Quire. I’ll return to the block for you.” She began to descend.
He snarled and he took her with both his hands, abandoning his blade. “Gloriana!”
“Captain Quire.” She was stone in his grip.
He dropped his hands.
She walked past him, through the old, haunted corridors, and into the gardens. They smelled of warm autumn, still.
She crossed the gardens and went through her private gate. She passed her maze, her silent fountains, her dying flowers. She entered her own bedroom.
He had not followed.
Recalling her anxiety, she thought, for her daughter, she entered her old secret lodgings and faced the door to the seraglio.
She passed, on yielding carpet, through into the soothing dark. None lived here now. She recalled that her daughter had been sent to Sussex. She made to return, but paused. Suddenly a thousand bloody images came to her. “Oh!”
In the absolute darkness of the seraglio she fell upon her cushions and began to weep. “Quire!”
Quire spoke from somewhere. “Glory.”
A delusion. She looked up. Beyond the archway into the next vault there was a candle burning. It moved towards her, revealing Quire’s tortured face, floating.
She stood up, stone again.
He sighed and put the candle into the bracket on one of the buttresses. “I love you. I shall have you. It’s my right, Glory.”
“You have none. You are a murderer, a spy, a deceiver.”
’You hate me?”
“I know you. You are selfish. You have no heart.”
“Enough,” he said. “It was no wish of mine. I betray all my own faith. But you taught me to believe in love, to accept it. Won’t you accept mine?”
“I love Albion. Nothing but Albion. And Gloriana is Albion.”
“Then shall I rape Albion?” He drew his sword and placed the point at her throat. She pressed towards it, challenging him to kill her.
“You have already failed in that,” she told him.
He glowered. He took a fold of her gown and he tore it away from her. He found the shift below and tore that. He tore and tore until all her clothes were gone, and still she did not move, but stared with hatred into his face. He seized her breasts and her buttocks, her womb, her mouth. She would not move, save to sway a little when he threatened to make her fall.
He pulled her down to the cushions. He spread her legs. He ripped away his britches to reveal what she had seen so many times before. She refused to weep, though tears threatened. He entered her. Over his shoulder she saw the knife, sheathed at his belt. She reached for it and found it. She drew it forth as he grunted and cursed and kissed and heaved. She raised it, looking beyond him into the candlelight and a sudden image of blood-stained stone, sharp and black and hard as it appeared so frequently in her dreams. The image melted. She cared for nothing but herself. And then she began to tremble, thinking that the whole palace quaked, that the roof must fall. And she gasped. Little, surprised, childish sounds came from her throat. Her body was filled with stinging heat. “Oh!” Wondering, she kissed him. “Quire!”
She shook so mightily and knew so much joy as if she received recompense for every failure she had ever known, that she screamed a high wavering scream which filled the roof and rang throughout the entire palace, perhaps through Albion, as she came.
And the dagger she still held in her hand was brought down with tremendous force, to pass through soft silk and to snap upon the stones of her seraglio.
Quire jumped back, careless of his own unfinished pleasure, and his face was suddenly quite innocent; it seemed every sin had been removed from his soul at once. And he laughed loudly, into the dying echo of her cry. “Ha! Gloriana!”
Then she began, with such utter happiness, to weep.
“Oh, Quire. We are both redeemed.”
THE THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
As the warmth of autumn shall give way at last to the cool of winter, so shall the Moon of Romance be married to the Sun of Reason and Gloriana, Queen of Albion, be wed to her Prince Arthur of Valentia, causing much celebration throughout the Empire, for it shall be revealed, by way of Sir Thomasin Ffynne, the Queen’s High Admiral, that Captain Arturus Quire was, in fact, his ward-the last surviving nephew of Lord Montfallcon, whose family was slain by King Hern. The tale of Captain Quire’s commoner’s upbringing and how he came to Court, taking part in a pageant and winning the attention, and later the love, of the Queen, shall be on all lips, as shall its sequel, of how Quire’s enemies grew jealous of him, how poor Lord Montfallcon, not realising Quire’s true birth, schemed against him and others, including Sir Thomas Perrott, then killed himself when he realised the truth, that he had sought to destroy his own nephew. It shall be told how Quire almost singlehandedly saved the Realm and brought reconciliation to the Queen, to the rival factions, to Albion and to the world itself.
Chivalry shall flourish again, but it shall be of a more practical order under Prince Arthur’s influence, for he will reduce a little of the romance (feeling his own tale, perhaps, to contain enough of that) and increase the realism, so that honour shall be seen to be at once a stranger and more ordinary thing than many previously knew.
They shall be married in November, in time to begin a Progress throughout the Realm, to span the Yuletide season. And, while they are gone, the walls of the great palace shall be revealed, with all their antique rooms, and light brought to every corner, and the vagabonds still dwelling there shall be made comfortable in hostelries especially prepared for them, and large parts of the once hidden palace shall be opened to the citizens of London, for their recreation.
Prince Arthur and Queen Gloriana shall begin their Progress by taking the State Barge, the old Golden Barge of the Queen’s ancestors, down the river towards the sea, there to guest with Sir Amadis Cornfield and his Perrott kinsmen, whose lands abound the great estuary. They shall sail from the dock at Charing Cross, on their high, golden galley, between embankments lined with bare elm trees. Through the rich, dead leaves hiding the hooves of their brown and black horses, knights shall ride on both sides, escorting the barge. The knights shall wear armour of dark gold and silver, their surcoats shall be russet, and their upright lances shall bear all the great Chivalric arms of Albion. And the Queen shall look down the river, beyond London’s walls, to where the hills are, dark green and yellow, and she will turn to her Consort, who shall wear black velvet and an awkward crown of near-black rubies and gold, and she will hug him and say to him: “Oh, my love! What a sober little King you have become!”
And behind them will be the palace, with its glinting domes and roofs rising and falling like a glamorous tide; its towers and minarets lifting like the masts and hulks of sinking ships.
APPENDIX A
ALTERNATE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
