience Chamber: it reminded her too much of the petitioners still occupying the Presence Chambers to which, in hope, they had come after Accession Day. She was languorous; an Egyptian Empress. And her manner was satirical, as if she mocked her own appearance, yet she was gentle, smiling on everyone; a little sad, still, at the loss of Ingleborough. “Yet it was inevitable and I am glad he did not die alone,” she had said to her lover that morning, after he had soothed her to her current, and novel, tranquillity; then she had discovered and satisfied his desire. She lived to please him. She had never known one who accepted love so gracefully. His hard, handsome little body inspired her to creative achievement as a fine musical instrument might inspire a composer. A touch would reveal to her such fresh, sweet notes which could content her wonderfully; now she could with ease utterly forget her own flesh, for he made no effort to arouse her, and she was so grateful; it proved his understanding and his love.
Her ladies, dressed to match her, sharing her mood, had become almost the giggling waiting women of some Indian harem, and found Quire very curious. He received a great deal of their attention. As John Dee, in robes of white and gold, joined them, the ladies fell back into an ante-chamber. The doctor was pale and discomforted, but his nod to Quire was not merely friendly and he bowed very low before the Queen with much more of a courtier’s flourish than had once been usual in him. “Your Majesty. I have obeyed my Lord Montfallcon, as you desired me to do. And there were physicians attending, also, for he is, as you know, suspicious of me. The corpse was opened and its contents sniffed. Save for brandy it was clean. No food had been consumed at all in the past twenty-four hours. Not a hint of poison, in colour, smell or condition.”
She moved a fan as if to wave away the image he conjured. “Thank you, Doctor Dee.”
“In my opinion, madam, Lord Montfallcon has become plot-hungry He craves traitors the way a dog craves rats; he lives only to hunt them.”
“My Lord Montfallcon protects the Realm. He performs his duty, Doctor Dee, as he sees it.” The Queen made only a languid defence.
John Dee clawed his snowy beard and snorted. “The wheels of Montfallcon’s mind spin like those of a clock without a pendulum.”
“Lord Ingleborough was his oldest friend. He grieves. And, grieving, he seeks a villain to personify the fate which befalls us all.” The Queen became more sympathetic. “His attention therefore comes upon the most suspicious, in his eyes-the stranger to the Court. The newcomer. Captain Quire.”
“He wished to find Ingleborough poisoned, and now he is dismayed.” Dee looked fondly at Quire. “He is jealous of you, Captain, and would believe you guilty of every crime in the land.”
Quire shrugged and moved his mouth in a wistful smile. “He thinks he knows me. He told me so.”
“He could not,” said Dee gravely, “know you, sir, for it is only a few months since you came to our sphere, in Master Tolcharde’s chariot.”
Quire stretched himself along the couch. “So you insist, Doctor Dee.” For Dee, in this matter, he feigned amnesia. Yet it suited him, as it suited the Queen, that he should possess no past in Albion.
The rose-carved doors of the Withdrawing Room were opened and a footman stood there. “Your Majesty. Sir Thomasin Ffynne awaits your pleasure.”
“He is expected.” Gloriana closed her fan and extended her hand as Tom Ffynne hobbled in to kiss it. A grunt at Dee, a smile at Quire, and he lowered himself, in answer to the Queen’s sign, to a white silk chair. “Good morrow, Your Majesty. Gentlemen, Perion Montfallcon’s finished his gruesome work, then?”
“I have just come from there.” Doctor Dee shared a look. “Aye.”
“And no poison?”
“None.”
Tom Ffynne was satisfied. “His little page ran off, you know. Patch? Ran off, doubtless, when he heard the news, or saw his master dead. He can’t be found.”
“He’ll reappear in time, I’m sure,” said Captain Quire.
“It would be grief. Patch was very fond of Lisuarte. But the poor fellow was in too much pain. That body was best dead. Though he lives in here.” Ffynne tapped his forehead. “The finest of all of us. The noblest of Hern’s old men. What’s to become of his estates, there being no direct heir?”
“A nephew in the Dale Country,” Gloriana told him, “who has for many years acted as his steward.”
“A true nephew or…?”
“There are papers sufficient to prove blood ties.” Queen Gloriana smiled. “In such matters, so long as there are no contesters, birth can be adjusted according to certain diplomatic requirements. His nephew is the new lord.”
“And where’s Perion now?” Tom Ffynne asked Doctor Dee.
Meanwhile Gloriana and Captain Quire exchanged glances, exclusive and knowing, not hearing what he said.
“Returned, I suppose, to his offices.” Dee shifted his gold cap upon his white head. “I am not in Montfallcon’s confidence, Sir Thomasin.”
“Aye. He’s a difficult old fellow now. I remember when he was younger, and his family alive, he was somewhat softer in his emotions. But gradually, in the cause of Albion, his spirit has grown as inflexible as poor Lisuarte’s limbs-and, I’d suspect, gives him as much pain. You must not think too badly of him, Doctor Dee.”
“I do not, Sir Thomasin. It is Lord Montfallcon thinks ill of me. He sees me as a sorcerer who puts a glamour on the Queen.”
“There, there,” Sir Tom smiled. “You are not the adventurer you once were, in his eyes. There are greater threats now. Captain Quire, for instance.” The shrewd eyes looked across at Quire.
Quire laughed carelessly. “What does he say of me, Sir Thomasin?”
“Oh, many things. You are the cause of all strife in Albion.”
“So I have been learning. Is he exact?”
Sir Thomasin grinned. He knew that Quire must be aware of Montfallcon’s confidence in him. He knew that Quire dared him to reveal what even Montfallcon dared not reveal to the Queen. He shook his head and was admiring. “He says he marks you for a murderer, a spy, an abductor, a rapist, a thief. The list is almost endless.”
The Queen laughed. “How can he have so much intelligence of you, Quire? Are you a lover who has rejected him? Now, now-we must dismiss this topic. My Lord Montfallcon is the loyalest noble in the Realm and serves us well. I’ll not have him mocked.”
“I do not think we mock him, madam,” said Sir Thomasin. “He is my friend. We discuss him because we fear for his sanity. He should be sent to one of his houses-somewhere in the country-to rest.”
