From a hidden fountain, water squirted suddenly out of a bed of white horehounds so that Lady Lyst, already unsteady fell over with an astonished cry dropping her brimmer, her legs sprawling in the folds of her Indian gown while the Queen, her attendants and her courtiers laughed heartily in the intense late August sunshine falling now upon the gardens of Gloriana’s private apartments. Flowers of all sorts, arranged by colour to contrast, bloomed in geometrical squares, circles, crescents and half-moons divided by the narrow gravel paths and the moist lawns, the yew hedges, the ornamental shrubs of these symmetrical and comforting examples of a tamed nature. Ernest Wheldrake, pocketing a small book, helped his mistress to her feet. He, too, was dressed for the current summer fashion, with a great deal of black and gold in the Moorish style, so that he was inclined to resemble a small cockerel who had somehow borrowed an eagle’s plumage. His turban slipped over his twitching face as he struggled with Lady Lyst and eventually, after much slipping about, restored her to an upright stance. She swayed. “Death! I’m soaked, inside and out!”
Again there was laughter.
As usual, Captain Quire did not sport the fashion, but remained in pauper’s black, his sombrero shading his face (a crow to Wheldrake’s fancier fowl), but he smiled with the Queen. Of the rest, Sir Thomasin Ffynne could not bring himself to personation and he wore mourning purple (for Lisuarte) with an earring as a concession to gallantry. Sir Amadis Cornfield was opulent, half-naked in the gold and feathers of some Inca king, and Lord Gorius vied with him, as another East Indian potentate, embellished with beads and coral bangles. They paid their usual attentions to little Alys Finch, who danced for them now, in a sarong, through the rainbow fountains which damped her gown, outlined her boyish figure, heated up their ardour. “Ah!”
Phil Starling, the dancer, wore some gold things and a breechclout, along with the usual paint, and lay upon a lawn at the feet of his half-swooning Wallis, an unlikely mandarin. Master Auberon Orme, a Tatar fantastico, ran from the entrance of the nearby maze pursued by two of the Queen’s ladies, who were clad as Burmese courtesans, and almost tripped over young Phil, who pouted, looking beyond him at Marcilius Gallimari, resembling a slender Turk, his arm around two little blackamoors whose modesty was protected by nothing more than aprons of pale gold chain at back and front. All were besotted by the euphoria, the erotic air which of late had filled the Queen’s personal Court.
The Queen embraced and kissed Lady Lyst. “Rest here.” They lounged together on a marble bench, laughing up at Quire and Wheldrake. “When shall this summer end!” It was rhetoric; few there expected or would welcome a hint of autumn. “We were discussing some official employment for Captain Quire. Now that Lord Rhoone’s to the country with his family we require a temporary Master of the Queen’s Pensioners. What do you say to such an appointment, Captain?”
Quire shook his head. “I have not the conscience of good, bluff Lord Rhoone.” He pretended to frown and consider alternatives. He had been much relieved at Lord Rhoone’s removal from the Court (by Quire’s own suggestion). He remained nervous of all those he had encountered before assuming his present role. Rhoone, in his gratitude for the apparent saving of his family’s lives, had never suspected Quire to be the same hooded villain he had once led to Lord Montfallcon’s presence; at Montfallcon’s constant urging, however, two could be added to two at any time and Rhoone become a potential enemy instead of a useful friend. The first victim of this enterprise had been Sir Christopher (who had been poisoned because he might have remembered Quire’s face as well as his name), but now there were none close to the throne, save Montfallcon, whom he daily discredited, with any knowledge of his intimate past. He considered, for a moment, hinting at Lord Ingleborough’s position, but this was already Sir Thomasin’s. He looked towards Ffynne, arm in arm with a maid of honour, who had come up to them as they talked. “The Queen believes I should seek honest employment, Sir Tom.”
The old sailor was shrewd behind his twinkle. “What’s your vocation, Captain, I wonder?”
Hilarity. The Queen and Lady Lyst fell into one another’s arms again. Quire pretended embarrassment while he and Ffynne exchanged their private irony in a swift glance. “Not much, I fear. A small talent for acting, I suppose.” He referred, they thought, to his performance at the Tilt.
Sir Thomasin said: “My friend Montfallcon considers you a spy. Sir Christopher Martin is not yet permanently replaced.”
“Oh, Sir Tom!” cried the Queen. “Captain Quire would be nothing so base as a thief-taker!”
“Secretary, then?” Lady Lyst blinked, hearing her own slurred voice with some shock. She relapsed.
Gloriana became sad, then stifled the emotion. Quire was quick to understand and changed his tone at once. “My vocation is to serve the Queen in any way she will. I’ll let her decide my fate.”
She took his hand and sat him down between herself and Lady Lyst. “It will take much consideration. I shall question you, Captain, as to your proficiencies.”
Sir Orlando Hawes appeared upon the terrace above. He wore conventional shades of dark colours, purple and black, for he joined in the mourning, as did most of the court, of Lord Ingleborough, whose funeral had earlier taken place. With his black skin, he was almost a shadow, but Quire noticed the eyes linger on little Alys as she danced and ogled her lovers. Quire was greatly satisfied with her work. She had become his stalking bitch, and he had developed in her a lust for treachery as another might develop a lust for gold or pleasure.
Sir Orlando hesitated, seemingly saddened by the sight of this private masquerade, perhaps embarrassed by its echoing of the costumes of his own ancestors. Then, slowly, he took the steps into the garden, removing his black feathered hat as he bowed. “Your Majesty. Lord Ingleborough is entombed.”
The Queen resisted guilt as, the minute before, she had resisted sadness. “Did the funeral go well, Sir Orlando?”
“It was attended by a great many, Your Majesty, for Lord Ingleborough was loved by the people.”
“As we loved him,” she said firmly. “The people were apprised of our inability to attend?”
“Through ill-health, aye.” He straightened his back and stared about him.
“I have seen too much of misery these past months,” she told him. “I’ll remember Ingleborough alive.”
Sir Orlando looked towards Sir Thomasin. “We missed you at the feast, sir.”
“I saw Lisuarte buried. It was enough. I was never one for public ceremonies, as you know.”
Sir Orlando disapproved. His opinion of Sir Thomasin had ever been low. He did not acknowledge Captain Quire at all.
“Lord Montfallcon spoke in the Queen’s name, Your Majesty,” he continued. “As her representative.”
“So Sir Thomasin has already informed me.”
“He is with me. And Lord Kansas. He sent me ahead to request-”
“Perhaps he would prefer an interview this evening?” she suggested.
“He is wearied by the day’s events. It would be best, Your Majesty, if you saw him now.” Sir Orlando gestured back at the terrace. “He is on the other side of the gate.”
The Queen looked enquiringly at Quire, who shrugged acquiescence. It would not do to show malice toward Montfallcon. Not yet.
“We shall receive the gentlemen,” said Gloriana.
Another bow and Sir Orlando had returned to the gate to bring back Lord Montfallcon and Lord Kansas, who were also in the uniform of mourning.
Quire saw the Queen become guiltily aware of her own unsober costume. He squeezed her hand and whispered: “They’ll drag you down if they can. Remember my words-trust no one who would make you feel guilty.”
She rose, as if he controlled her, and went smiling to greet the three nobles. “My lords. I thank you for coming here so soon. The funeral went off, I’m informed, with proper dignity.”
“Aye, madam.” Montfallcon bowed slowly. Kansas followed his example. The Virginian was troubled and sympathetic, whereas Montfallcon was merely accusatory. Quire knew a moment’s anxiety when he contemplated Kansas. “You’ll forgive us for intruding upon your'-Montfallcon cast a mighty glare over the garden and its occupants-“games.”
“Of course we do, my lord. In such melancholy times we must divert ourselves. It does no good to brood on death. We must be optimists, eh?”
These were unfamiliar words from her, and Montfallcon looked to Quire as the suspected author.
“Will you not join us, my lord?” asked Quire with mock humility. Then, as though he checked his malice, “But I forget myself. Lord Ingleborough was your dearest friend.”
