Gloriana

THE NINTH CHAPTER

Una of Scaith drew deeply on the stem of the tobacco pipe and stretched herself at ease over her tapestry couch. She lay upon woodland scenes (the Hunt, Nymphs and Fauns, Diana and her Maidens) before a magnificent fire, her farthingale askew, like a badly hung bell, her bodice loosened, gauze-wired collar on one side of her pearl-stranded head, as she enjoyed the few minutes before the festivities and ceremonies which, as the Queen’s friend, she must attend. She stroked the orange back of a large cat which lay asleep against the couch, and she gave herself up to the tobacco while in the next room her maids prepared the rest of her ensemble.

The Countess hated almost all public events, particularly those where she was expected to perform some function-tonight the Queen had asked her to announce the programme at the beginning of every section, which meant she would have to be present through the entire celebration of the Twelfth, from Bounty Giving to the Final Feast, which was certain to last into the early hours. Worse, the whole of the first half of the evening was to be spent on the ice at West Minster, where the river had frozen so thickly it had been possible to light bonfires and roast a pig (last night an enterprising Venetian innkeeper had done this to his considerable profit), and she would be chilled to her bones as, of course, would everyone else; and, like everyone else, would resort too much to the mulled claret which would be the main beverage and chief source of heat. And later, in elaborate costumes, would come the Masque in the Great Hall, and, with it, further discomfort, for she was bound to roast as Urd the Norn. Others would be equally suffering here, as well-there would be a Thor, an Odin, a Hela and the rest, and Gloriana would be Fryja, Queen of the Gods, in Master Wheldrake’s subject entitled The Eve of Ragnarok from the Northern mythologies, in honour of Greater Poland, which ruled both sides of the Baltic Sea. Una, whose own estates and homeland lay on the large island of Ynys Scaith, far to Albion’s north, and who was overfamiliar with these Gods, found them a thoroughly boring pantheon and hated the current fashion at Court for novelty, which put her own favourite Classical subjects out of vogue.

Una’s pipe burned down and with a sigh she rose to adjust her clothes, to have her maids draw her together, covering her with a cloak of red velvet trimmed with green lake moire fur, the large hood shading her face. The maids escorted her to the outer door of her apartments (really an entire house built, like many others, into the main structure of the palace and facing out upon a broad yard in whose centre was an ornamental lake containing a good-sized artificial island). The Queen’s coach-cabined sleigh waited for her and footmen, in exaggerated coquard bonnets, short brocaded tabards and slashed canions of yellow and blue, attended her as she climbed aboard and plunged into darkness and soft cushions. A shout, a crack, and the vehicle lurched on its springs, to make the little journey around the path to the rather more elaborate facade of the private gateway of the Queen’s gardens and a gathering of guards forming ranks at the command of Lord Rhoone, whose breath billowed with every staccato utterance, reminding Una how cold it was. She kept her hands in the muff beneath her cape and stared miserably through the far window at the darkening ornamental garden on which more snow was beginning to fall. It seemed that winter drew deeper and might never end, unless it was with the ending of the world-and she was reminded, with a shiver, of the Fimbul Winter, and wondered, with morbid relish, if perhaps it really was the Eve of Ragnarok and that they brought in Chaos and Old Night to engulf them, once and for all. She yawned. If the Lords of Entropy were to manifest themselves on Earth again as they had in the legendary past she felt she might welcome them as a relief, at least, to her boredom. Not, of course, that she believed in those terrible prehistoric fables, though sometimes she could not help wishing that they had really existed and that she had lived in them, for they must surely have been more colourful and stimulating than this present age, where dull Reason drove bright Romance away: granite scattering mercury.

It was with these thoughts in mind that she welcomed the platinum-crowned Queen as she stepped up into the carriage. “By Arioch! You’re marvellous gaudy, tonight!” She smiled.

Gloriana returned the smile, relieved by Una’s deliberate vulgarity (it was considered poor taste to exhort the names of the Old Gods). She was dressed in ermine, white silk, pearls and silver, for she must represent the Polar Monarch tonight, the Snow Queen; and all were expected to reflect this motif if they attended her Court. Una’s own dress beneath the cape was pale blue, her collarette a slightly deeper blue, her petticoat white and decorated with small blue bows, a modification of the previous spring’s Shepherdess.

Meanwhile, around them, the guard mounted white horses, drew silvery capes over their traditional uniforms, placed white beaver caps with white owl feathers on their heads and readied themselves. Lord Rhoone rode up, his black beard almost astonishing in all this paleness, and bent to show an enquiring eye.

Gloriana’s lace glove waved, Lord Rhoone cried out his loud “At the trot, gentlemen!” and sleigh and escort were moving, with a screech of runners and a muffled drumming of hooves, off to West Minster and the river.

“Good news,” Gloriana told her companion. “You heard it? Poland’s rescued.”

“He’s well?”

“A trifle frostbitten, I gather, but not harmed. Montfallcon told me this afternoon. He was found this morning at a mill. The villains who’d taken him had quarrelled and run off, leaving him in his bonds, killing one of their number in their argument. Perhaps they’d intended to return-but Montfallcon’s men found Poland first and brought him to London. So all’s well and we’ll be plagued no longer by Count Korzeniowski’s anxieties for his master.”

“When shall you receive this unlucky monarch?”

“Tonight. In an hour or so. When I receive all the guests.”

“But the Grand Caliph-this proposes a difficult diplomacy.”

Gloriana pulled back the curtains for a view of the city’s lights. “Montfallcon has solved it. Both shall be presented together, with Poland announced first, since he’s Emperor.”

Una bit an amused lip. “I thought they both hoped to pay more than formal respects to Your Majesty. Do they not come to Court to"-she was almost ashamed-"to court?”

“Poland, apparently, swears he’ll marry none but me. And Arabia’s protests are only a degree less fulsome, which, considering his notoriety, must reveal as great a passion, eh?” Gloriana was sardonic. “Which would you prefer, Una?”

“Poland for companionship, Arabia for pleasure,” said Una at once.

“Arabia would admire your figure more, I think. It’s boyish enough for his taste.”

“Then pray he’ll accept me as a substitute and make me Queen of All Arabia.” Una cocked her head. “The notion’s excellent. But I suspect his ardour’s politically kindled and Ynys Scaith’s not a large enough dowry.”

Gloriana enjoyed this. “True! He wants Albion and all her Empire, nothing less. Perhaps he can have them, if he’ll give me what I cannot have.” The sleigh lurched a fraction as it rounded a corner, and Gloriana sang the chorus of a favourite song:

“Oh, could I be what I am not,

Then I could have what I have not,

If I had, I would not…”

And Una, hearing that merry lament, became silent for a moment, causing Gloriana to regret her lapse and lean to kiss her friend. “Master Gallimari promises us many splendid diversions this evening.”

The Countess of Scaith recovered herself. “Aye-diversions! They’re what’s needed, eh? Are all the foreign embassies invited?”

“Of course. And London’s officers. And every noble from the country who will come. And every courtier. Mithras!” She put a satirical hand to her mouth. “Will the ice hold ‘em, d’you think, Una? Shall we all dance to watery doom, tonight? And half the globe’s security float out, so many icebergs, on the dawn tide?”

Una shook her head. “If I know my lord Montfallcon he’s seen that girders support the ice from bank to bank. Why, I suspect he’s had the ice replaced with obsidian and painted, he fears so for any possible harm which might befall you.”

“He’s a tigress and I the cub, in that respect,” agreed Gloriana. “But look!” She pointed through the gauze. “The ice is real!”

They were on a hill from which could be observed the curve of the great Thames, glinting with frost and snow, broad, shining black between the deeper black of the buildings which lay on both sides, like a massive forest hung with so many yellow lanterns. As they watched, more and more lights appeared and slowly the scene was transformed from black to glowing grey, and white, and hazy amber, and the river became pale glass in which moved small figures, seemingly reflections from an invisible source, and then the road had dropped so steeply it was no longer possible to see anything but the snowy hills and, ahead, the two battlemented towers of London’s North Gate, the Bull’s Gate, where the Queen’s carriage must be greeted and she must be welcomed and formalities exchanged between Lord Rhoone (on behalf of the Queen) and the glowing, half-tipsy Lord Mayor.

All this over, the sleigh continued, bumping mightily now, for the snow was not so thick on the cobbles, between lines of waving, torch-bearing, cap-flourishing, cheering citizens to whom the Queen smiled, bowed, blessed with nodding hands, until the gates of the Little City of West Minster were approached and these passed and shut, so that for a few moments the sleigh slithered in comparative silence, along the broad avenue, past the great Colleges and Temples of Contemplation, the Ministries, the Barracks, to the wide embankment upon the quays where, in better weather, the ships of visiting monarchs would dock. On this embankment awnings were already arranged and Una could see carriages disappearing, having delivered their illustrious cargoes. Foor-boys and footmen sped from position to position, ostlers stood ready, a choir of trumpets was prepared, at the tall Graecian columns flanking the steps down to the quay. These steps were covered by awnings, also, and carpeted. Braziers burned, like warning fires, along the length of the embankment walls, to provide both light and heat, and above them waved ranks of banners in a glory of multi-coloured silk reflecting flames and surrounding snow. And over these flags stood a rich ebony sky, in which no stars glowed. It was like a larger canopy, covering the whole of the city: a canopy through which a few flakes of snow dropped, to heap themselves where they could, or die spluttering in the fires.

Gloriana clapped her hands and nudged Una’s ribs before she recalled her own majesty, and became the grave, beautiful symbol demanded by the occasion. Una assumed a similar gravity.

The door of the sleigh was opened by Lord Rhoone. The Queen descended. Una followed.

Between the columns they paced, whilst a brassy fanfare announced the Queen; down the steps to where two great torches burned, held in the hands of pages clothed from head to toe by the skins of the polar bear. Behind the pages lords and ladies bent their heads. Also in whites and blues and silver, with powdered faces, the courtiers in the shadows made by the torches reminded Una of a ghostly assemblage, as if the dead rose to pay homage to Albion’s Empress on this misty Twelfth.

From quay to wooden steps the awning stretched, and down they went with measured dignity, to a side carpet laid across the ice where, covered still, a path led to their pavilion, three-sided, tall, of billowing silver silk, with a throne for Gloriana of delicate silver filigree, and a white-cushioned chair for Una, as the Snow Queen’s chief attendant.

Above, on the embankment, Una saw, as she waited for Gloriana to seat herself, a lowing processing of reluctant oxen; she heard the honking of geese, who would share the oxen’s fate, saw the stacked tinder and logs of the fires on which these creatures would be cooked, their juices soon to splutter, their skins to crackle, their savoury meat to swell, proud and tasty in the heat. Una licked her lip and, seeing that the Queen was down, went down herself with a shiver as her farthingale tilted and let a sharp breeze to her knees.

Over the center of the ice was a platform, like a scaffold, on which the musicians sat, tuning their instruments as best they could. The awnings and carpets beyond the Queen’s pavilion were, for contrast, green and gold, and the musicians wore dark green wool; in several layers, judging by their bulk. More trumpets blew a fanfaronade from the embankment, to hamper their tuning further, and the Queen looked questioningly at Una, who paused. Then, she rose, as slowly the courtiers, having filed down from above, assembled.

A figure in rippling ivory appeared upon the carpet leading to the throne. He doffed an ermine cap, falling to one knee. It was Marcilius Gallimari, Master of the Queen’s Revels.

“Your Majesty.”

“Is all prepared, Master Gallimari?”

“It is, Your Majesty! They are ready!” He spoke with intense, earnest enthusiasm.

“Then we’ll begin. Countess.”

Una coughed quietly into her hand. Master Gallimari stepped into the shadows of the awning, to pass through the guards and vanish. Then Una cried:

“The Queen bestows her bounty on the Yuletide widows and the season’s orphans. Let them come forward now and receive their right.”

The courtiers stepped to either side and a footboy handed Una a cushion on which rested a score of kidskin purses. Una took one of the purses and placed it in the Queen’s palm as the first nervous commoner, a plump matron, came humbly up the carpet, her eyes lowered, a shy smile on her lips, in linen shawl and apron, to curtsey. “Your Majesty. The folk of the Southcheap send their loyal respects to Your Majesty and pray the plague will never come upon them.”

“We thank you and the people of Southcheap. Your name?”

“Mistress Starling, Your Majesty, widow of Starling the chandler.”

“Be wise, Mistress Starling, with this, and we pray you to do your duty. We are sorry for your grief.”

“I thank Her Majesty.” A shaking hand accepted the purse.

Then came two swarthy children, fingers linked, a boy and a girl, bobbing all the way.

“Your father and your mother are dead? How so?” Gloriana took a second purse from Una.

“Lost upon the river, Your Majesty,” said the boy, “where they worked at their ferry, up above the Wapping Stairs.”

“We are sorry for your grief.” The words were ritual but the sentiment was not. Gloriana took a further purse, so that the children might have one each.

As the ceremony continued, Una stared beyond the crowds, at the far embankment, the twin of the northern one, with its columns and torches and fanciful stonework, its painted ceramics. Where the embankment turned, to her right, she could see a line of gargoyles on the piles, with mooring rings in their grinning mouths; above the gargoyles were the trees which grew over the high walls, their dark branches turned to stiff grey strands of velvet by the lantern’s light, and then, a little further on, was the Water Gate of West Minster and its grille decorated with iron devils.

The Bounty given, Lord Montfallcon came to stand beside the throne and whisper to the Queen while trumpets announced the two Guests of Honour, and the Queen’s Tribune called out their names. Then, side by side they came, in ceremonial stockings and gowns, magnificent with jade, with diamonds, aquamarines, turquoises, sapphires and all manner of other pale gems.

“His Royal Highness King Casimir the Fourteenth Emperor Elect of Great Poland. His Royal Highness the Grand Caliph Hassan al-Giafar, Lord of All Arabia.”

Two crowned heads bowed before the third. The crown of Poland’s Casimir was white gold, with gothic spikes and very light emeralds, while Hassan al-Giafar wore a turban about which was set a Moorish coronet, all floral abstracts, in silver and mother-of-pearl, and though their gowns were simple, according to tradition, they were trimmed with the richest threads permitted.

They used the High Speech for this ceremony. Forkbearded Arabia spoke first.

“Gloriana, who is Ishtar upon Earth, Goddess of Us All, Whose Name is Honoured in the World’s Four Corners and Whose Fame is Feared, Who is the Sun to Light our Days and the Moon to Illuminate our Nights, whose Splendour Dulls the Stars, We, Caliph Hassan al-Giafar, Descendent of the First Calligraphers of Sheena, Protector of the Raschid, Father of the Nomad, Chief of the Deserts, the Rivers and the Seas, Shield against the Tatar, Overlord of Baghdad and the Fifty Cities, bring thee the greetings and the felicitations of all our folk.”

The Queen rose, taking the sceptre handed her by Una and lifting it as if, obscurely, she blessed the Caliph.

“Albion welcomes thee, great King. We are honoured by thine attendance at our ceremonies.” She seated herself as Poland, fumbling with his cloak, his crown askew over one shaggy eyebrow, his hair falling across his face, his beard coming loose from its careful knots, blinked vaguely, his lips moving soundlessly.

“Um…” began Poland. “Your Majesty.”

Hassan al-Giafar’s handsome hooded eyes showed a hint of amused contempt as they looked upon his confused rival.

“Firstly-thank you-or thank your men-for my rescue. I am much obliged to you. It was foolish of me to trust those villains. I regret the trouble I have caused.”

“No trouble,” murmured the Queen. “But is there not some formal greeting, Your Majesty?”

He was grateful for the reminder. “Your Majesty, Queen Gloriana. Greetings from Poland.” He frowned. “I am-we are Casimir-Emperor Elect of Greater Poland-you know that, eh? Just announced. There’s a formal phrase, but I fear I’ve forgotten it-King of Scandinavia, what? And all the lands from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Great Jove! So I am. Well, it’s a Republic, of course. And a Union of Republics, essentially. Autonomous. But I serve my turn, I suppose, as a symbol. Oh, dear-I had a ring to give you. There are other presents…” He looked behind him. “The presents? It was a lovely ring…. Didn’t expect to have to appear in public like this. Rather shy of ceremonies. The presents…?”

The Caliph was snapping his fingers for his own gifts, carried by turbaned boys. Gloriana inspected the usual treasures (including a necklace of carnelians and gold) and accepted them with ritual thanks, while Poland spoke anxiously to his aide, old Count Korzeniowski, and sent him on an errand.

“There were also several elephants, Your Majesty,” the Caliph told her gravely, “but it was thought inadvisable to bring them onto the ice.”

Una smiled behind her hand, imagining the effect of so many elephants losing their footing and crashing into the waters of the Thames.

There was a pause, after the Caliph’s procession had come and gone. Casimir of Poland looked up. “Aha!” He waved. Another procession, of fur-clad footmen, with precious ikons and beautifully worked jewellery, lacking the magnificence of the Caliph’s gifts but carrying the stamp of artists’ perfection.

“There are some things missing, you see. Not much. We were lucky. But…” Casimir searched beneath his robes. “There was a ring. With a ruby. You might think it vulgar, of course. I had hoped…. However, there is a time and a place, I know-don’t have much in the way of formal ceremonies in Poland, these days-you must forgive me if I give offence….”

“The gifts are exquisitely beautiful, King Casimir.”

“They are, aren’t they! But the ring…. There was some fine Vienna stuff. Did that come? The ring. Gods! It’s lost!”

“The brigands…?” murmured Gloriana.

“The villains! The most beautiful of all my gifts.”

“We shall catch the leader, never fear,” she promised.

Lord Montfallcon cleared his throat to speak. “Her Majesty is grateful to both Your Majesties….”

Gloriana, recovering, nodded. “Albion welcomes thee, great Kings. We are honoured by thine attendance at our ceremonies.”

And chairs were fetched, almost thrones, for the two guests, both placed on the right of the Queen, and at angles so that one should not seem to take precedence, and the Countess of Scaith must smile and whisper and play host to the monarchs while the Queen received the rest of her guests:

Rudolf of Bohemia, the Scientist King, Casimir’s vassal; Prince Aleneon de Medici of Florenza, a youth whose chivalrous love for the Queen was famous; the Aztec ambassador, Prince Comius Sha-T’Lee of Chlaksahloo (who believed himself a demi-god and Gloriana a goddess) in golden feathers and feathered cloak; the Chevalier Presival-le-Gallois of Britannia; Oubacha Khan, in painted armour, iron and fur, envoy from the Tatar Empire; Prince Lobkowitz, in black and silver, from independent Prague; Prince Hira of Hindoostan, a protectorate of Albion’s; Lord Li Pao, ambassador from the Court of Cathay, another vassal state; Lord Tatanka Iyotakay ambassador from the great Sioux Nation, in eagle feathers and white beaded buckskins; the Lady Yashi Akuya, ambassadress from the Isles of Nipponia; Prince Karloman, the old King’s son, to represent the Low Country Alliance; Count Rotomondo, Overlord of Paris; Master Ernst Schelyeanek, astronomer and physician, of Vienna; envoys from Virginia, amongst them hawk-nosed Lord Kansas and the tiny, contentious Baron of Ohio; Master Ishan the Mathematician from the Tatar protectorate of Anatolia; Caspar, the great engineer of Jawa; the Palestinian scholar Micah of Jerusalem; the explorer Murdoch, Thane of Hermiston, a white cape thrown carelessly over his plaids and bronze, a bonnet with white hawk’s feathers jaunty on his red curls; and many more dignitaries, scholars, scientists, magicians, alchemists, engineers, adventurers and soldiers, taking more than an hour and a half to pass before the throne.

Then came the first entertainment, in torchlight, as the Ice Knight (Lord Gorius Ransley) and the Fire Knight (Sir Tancred Belforest) tilted in full armour, on horseback, on the frozen surface at the river’s centre. Chips of ice flew, the breath of the horses was like dragon’s vapour, metal rang as lance met shield and both were unhorsed at once.

Above them, on the embankment, leaning with elbows against stone to look down at this scene, stood a figure made shapeless by the huge bearskin coat clothing him from head to foot, the bear’s skinned head forming a cap which hid the greater part of his face. Sometimes, when the light from the bouncing flames (on which geese and oxen now roasted) leapt high, his black, sardonic eyes would gleam.

Fire defeated Ice, according to arrangement.

Now he watched as the skating tumblers in the costumes of the Comedy-Harlekin and Pantalon, Cornetto and Isabella and the rest-began to leap and spin in time to the brisk and somewhat discordant music of the shivering consort on the platform, while beneath the awning the Queen bent her head to converse with her fellow sovereigns. Pages, their feet steadied by spiked irons, moved slowly through the gathering, bearing trays of boiling wine; cooks and their boys basted spitted meat; and on the far bank a huge scaffolding was being erected.

The figure in the bear coat left the wall and moved gradually down first one flight of steps and then another, until it stood with the crowd upon the ice, sipping a silver cup of claret, admiring the children of the nobles, Frost Fairies all, who carried the monstrous Twelfth Cake on a litter to the Queen, taking the meat and bread that he was offered and cramming it with some relish into his mouth as he continued to move here and there, keeping more by instinct than by judgement to the shadows, to the fringes of the crowd. There came a cracking from the far bank, a rush like mysterious wind as the observers gasped, and the first fireworks began to fizz and spin, forming a great G in an ornamental panel; then rockets shrieked and scattered diamond sparks and the whole of the ice was stark with sudden brilliance, causing the bearskinned figure to retreat a little to a corner where wharf steps met wall. Flaring cartridges fell upon the ice, which hissed, causing alarm or feigned consternation amongst those who took heed of it.

Red and green fire bellowed and the scaffolding shifted a little once again, so that the ice appeared to creak.

Lord Montfallcon heard the sound and was instantly active, calling for Lord Rhoone, who stood with Lady Rhoone and their two children, talking to tiny Master Wheldrake and insouciant, swaying Lady Lyst. “Rhoone! D’ye hear?”

“What?” Lord Rhoone handed his cup to his elder boy, who, glad of opportunity up to now denied him, began to sip.

“The ice, Rhoone. The ice is breaking. Out there.”

“It’s solid enough here, Montfallcon. It was tested. We still test it.”

“Nevertheless…”

Rhoone rubbed at his beard, looking about him with some dismay. “Well…”

“We must transfer to the embankment.” Lord Montfallcon looked to see the figure in the bear’s coat moving casually up the steps, strolling into the darkness. More fireworks howled and burst. Lord Montfallcon glared at the figure, half-lifted his hand, then lowered it. “Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” he cried. “We must return to shore. The ice threatens to crack.” But his voice could neither be heard above the roar and snap of the fireworks which still blazed, nor above the laughter and shouts of a drunken crowd.

Montfallcon pushed urgently through until he reached Gloriana’s side. She was laughing at something the King of Poland had just said, to Hassan al-Giafar’s annoyance, her face shining as she watched the explosions, which grew louder and brighter in increasingly rapid sequence.

“The ice, madam. There’s a danger it might collapse!”

A blinding burst of light and heat. Her lips parted. “Ah…”

“The ice is breaking!” screamed Montfallcon. “Your Majesty! The ice is breaking!”

The figure in the bearskin moved beside the embankment wall again, through the trees, looking back at the throng, hearing Montfallcon’s voice as it called now into silence. He paused to watch as slowly the gathering began to move, following the Queen. She left the ice and returned to her carriage. Then, with an amused lift of his shoulder, he ducked down behind a shrub, through a gap in the West Minster wall, and out into a narrow alley which would take him eastward to a house where further entertainment awaited him.

In the Queen’s sleigh, side by side, sat Poland and Arabia, while opposite them was the Queen herself, with her companion, the Countess of Scaith.

Shaggy Casimir the Fourteenth was in high spirits. “It’s been fine adventure, since I came to Albion! By the Gods, Your Majesty, I am glad I made my decision! If I’d come in state, with all my fleet and gentlemen, I’d have had a duller time, and no mistake.”

Hassan al-Giafar put the nail of the little finger of his right hand to a gap between his front teeth and picked at a piece of meat, staring moodily out of the window at the retreating river. “There was really no danger,” he said. “The ice is still firm.”

“My Lord Montfallcon exists night and day only for the Queen’s safety,” said Una with a smile of irony.

The young Caliph scowled. “Do you permit this man to monitor your every decision, madam?”

Gloriana was dismissive. “He has protected me since I was born. I fear that I am so used to it, Your Majesty, that I should feel strange without Montfallcon clucking somewhere in the background.”

King Casimir was shocked. “Hermes, madam! Are you never free?” He laid an innocent and sympathetic hand upon the Queen’s knee.

Gloriana found herself with a further problem in diplomacy, but she was rescued from it as the sleigh struck an obstacle and Casimir was flung, chuckling, back on his cushions, sliding against Hassan, who sniffed: “If this Montfallcon were my vizier, I should have him whipped for spoiling my entertainment.”

Gloriana smiled.

“But then, of course, I am a man,” said the Grand Caliph of Arabia.

“It’s true that women do tend to be more merciful,” observed King Casimir. “To abolish death by hanging from your land and replace it with exile seems to me an ideal solution, if one suffers at all from conflict of conscience. I, of course, am not bothered with such conflicts, since my power comes to me from the Parliament.”

“That is no power at all, in my opinion.” Hassan was determined to be contentious.

“Actually it is the same, if one accepts that power is given to one as a responsibility by the people one serves, eh?”

“I think we are all agreed on that,” Gloriana strove as usual, for equilibrium.

The place was reached and with bows and curtseys they went to their separate lodgings to enrobe themselves in their costumes and study their parts for the Masque.

Gloriana was met by Lord Montfallcon as she returned. “I must apologise, Your Majesty, for cutting short the entertainment. It seemed to me…”

Gloriana nodded dumbly. The strain of maintaining a balance of attention between the haughty Hassan and the confused Casimir had been greater than she had expected, and she would be glad of the hour she had to herself. “You do your duty, my Lord Chancellor, as I do mine,” she murmured. Her smile was thin. “Now you must don your disguise and join in the pleasure of the Masque. Do you know your lines?”

“I intend to read them, madam. There has not been time…”

“Of course. In an hour, then, my lord.” With a guilty movement of her hand she passed into her apartments and allowed the doors to be closed, for once, against her watchdog.

Lady Mary Perrott came forward, looking a little weary, as usual. Gloriana raised her arms. “Strip me off, Mary.” She removed her crown with a sigh. “And then, I pray you, stroke me for a while, to rid me of my aches and pains.”

Lady Mary took the crown and gestured for the maids to disrobe the Queen. Her costume was ready, near Gloriana’s. She was to go as a Valkyrie while her demanding lover Sir Tancred went as Baldur.

In her own rooms, the Countess of Scaith inspected the jewelled casket which had been sent to her. She read the note, in Hassan’s own hand. It thanked her for her courtesies and kindnesses (she recalled none) and begged her to remember him to the Queen with great affection. Una shook her head as her maids unlaced her, wondering if she should tell the Queen of this development or leave the story for an airing when they both relaxed. She decided on the latter.

In nothing but her shift she resumed her position on the couch, took another pipe of tobacco and cast her eyes over Master Wheldrake’s opening lines for the Masque.

In Winter, when the Year burns low

As Fire wherein no firebrands glow,

And Winds dishevel as they blow

The lovely stormy wings of snow,

The hearts of Northern men burn bright

With joy that mocks the Joy of Spring

To hear all Heaven’s keen clarions ring

Music that bids the Spirit sing

And Day gives thanks for Night.

They lacked his usual intensity, she thought, but then he was usually reluctant to write for the Court Entertainments, and it seemed that of late he had been particularly distracted, spending most of his time with that ruined intelligence, that fragile beauty, the haunted Lady Lyst.

The pipe smoked, Una considered her costume; then, with an effort, got to her feet and moved to the cupboard where it was kept. Her fellow Norns, the Lady Rhoone and Lady Cornfield, would expect her to be on time.

Una paused, looking about her, certain that she was watched, but the room was empty save for herself and the maid’s cat. She looked up into the shadows of the ceiling where a small grille admitted air, then shrugged and reached for her corselet.

In the Great Hall of the palace, decorated now in symbolic representation of icy mountains and doomy skies, the masquers took their sieges, wearing furs and brass and silver and all the barbaric magnificence of some Arctic castle’s denizens, while the audience, composed of most of those who had been presented earlier to the Queen, sat, rank upon rank, in chairs, and the musicians in the gallery began to play the music composed by Master Harvey for the occasion, full of sonorous horns and bass viols.

The Countess of Scaith, in hood and black fur, had already spoken her gloomy introduction and stood back so that Odin and Freyja might come forward. Odin, in eye-patch and flop-brimmed hat, a stuffed raven swaying on his shoulder, a plaster head in one hand, was played by reluctant Lord Montfallcon. Queen Gloriana played Freyja.

Lady Rhoone, as Skaal, the Norn of the Future, gave her lines in a voice to rival her huge husband’s (Lord Rhoone played Thor):

“Now Fimbul Winter falls upon the fields,

The Age of Knife and Axe and Cloven Shields,

And violent deeds are wreak’d on men of peace

While Odin, holding Mimer’s sever’d head,

Plans the Last Fight ‘gainst those living and those dead,

And in Black Grief’s Gulf the Fenris wolf’s releas’d!”

Awkwardly Lord Montfallcon held the plaster head aloft and read from the page he tried to hide, while in the farthest rank poor Wheldrake winced and clutched at his body, feeling an agony he could never experience at Lady Lyst’s hand.

“Harken! Heimdal’s horn is blown

And nine worlds wake!

Across our ancient bridge the Giants do come

And Bifrost breaks!

Soon Skoll shall swallow up the sun

The world-ash quakes!”

It was now Gloriana’s turn. She had seen Master Wheldrake and wondered if his grief were not, in some degree, inspired by guilt. She drew breath and, as Freyja, intoned:

“On Ironwood’s hill Storm Eagle’s wings

Flap wild wind across the world

While in Midgard commoners and kings

To Hela all are hurl’d

And Fjular-Suttung in disguise goes he

To steal the Sword of Victory.”

Next, burly Lord Rhoone, as Thor, sporting a good-sized hammer:

“The Gods of Asgard do not fear their Dusk

But to the Battle gladly go.

I’ll dare the Midgard serpent’s tearing tusk,

Destroy mankind’s most deadly foe,

Then die midst fire and snow!”

And on in this vein for a while before Una must step forward again to conclude the Masque with:

“Thus Ragnarok is come and Gods lie dead!

In noble conflict were they slain-

Bluff Thor, sly Loke, fair Frey-none fled

The final battle or the fiercest pain.

And so the World’s New Age they ascertain’d

That Glorious Albion might their burden bear

While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!”

Una noticed that Master Wheldrake had not waited for the applause but was already, with desperate glance to Lady Lyst, sliding from the hall. It seemed to Una that if the quality of Master Wheldrake’s masques continued in this course then the Queen must soon admit that a new poet should be found for the Court, but the hands of the audience were clapped with gusto and Casimir and Hassan leapt forward, almost colliding, to congratulate Gloriana on the beauty of her performance, the nobility of the lines, the wisdom of the sentiments, the appropriate sonorousness of the music, and Una was able to slip behind one of the screens on which the scenes had been painted and tear off her uncomfortable hood, finding that Lady Lyst was already there, giggling uncontrollably to herself Fearing that if she caught Lady Lyst’s eye she would also be infected, Una returned to the front and was immediately taken up by Lord Montfallcon, who was almost gay He was most definitely warmer than usual towards her, for he disliked her, regarding her as a rival to the Queen’s ear, a disruptive voice that lured the Queen away from duty “Fine words, eh?” said Montfallcon. “Wheldrake excelled himself this Twelfth. We must give him a knighthood in the spring. I’ll speak to the Queen. ‘That Glorious Albion might their burden bear, While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!’ Very true, eh?”

Delighting to find their normal roles so thoroughly reversed, Una grinned, “Oh, yes, my lord! Very true, my lord!" — and heard a further burst from behind the screen. She moved, with Montfallcon on her arm, towards the centre of the Great Hall, where the Queen enjoyed the flattery of kings and princes and, in her present mood, might set an earldom on the shoulders of the poet whom, a few minutes before, she had been ready to thrash as thoroughly as, in his secret thoughts, he desired. Thus with inadequate verse did Master Wheldrake find honour and lose the only reward he would ever value.

Doctor Dee passed by, giving his close attention to the words of his old friend King Rudolf of Bohemia, who was explaining the results of his latest experiments.

“And was the transmutation then attained?” asked Dee. Una saw him lift his eye in one swift, stealthy glance at the Queen’s neck.

“Unfortunately the success was only partial. The theme of the Masque reminds me of something I was reading concerning the true nature of the dwarves who featured in the old sagas. They were, in fact, powerful sorcerers, not originally of this planet, who journeyed from another world, bearing with them all the alchemical secrets they had learned there. This is the basis of our own fragmentary scientific knowledge, you see. If their writings could be found-perhaps somewhere in the North Pole-we should truly be embarking on a new age in mankind’s history. I have sent out three or four expeditions, but unfortunately none has, as yet, returned….”

The music, lively and delicate now, had begun again, and, still in costume, masquers joined with audience in the Trippe, a complicated form of gallimard, which was currently in fashion, but not at all suited to someone dressed in the costume of the Norn of the Present. Una of Scaith began to look forward to the Feast.

In the wide yard of the Gryffyn Inn there blazed a magnificent Twelfth Night bonfire hot enough to warm everyone who stood around it. Hot enough to warm even those who lounged in the open galleries above, pouring beer upon the heads of friends and enemies, guffawing at the antics of the troupe of dwarf fiddlers who pranced in a circle around the fire and squeaked and scraped in a boisterous parody of music. Feeling for the parts of their companions denied them, for one reason or another, through the earlier days of the festival, tearing at pieces of meat and bread and cheese, capering, dancing or merely swaying from side to side, pissing, farting and vomiting in less than private corners of the innyard, claiming everlasting affection for acquaintances of that night or eternal hatred for their oldest comrades, they filled every space. The cold air seemed to burn and was rich enough to nourish anyone who breathed it, carrying as it did the fumes of boiled beef and roasted fowls, of wine and rum, of sweat and spunk, of blistering wood and melted snow. There came yells of laughter from all corners of the inn, and sometimes, as when Tinkler was pushed backwards into the fire by a doxy who did not favour him, the laughter was so loud that the timbers trembled. Here, too, were professional clowns-some of those who had earlier entertained the Queen herself-the zanies, the harlekin, the bragging, strutting gallant, the old dotard, the beautiful ladies-in clothes of an Italian cut, though most of them were native to London-in their cups thanks to the Queen’s gold and giving to this audience free what the Queen had paid for.

Into the noisy mob, with his arm about the waist of his paramour, stalked cocky Captain Quire, his sword jutting behind him like the wagging tail of a triumphant mongrel who has found the way into the butcher’s store. The elaborate white and silver costume of his companion, the little tinsel crown upon the coiffeured head, face powdered white, eyes hugely exaggerated, lips a startling crimson, were in evident parody of the Queen as she had appeared during the festivities on the ice.

Tinkler, patting at the back of his singed coat, staggered up to greet his master and was shocked. “Hermes, Captain, what’s this?”

“Our very own Queen, Tink, come to see her people. Pay your respects, Sir Tinkler. Let’s see you make a good leg.”

And Tinkler, infected as always by Quire’s confidence, fell in with the charade at once and bowed deep, whipping off his tattered cap, his snag tooth twisting upwards in a grin. “Welcome, Your Majesty-to the-the Court of King Booze!” He giggled and staggered, grabbing hold of dark-chinned Hogge, who passed with two tankards in either hand. “May I present to Your Majesty Lord Grunt of Hogge and"-he pulled on the wrist of the wench who had pushed him into the fire-"Lady Sow, his beautiful wife.” She pushed him again and he sat down in the slushy mud of the yard, still grinning. “But which Queen is it we honour? What’s her name?”

“Why, it’s Philomena,” said Quire, struggling from the bearskin coat to reveal his own black cloak beneath. From his belt he took his folded sombrero and smoothed it out, brushing at the crow’s feathers. “Queen Philomena-the Queen of Love!” Quire pinched his queen upon the painted cheek, upon the silken bottom, and caused a simper, though the huge, hot eyes were also a little startled, a little wary. The pair moved closer to the bonfire and Quire took one of Hogge’s tankards for himself, another for the Queen. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Gryffyn. A cheer, if you please, for your sovereign, Queen Philomena, who dubs this night a Night of Love and bids you celebrate in her name.”

As the crowd began to cheer, and some of them cried out bawdy promises to Quire’s queen, the captain looked about him in mock astonishment.

“I see no throne. What’s become of it? Where’s the Queen’s great Chair of State? What shall she sit upon?”

The answer was loud and conventional. Quire continued to play to the crowd. He held up his hands. “You are bad hosts. Sir Harlekin here will tell you that the Queen’s guests were better treated.” He put his arm around the patch-coated shoulder of the comedian, who hiccuped theatrically in his face and scratched his eye under his mask. “All had chairs, did they not?”

“They did, sir.”

“Good, solid chairs?”

“Excellent chairs, sir. Your Queen’s a beauty and I’d swear she’s-”

But already a large, high-backed chair was being passed over the heads of the mob and placed so that it was framed by the firelight behind. Again Quire bowed. “Be seated, madam, if you please.” With an awkward curtsey the mock-queen sat and stared around at the newfound Court, who, slack-mouthed, stared back. It seemed that she was drunk, or drugged, for her eyes were glazed and her own mouth moved oddly, though she showed lechery enough for Quire whenever he tickled her and licked her ear and whispered into it.

“Oh, Phil, how you’d satisfy the Caliph now-so much better than the real Queen.” Quire grinned, and hugged his concubine tighter.

And Phil Starling, gone quite Eros-mad, simpered at his lover, his master, and looked at the wonderful ruby ring upon his finger and could not believe that such riches could be his.