Gloriana

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.

Click-slap, click-slap from amongst the looming simian statuary. Tom Ffynne entered. “Why here, Perion?”

“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.”

“He might be the first murderer, however.” Montfallcon shuddered as he calmed his hard-breathing body.

“You suspect him?” Ingleborough’s voice was a whisper. “Of what?”

“I know him. I know what he is. I know Quire.”

“So long as he pleases the Queen,” continued Tom Ffynne, even as he was struck by the passion in Montfallcon’s words, “what does it matter if he’s of lowly birth?” He stopped, giving sudden close attention to his friend. “Eh?”

“He pleases her. Oh, aye. It is his trade. Deception and flattery.” Montfallcon had heard some of what Quire had whispered to the Queen that first night, heard her responses, and had been helpless as Quire had charmed her, reassured her, played father, brother, husband, all at once; trading on her weariness, her sense of loss, her self-pity, to make her love him. Quire had been so gentle. His caresses (Montfallcon had heard her say this) were like moth’s wings. And instead of leading her to crisis, Quire had calmed her towards reconciliation, as no lover had done before, bringing her peace and a protective arm. Montfallcon had gone mad that night. Now one of his wives lay upon her own bed, close to death, as a result of his rage.

Into the silence his words had made, Montfallcon added:

“I am convinced that this is Lady Mary’s murderer. Probably Sir Thomas Perrott’s, too.”

“But it’s his first appearance at the palace.”

“He has been in the walls, creating the scene he required before he decided upon his entrance. He is a great actor.”

“The walls are death. There are creatures there. I’ve heard!” Tom Ffynne looked at the solid granite of the inner stones. “Half-human vermin, impossible to root out, for they hide in lost crypts, far below the surface.”

“All expeditions have been unsuccessful.” Lord Ingleborough spoke very slowly, his voice hardly more than a murmur amplified in the pointed ceilings of the chamber. “But we have never been seriously threatened by them, any more than we are threatened by rats. A little poison answers.”

“Well,” said Montfallcon, “that is where I believe he has been hiding. He knows the walls as only a few from the outside can. He might have entered them at any time.”

“Do you invent hypothesis, Perion?” Tom Ffynne would know.

“Not a bit. Quire was my agent. He turned against me.”

“You outlawed him?”

“He outlawed himself. He has ambitions on the throne, I’d swear. He’s gone mad for power. I once thought he might.”

“He’d be our King, then? Other commoners have raised themselves thus, in Albion.”

“The line’s remained pure for the past fifteen hundred years,” whispered Lord Ingleborough. “Direct from Oberon and Titania of legend. And they, in turn, were descended from fabled Brutus, who overthrew Gogmagog. She is of the blood of Elficleos.”

“Are we not all, by this time?” Tom Ffynne smiled.

“It isn’t the blood I seek to protect,” Montfallcon told them impatiently, “it’s the flesh, the soul, the very life of our Gloriana. If Quire were nought but a tavern ruffler and could protect Albion by marrying the Queen I’d make him a noble, prove him highborn, if necessary, or change the Law. But Quire’s birth is not the question. I fear Quire’s intentions. Quire killed the Saracen. He kidnapped Poland’s King. Oh, and he has done much, much more. He began the events which have led us to our present pass.”

“And you have not told the Queen?” Ingleborough frowned. “Why not?” He turned his aching neck to watch his page, pacing the flagstones in the distance. The sound of Patch’s footfalls was like slow-dripping water.

“Quire knows why. It’s his gamble.”

“Because to reveal his character you must reveal your own secrets, is that it?” Tom Ffynne pursed his lips.

Montfallcon admitted it.

Lord Ingleborough sighed. It was as if a far-off storm was heard amongst the buttresses of the roof. “Shall timocracy threaten us so early? Shall we fall through all the stages in a single reign-next to oligarchy, then to democracy, and finally return to tyranny? You must, indeed, reveal your secrets.”

“And do more harm?” Montfallcon was contemptuous of the entire argument. “No, Lisuarte, you shall talk to her. Tell her you have heard that this Quire is a thief, killer, spy. Tell her, if you like, that he is probably the murderer of all her friends-including the Countess of Scaith.”

“I’d lie.” Ingleborough swayed in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“You would not lie!” Montfallcon stood up, clambering towards the madman’s throne, his robes swaying. “You would repeat what you had heard.”

“But you killed her. Did you not tell me? You?”

“I did not.”

“I am confused.” Lisuarte Ingleborough moistened his mouth. “You wish me to play false witness against a man of whom I had no knowledge until two days past? This is mindless plotting, Perion. I said I’d not be involved in your schemes!”

“It is critical.” Dust danced as Montfallcon turned at the top of the dais and slumped into the asymmetrical chair. “She’ll believe you. She mistrusts me, at present. Quire has helped her to that conclusion. She’ll think me merely jealous.”

“Give her the facts, then,” said Ffynne with common sense.

“The facts will corrupt her.” He sulked.

“You say that Quire does that already-and threatens to bring her to the final corruption.” Sir Thomasin scratched his ear. “What do you think you’ll lose, Perion?”

“Albion. This nobility we have made.”

“You do not respect her.” Lord Ingleborough looked hard at his friend. “You think the knowledge will break her.”

“Such knowledge as that would make her find fault with everything. She would sneer at virtue, lose belief in sincerity. And become Hern reborn, to rule with cynic tyranny.” Montfallcon’s fist struck the arm of the throne. “Would you bring all this back? Have you the courage to risk it, my lord? Would that result be to your conscience’s liking, my lord? Would you congratulate yourself if you were the one to release Hern’s spirit howling upon the world again?”

“She resists that spirit as firmly as any of us,” said Tom Ffynne. “I’m with Lisuarte in this. You should respect her. Give her the knowledge.”

“And be misbelieved? Thus bring her suspicion without proof? How can I prove all I say without revealing every underhand thing I have done in her name? I beg you tell her, Lisuarte. You know she’ll listen.”

The pain-haunted eyes were lowered. “If you think so, Perion. But you swear you had nought to do with the murders in the palace?”

“I swear it.”

“And you promise me you’ll contemplate no killing? That Quire will be justly dealt with-exiled, say?”

Montfallcon knew there could be no more corpses. Another hint of murder and the Court would return to a mood worse than that existing before the summer Tilt. “I swear that, also. Quire shall not die at my hand, nor by my instigation. But banished he must be.”

“Then I shall speak to her tomorrow.” Ingleborough raised a twisted hand to his face. “I am easier, in the morning.”

“You’ll serve Albion-and the Queen,” Montfallcon promised.

“I hope so.” He winced. His heart. “Patch! Fetch the men, lad, for the chair.”

The little page had gone, perhaps already anticipating his master’s wishes.

The three men waited together in silence, for there was nothing more to say. It seemed each one was sceptical of the others, at that moment, and must test his thoughts alone.

Eventually, Tom Ffynne grew impatient, and went to seek page and lackeys for himself. He discovered the lackeys and ordered them to work, but Patch was not to be found, and Ingleborough, almost fainting in his agony, scarcely noticed his little catamite’s absence as he was returned to his lodgings.