Gloriana

THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER

It proves nothing,” said Quire. “He was mad with guilt and despair. I know young Phil. He’s one of Priest’s dancers and has been under Wallis’s protection. He was playing flirt to all. Wallis asked me to help him and I did what I could. Thus he considered me to be in his debt. It’s the import of the entire letter. That and his belief he shunned duty to pursue lust.”

They sat side by side upon the bed while she read the letter over. She ignored him. “Sir Orlando was right. This proves infamy of some description.”

“Only in Wallis’s eyes.”

“He recorded all the business of the Realm. He could have been the spy for Tatary and you his agent. Or the reverse. I recall everything Montfallcon hinted at….”

“There’s scarcely a lackey in the Court could not gain that information,” he said. “I’ve spoken to no Tatars, that I swear. How can you believe this?” He was aggrieved-accused, inadvertently, by a man he had not killed, of something he had not done.

“Oh, Quire, I have been betrayed by so many in my life and have always kept my faith.” She looked hopelessly at him. “I believed in Chivalry and in Albion, in my service and duty to the Realm. You teach me self-love and say that is for the sake of the Realm. I think, however, that you are trying to betray me again, in a new way. You force me to betray myself. Is there anything crueller?”

“This will not do. You are tired. And you are still drunk.”

“I am not.”

He became sullen. “You debate non-existent problems. I love you. Not four hours since, you agreed that our love was enough to sustain all else.”

“I have turned my back on Albion. I have become cynical. And so many have died.”

“They died before,” he said. “Only you did not know-save for a few. How many were murdered far more horribly than Lady Mary?”

“What do you say?” She turned, frowning. “What do you know?”

He grew cautious. “What I have heard. Ask Montfallcon.” He risked his own security. If Montfallcon guessed that he had revealed those secrets, his safety was all gone.

“In my father’s time, you mean?”

He retreated. “Aye.”

It was as if she strapped armour about her, moment by moment. He sought a chink with: “I love you.”

She shook her head and let the letter fall. “You think you do. And I you, little Quire. But this…” She rose to pace the dark chamber. “The Court crumbles. The dead increase. I believed that I acted to save us from further death. Yet here’s poor Wallis gone. And in our own secret quarters that represented our retreat from death, from the past. It is too much, Quire.”

“You seem to blame me.”

“Wallis did.”

“Aye. His brain was disordered. Many would make a scapegoat of me.”

“The Phoenician scapegoat bore the whole tribe’s sins and was killed to free them. I do not want you killed, my love. I do not want a Realm which requires a scapegoat.”

“I assure you, I agree.”

“I must look to the safety of Albion’s spirit. I must stop these wars. I must reunite the nobles.”

“It is too late.” He saw his power weakening. Again he shifted his ground. “So, I’m to go away? You have no more use for Quire’s comforting.”

“I need it more than ever,” she said. “Yet it diverts me too greatly.”

“You trust me so little that one vague letter can turn you against me?”

“I do not know. There is much I have refused to consider. I know you, Quire, because I love you. Yet I have no words for that knowledge. I am confused.”

“Come to bed. Let me banish confusion.”

“No. I would debate this with myself.”

He realised that the morning would bring news of Lord Gorius’s death and Sir Amadis’s flight. He had perhaps overreached himself, for he had also been accused of injuring Sir Vivien. He lay on their bed, brooding. He must consider urgent plans. He must win her back to him for the few days needed until his great plan was brought to full bloom. He must appeal to her in some way. He must pretend to agree. So he waited in silence for a while in the hope that she would feel the need to fill it. He knew her nature.

And at last she said, sadly:

“I am unworthy of my people. I have no intelligence. I have made a monstrous mad thing of my wisest Councillor.”

He continued in his silence.

“I have betrayed my duty. I have allowed my friends to perish, to suffer, while those who are not my friends prosper. I am infamous and my subjects turn against me, for I betray their faith by losing my own. In my pain and my fear I sought help from Eros-but Eros rewards only those who bring him virtue and goodwill. I have been foolish.”

He climbed from the bed with a great display of impatience. “This is mere self-pity.”

“What?”

“You continue to blame yourself for the crimes and weaknesses of others. You’ll never test your own strength if you follow this course. You were Montfallcon’s foil-now you claim me as your influence. You must consider your own decisions and make ’em. So I’ll leave, as you desire.”

She halted. “Forgive me. I am distressed.”

“You fear to take any form of retribution on your enemies in case it should reveal your father’s cruelty in you. You are not cruel-but there must be firmer justice. You have been only the reflection of your nation’s needs. Now you must impose your will and show that you are strong. It is the way to end all this madness.”

She drew massive, beautiful brows together. “You stand to suffer most from any retribution,” she reminded him.

“Do I? Put me to trial, then. By whatever jury you select. Or try me yourself.”

He drove her back to tears; he exploited her general guilt; he offered her escape through hysteria. She did not take it. Instead she found dignity. She rose, huge and sympathetic, and took him, to his astonishment, to her breast. “Oh, Quire, Quire.”

“You must rest. For a day or so.” His voice was muffled. “Then make your decisions.”

“Do not advise me, my dear. Do not try any further to reduce my aspirations. You taught me not to mind my affliction. But it was that very affliction which represented my love of Albion. I shall risk the pain, in order to serve the Realm again.”

“This is weighty….”

“I shall decide, in the course of the coming week, on what I must do.”

He felt thwarted, even though he saw success.

He gave himself up to her awesome kindness.

Next morning there came the news of Ransley and word that Sir Vivien was dead of his fall. The Queen, in her puzzling and novel mood, took both deaths with a kind of tolerant dismay and had Tom Ffynne sent for. She intended to discuss the problem of Cornfield’s disappearance from the palace, though it was by now well-known he had ridden southeast on the Dover road and almost certainly went to his kinsmen.

Quire was not ignored by Gloriana, but he was not consulted any longer by her. She continued to show towards him the affectionate detachment of a mother for a charming but demanding child. And she allowed him to go with her when she robed herself in her encrusted gown, her crown, and took her orb and sceptre, to return to the Audience Chamber she had all but abandoned. As she moved through the Presence Chambers she greeted astonished petitioners who had long since given up any real belief they might be granted an interview. She was distant; she was friendly. Her humanity was all but gone and she was little else but habit, a monarch. Quire followed, nodding and bowing to those he knew, showing a confidence which, for once, was not much with him, attempting to give the impression that he had at last persuaded the Queen to do her duty.

She was enthroned and Quire took the chair at the foot of the dais; the Countess of Scaith’s chair. Lord Montfallcon was summoned but did not immediately appear.

Lord Shahryar was the first foreign ambassador to be received. He looked hard at Quire, not daring to ask, even with his eyes. He was tall and self-contained, in his silks, and his steel, and his gold. “Gracious Majesty. My master Hassan, Grand Caliph of Arabia, sends his greetings and asks me to express his deepest affection for your self. An affection, he asks me to tell you, that goes deeper than mere admiration for the world’s most beautiful, most loved, most honourable sovereign, ruler of the world’s mightiest and noblest Empire. He awaits the moment when you will send him a sign that you share this affection, so that he might fly to your side, to help you in this troubled hour of history.”

“Troubled hour, my lord?” She seemed amused. “What troubled hour is that?”

“Well, Your Majesty, there are rumours. Certain of your subjects-unruly and unwise-disobey your wishes….”

“A minor domestic matter, my lord.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” He said no more. He did not look at Quire at all. Quire knew, however, that Shahryar might believe himself betrayed and, in turn (for he had nothing to lose), might betray Quire.

The doors of the Audience Chamber groaned open on unoiled hinges. Montfallcon entered. He wore his black robes of office, his gold chain. His grey face was drawn and there were blotches of red, like a drunkard’s blush, on his cheekbones, showing that he had slept hardly at all for many nights. His eyes shifted in his head as he noted the Queen, then Quire, then Shahryar. He had one hand wrapped in the heavy folds of his cloak as if he clutched his own costume to steady himself, and when he spoke, his voice was rapid, ragged. “Your Majesty sent for me?”

“We hope we do not inconvenience you, dear Lord Montfallcon.”

His glance was suspicious. “What are we doing here?”

“We are giving audience, my lord. We are debating important matters of State.”

Montfallcon pointed. “Then why is he here? That spy. Sir Orlando told me of the note.”

“The note said nothing.” The Queen’s tone continued to be light. “There was no evidence against Captain Quire.”

“There is evidence everywhere,” said Montfallcon. “In your own actions.” He looked hard at Lord Shahryar, who pretended embarrassment. He fell silent.

Lord Shahryar was eager to remain but could not, by custom, do so. He bowed and withdrew, leaving the three of them in the vastness of the room filled with warm, autumn light, making the tapestries, panels and wall hangings seem richer than ever.

“We sought your advice, my lord,” said the Queen softly.

“I have given it. I have told you what to do. Abandon Quire. Abandon your secrets. Abandon wanton epicureanism!”

“My charges? My children?”

“Abandon all of that.”

“And will you abandon your own secrets, my lord?” she asked.

“What?” A glare at Quire. Quire was able to shake his head to let Montfallcon know that he had said nothing.

“We have heard you have been into the walls again. We forbade you, or any other, the walls. We ordered the entrances closed up.”

“There are many entrances, as I am discovering. Possibly hundreds.”

“Is that so, Captain Quire?” she asked.

“I do not know, madam,” he answered innocently.

She laughed. “Oh, come now, Captain. You are a villain from the walls. Admit it. All the evidence shows it now. I do not accuse you. Perhaps with Lord Montfallcon’s help you could rid us of the creatures who so distress us and who are almost certainly causing this plague of deaths. It is the most obvious explanation. And therefore I would suggest to you that the Realm be apprised of our decision. We must tell everyone that we have discovered murderers and criminals hiding at the very roots of the State-that all our recent troubles were caused by them; that they murdered Lady Mary and others, seduced some of our Councillors (now dead or fled), tried to poison the Queen herself. And we shall assure everyone that, with this discovery, we shall send expeditions into the walls to destroy every creature found there.”

Quire smiled. She had found perhaps the only means of uniting the nobles swiftly in a common aim. It was a clever notion and he admired her for it, even though it threatened his own plans.

“The walls?” Montfallcon rubbed at his eyelids, mumbling to himself. “No-there is something to be done-there can be no one sent to the walls. Not yet.”

“What do you say, my lord? I do not hear you.”

Quire had heard and was on his feet. “It is a splendid plan. Shall we join forces then, Lord Montfallcon?”

Montfallcon was contemptuous. “The wall rabble is not the cause of our dissolution. Base appetites are the cause. Bad blood. There is a canker here and it must be burned away. All evil must be swept from the palace. All!”

Quire pursed his lips. “We could begin with the walls, however, my lord.” He pretended to humour Montfallcon. “First the corruption within, then the corruption without, eh?”

Montfallcon would not listen to him. “They must die,” he told the Queen. He trembled as he moved further into the Throne Room. “There can be no ambiguity. Not now. Show Albion that you are pure, by destroying all that is impure within the palace!”

“But, good Lord Montfallcon,” she said, “that is what we suggest.”

“Then let me send men to do it.”

“It is our will.” She frowned, looking to Quire for aid, but he could not help. He shrugged.

“Good.” Montfallcon turned to leave.

“My lord,” she said, “there are other matters. The Perrotts. Know you when they plan to sail for Arabia?”

“Three days.” He was gone.

“Ah.” She turned to Quire. “Word must be sent to Tom Ffynne at Portsmouth with the fleet. But what shall he do? Attack the Perrotts or join them? If he joins them we’ll be at war with half the world-or more than half. If he attacks, we’ll have civil war. And Arabia’s movements are strange. There’s news of a great fleet, but no news of what it intends. Does Lord Shahryar threaten us-war or marriage?”

“Possibly,” agreed Quire. “If we were to avoid war…”

“Oho!” She looked down at him from her throne. “Give myself to Hassan? Would you agree to that, Quire?”

He dropped his gaze.

“You may go,” she said.

“Eh?”

“It is bad diplomacy to have you here.” She was demonstrating her power over him. “It incensed Montfallcon. It might incense others. Tell me, do you think the expedition into the walls will save us?”

“Several might. Led by a variety of your nobles, given important tasks.” He was sullen.

“Then you find my statecraft good.”

“I have never doubted it.” He did not want to leave. On the other hand he needed to see Alys, and Phil, to contact Tinkler, if he could. They must all be warned and set to work. He made a show of dignity. He stood up, bowing. “When does Your Majesty desire me to return?”

“We’ll keep you from the public eye today, I think. We’ll meet tonight. In my bedchamber?”

Quire was dry. “I’m to be the secret lover, then, am I? Because I seem a villain.”

She shook her head. “Because you are a villain, clever little Quire. It is your nature. I understand that now.”

“You punish me?”

“Why so? I love you still.”

Baffled, Quire made his way from the official rooms, back to the private apartments, doing his best to order his thoughts and scarcely able to understand how, since Wallis’s suicide, their roles had reversed in this subtle way. He would, in the past, never have allowed himself to be placed in such a position as this. He must immediately consider ways of reestablishing his authority. He went first to the seraglio and found Phil, taking him away and punishing him for his foolishness. Then he told Phil to find Alys Finch at once and send her to meet him in the maze. Then he gave a messenger a note to take to the Town in the hope that Tinkler would be found. He was frustrated, needing to take action, but not possessing sufficient information, as yet. He went to see Doctor Dee, who received him reluctantly, staunching a wound in his arm. “She grows fiercer. The philtres no longer function. You must make me a new one soon.” Doctor Dee was too weak to visit the Audience Chamber and be Quire’s ear.

Quire considered entering the walls and going through familiar routes, where he would be able to overhear almost everything, but there was too much danger of meeting either the Tatars or Montfallcon. He did not wish to betray himself by admitting a connection with the rabble which would soon be blamed for so many crimes. So he fumed.

He went to the maze and Alys Finch did not come to him. Was she, too, in the walls? With Oubacha Khan and Sir Orlando Hawes? Misleading them, as he had told her to do? Was half the Court in that province he had only lately claimed as his own? Tinkler was not found. There was no one else to work for him. He had lost three useful Councillors in a single night and suddenly had no allies on whom he could call. Dee was useless. The Queen, having cleansed herself of all sentiment, would be of no help at present. He brooded on this problem, which was central to his cause. How could he again tap the huge well of feeling that lay within the woman?

He spent the day waiting. He had never known a more terrifying one. He was impotent. And when, at last, she joined him in the bed, she talked of all her efforts to unite the Realm, to pacify the world, and wondered why he had no praise for her. She told him that Montfallcon had gone, probably into the walls, and that she feared the old lord, suddenly. She told him of her efforts to send messages to the Perrotts, begging them not to sail. She told him of a brief meeting with Oubacha Khan and Sir Orlando Hawes, and he became more interested. But the pair, it seemed, had said nothing of their plans to the Queen. She made love to him and he was passive, barely able to respond at all. She gave him up and readied herself for sleep. He wondered if he should go again to the maze and hope that Alys was there. He watched her, stroked her absently, as she began to breathe more deeply.

He was unable to interpret his own state of mind; for this unexpected mood of hers had thrown him entirely off balance. He realised, with some astonishment, that he feared the mood, that he would do anything, pay almost any price, to lift it. And yet he had weathered worse humours in his time; why should he be so discomfited now?

It dawned on him, then, that he cared for her good opinion of him-or that, at any rate, he desired her to exhibit some kind of opinion. The desire was new. He sat up in bed and was considering waking her when, from several rooms distant, there came a shriek.

Gloriana was awake. “Eh?”

Quire began to scramble from the bed, pushing back the curtains. His long shift tangled his feet. He found his sword and went to the door to listen: a babble of women’s voices, coming closer. “Some maid,” he said. “A fit.” He opened the door. There was light in the rooms beyond-lamps, candles, torches. Shadows moving; women everywhere, like hens about a fox. A giant stumbled through a door. He staggered between the ranks of night-clad ladies; he was almost naked and blood pumped out of him from three or four wounds, falling on the writhing body of the little girl he held in his arms. It was the albino twin, the guard from the seraglio, and he was dying. Quire ran towards him. The girl was one of Gloriana’s children, perhaps the youngest. Gloriana took the child from the giant and said: “Do they fight? In there?”

Quire darted past the guard even as the man fell to his knees, then sprawled as the last of his blood burst from him. The little figure in his encumbering shift, the long Iberian sword in his right hand, ran into the semi-private rooms. He pulled back draperies, sought for the door to the seraglio and found it partly opened, broken by the giant’s weight, and he was squeezing past, running up the steps, hearing the screams ahead; through the dark gem-studded caverns he ran, with the deep carpets hampering his naked feet, to reach the door where the two guards had stood. The black twin was not at his post. Quire pushed through and was in the main seraglio, looking down at the giant’s corpse. “Arioch!”

Lurking bloodletters swarmed through the low-ceilinged vaults, slaying any that showed life. Even as Quire watched, the shrieks became fewer and fewer.

It was the rabble from the walls. They were slaughtering the entire seraglio. Already most of the poor, soft creatures were dead. A few ran here and there or hid themselves, whimpering; all the dwarves and geishas, the cripples and youths Gloriana had protected here in this menagerie of sensuality. A bewildered, lumbering ape-man crashed against a jewelled fountain and fell into the bowl, two long pikes sticking from his hairy back. A little boy ran past Quire, waving the stump of a severed arm. Elsewhere was butchery even more obscene: a hellish shambles.

The rabble had come through two or three of the secret entrances Quire thought only he had known about. He looked down the long central walk to the apartments where the children had been kept. There were corpses here, too, small and large: the girls and their guardians. Eight of the Queen’s nine children. Quire had known battlefields, ship-fights, massacres a-plenty, but never one as appalling. He was overawed by the scene. He moved through the knee-deep fresh-killed bodies, trying to speak.

Phil Starling came running towards him, all his bangles jingling on his oiled and painted body. “Oh, save me, master! Save me, Captain! I did not mean to let them in. I sought Alys!”

Quire made a movement to draw back, then realised Gloriana was behind him. He shrugged and went forward. “Phil-go through-quickly.”

But a scrawny swordsman had pounced, cutting Phil from the back of his neck to the base of his spine, opening him up as an expert fishmonger might open a sole. Phil fell forward, cloven, and was dead.

Phil’s killer stood over the body. He was panting, intoxicated by the terror of his own actions, searching for further eyes that might accuse him. He wore a fur cap, askew on his head, to match a twisted, snag-toothed face. His silk coat was all blood, as were his britches. Quire recognised him and cried:

“Tink!”

Tinkler blinked, motioned with his sword, looked hard through the semi-darkness. “Captain?”

Quire gathered himself. “Is it you leads this rabble?”

“In your name, Captain,” said Tinkler from force of habit. “In your name.” He began to gasp, as a man will who is plunged suddenly into cold water.

“Mine?” Quire moved his mouth in a horrible grin. “Mine, Tink?” Slowly he approached his servant. His voice was flat. “You brought them here and did this in my name?”

“Montfallcon gave me my instructions. He knew you had left me in charge of the mob-or guessed it. I don’t know. But you said to obey him. I could not find you, Captain. It was too dangerous to look for you. And then Montfallcon said that the Queen had ordered us to do it. That you agreed. It seemed he spoke the truth.” He looked past Quire to Gloriana. “He said that you desired the seraglio destroyed, Your Majesty. Did I do wrong?”

“Wrong?” Gloriana shared Quire’s hideous mirth. “Montfallcon…? Ah, vengeful, sullen Achilles!”

“Your Majesty?” Tinkler began to bow, as one who has accomplished a difficult task.

Then, with a cry both agonised and vengeful, Quire drew back his arm and drove his sword deep into his servant’s heart.

“Villain!” He sobbed. “Literal-minded sloplicker!” He withdrew the sword and aimed for another thrust.

The Queen was shouting at him. “No more! Call them off if you can. But no more death!”

Quire became calm as he lowered his sword above Tinkler’s twitching body. He cleared his throat and spoke loud and clear. “That’s enough, lads.” He knew he betrayed himself, gave her firm evidence of his connection with the rabble. “Come to me! This is your Captain. This is Quire.”

Slowly, in twos and threes, the weary ruffians presented themselves before him, almost eager, upon command, to pile their glistening swords at his feet.

He turned, saying to Gloriana: “I did not do this. Montfallcon ordered it.”

“I know,” she said, and went to find the palace soldiers.

As the rabble was led off, she and Quire squatted amongst the dead children, looking for life. There was none. He had expected arrest, with his men, but she had given no order of that sort, showed hardly any emotion at all as she looked into the faces of the girls she had borne. “This is what he meant, Montfallcon, when he asked me to give him permission to destroy ’all that was impure.’ And it was why he would allow no inspection of the walls. He used your mob against me. Against both of us, in a sense.” She sighed. “He asked my permission and I agreed. Do you recall me agreeing, Quire?”

He would not reply to her.

“It was my first true attempt at independent statecraft. I thought myself in command at last. Do you remember, Quire? I sent you away after that display.”

He nodded.

“I gave him permission to kill my children. My first decision.”

“You did not.” He reached out for her. Then his hand dropped. It was useless. He began to consider his own escape, certain that she must soon turn on him, realise the guilt he shared-for the mob and its commander had been his invention.

“Has Montfallcon been found?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Fled into the walls, it seems. Or perhaps somewhere in the East Wing.”

“Poor Montfallcon. I drove him to this.”

Quire saw two of the Queen’s older companions coming for their mistress. He stood up. He fingered his jaw. He wondered which route to take. He could go out to the town and hope for a ship-or go back into the walls, at least for a while: perhaps to search for Montfallcon and slay him. The Queen must soon grow vengeful. She was weeping now. She would want her scapegoat soon. The ladies who came to her were thrust back. She turned her dreadful face up to look into his. “Quire?”

He awaited the condemnation.

“Aye.”

“You must replace Montfallcon truly now. You must be my adviser. My Chancellor. I cannot make another decision. I will not.”

Quire opened his mouth, then he shut it again. He bit his lower lip. He was entirely surprised. He said: “I am honoured, madam.” He had dreamed of this but never expected it, least of all now. At once the whole of Albion was his.

He helped her to her feet. She said, leaning on him: “Can you stop the war, Quire? Is there any way?”

He hesitated.

“Quire?”

He controlled himself and said: “There may be one way. I have already spoken of it. It would involve a great sacrifice on both our parts.”

“I’ll make the sacrifice,” she said. “I must make it.”

“Later,” he said.

He was mystified by this success. He felt defeated. In the morning Lord Shahryar could be informed. The Grand Caliph would come sailing up the Thames, to rescue Gloriana and Albion; to crush the Perrotts. And his only emotion was one of disappointment, even fear, and again he could not explain the source of this unusual emotion. As he got her back to the bedchamber he said in a low, puzzled voice: “Why should you trust me now? I have been proven a liar and a traitor.”

And she replied, very coldly: “I trust you for Montfallcon’s work. Who else is there?”

Which caused Captain Quire to shiver and go, at length, to find another place to sleep.

The next morning she held formal Court for the second time. More ambassadors were interviewed, more intelligence gathered, while Quire stood, in his faded black, beside the throne, in conference whenever they were alone. Slowly, but with little relish for what he did, he manipulated her towards a decision, though he did not mention outright the solution he had already hinted at. Doctor Dee was called for, but sent word that he was ill and could not come just then. And neither Oubacha Khan nor Sir Orlando Hawes could be found.

“Well,” she said, when everyone had been seen; when Master Palfreyman had counselled fierce and absolute war against all enemies at once; when nobles had begged her to send word to the Perrotts that their father’s killers had been found; when all voices and all opinions had been heard; “what must I do, Chancellor Quire?”

He hesitated, though not for drama’s sake. He found that he had difficulty in speaking for other, more mysterious, reasons. At length: “There is only one decision which will save the world and Albion from war.” His voice was thick. He licked his long lips.

“Quickly,” she said.

He looked into her eyes. She stared above his head. “I’ll not be tormented. I can tell your advice is already formed, Chancellor.”

“You must marry Hassan al-Gaifar.”

“It will be popular with the nobles.”

“And the commons.”

Her huge face grew momentarily sad. Another, smaller face looked out of it, for a second, at Quire, and it was pleading with him. He turned away. Then she was stern. “Lord Shahryar must be sent for.”

“I shall summon him myself,” said Quire. He began to feel relief, at least for the moment, that it was all done. He was free of obligation to Shahryar. He had done all that he had promised he would do. And he felt only weariness, inexplicable misery. Very heavily he began to walk towards the doors of the Audience Chamber.

Even as he signed for the footmen to open them he knew there was some kind of disturbance on the other side of the doors. He paused, listening. Then he smiled. Gradually he became possessed of a peculiar sense of elation. He recognised at least one of the voices. They were demanding to be admitted.

“Why do you hesitate?” she called across the empty room.

He walked backwards in the direction of the throne.

She cried to him: “Quire! What is it?”

He began to laugh. “You’re free of me, I think.” Calmly he stared into her astonished eyes. Why was he glad of this? “And there’s no excuse for war. I should have killed the old man. But my reasoning’s too devious. I saved him up. I am again betrayed by my own brain’s convolutions!”

“No riddles!” she commanded. “Who is out there?”

The doors were pushed open from the other side, slowly. They revealed a group: Oubacha Khan, in Tatar war-armour, handing his sheathed scimitar to one of the Queen’s Gentlemen Pensioners; Sir Orlando Hawes, dusty and grim, in breastplate and helm; Alys Finch, holding a small black-and-white cat, grinning her triumph at Quire; the Countess of Scaith, in male attire, filthy and haggard; and Sir Thomas Perrott, ragged, unkempt, dirty, red-eyed, in a sacking smock.

“Una!”

They all looked at Quire, none at the Queen, though she cried her friend’s name.

Quire smiled back at the girl who had rescued these prisoners, both of whom she had originally betrayed to him. “Your lust for treachery is even better developed than I thought, young Alys. So does the pupil seek to excel the teacher.”

“One hunts the largest game, Captain.” Alys Finch laughed cheerfully into his face. Neither showed malice.

Behind him the Queen was rising. “Una!”

Quire was almost merry. “Albion is saved! Albion is saved! And Arabia’s vile plans are all confused!” He continued to dance backwards, seeking escape.

They moved into the Audience Chamber, to threaten him.

“Una!”

The Countess of Scaith hesitated, then curtseyed to the Queen. “Your Majesty. Alys Finch is here to testify against her master.”

“You’ll believe the word of this minx, will you?” cried Quire satirically, throwing back his cloak to free his sword. He still wore the red sash, his concession to passion. “What proof have either of you?” The sword flew out. “Have you ever seen me?”

He knew that they had not. He had been careful to remain hooded. But he knew, just the same, that he was doomed.

“Sir Thomas!” The Queen was jubilant, recognising the elder Perrott at last. She turned to Sir Orlando. “A messenger, immediately, to Kent. And another to Portsmouth.”

“It is done, Your Majesty,” said Hawes. He moved towards Quire, who was at the door which would lead him to his offices, Montfallcon’s rooms. “We’re saved from war. But now we must save ourselves from Quire. Once and for all.”

“Hurrah!” yelled Quire, drawing his sombrero from his belt, shaking out the feathers and donning the hat. “Virtue triumphs and poor Quire is denounced, disgraced, dismissed.”

The kiss he blew to baffled Gloriana seemed sincere. He went behind the drapery. The door slammed. Sir Orlando Hawes and Oubacha Khan ran to it, calling for more assistance. Quire had locked it.

When they entered the apartments at last, there was nothing to be seen but a small fire burning in a grate, some dust moving in the autumn light, as if Quire, like a malicious ghost, had been exorcised entirely.