Some hours later a bedraggled, shivering Tinkler, his snag fang dancing in unison with his other, less visible teeth, a bundle clutched between legs and saddle-horn, his face blue and his eyes glazed, as if ice covered them, sighted the windmill where they had agreed to meet. It stood out as a black silhouette against the early light, its old sails squeaking as they tried to turn in the wind. The horse splashed through the shallow water of the fen; its hooves broke thin ice with every step; the frozen grass cracked as it bent. There was scarcely any colour to the scene and it seemed to Tinkler that everything which was not white was black. Even Quire’s hunched form, sitting outside the mill beside a small fire, was completely black to Tinkler’s eye. He called out and then became nervous as his voice bawled with startling loudness from his lips and sent some white geese flapping into the pale sky. “Quire!”
Quire looked up and waved cheerfully. There was a dead, plucked fowl on his knee.
Tinkler walked the horse over the small, decaying bridge crossing the clogged stream. “Where’s our charge?”
“Inside, tied and sleeping.”
“O’Bryan?”
Quire gestured with the knife he had been using to gut the goose. The mound on which he sat stirred and groaned. Tormented, blood-shot eyes peered from out of bear fur. “He’s served his first purpose, to communicate to our charge. Now he’s serving a second. One he suggested himself. He’s kept me pleasantly warm for the last two hours, while the fire drew.”
O’Bryan’s mouth opened and groaned again. Blood ran from between his clenched teeth and over his lips. Thoughtfully, Quire took some of the goose’s feathers and stuffed them tight against the teeth, so that the blood would not run onto the bearskin coat and spoil it. O’Bryan whimpered, imploring Tinkler for help, but Tinkler glanced away and entered the mill, noticing, as he did so, the three carefully placed daggers which stuck from O’Bryan’s twitching back.
“What’s next?” he called, looking down at the King of Poland, who snored on ancient straw. He seated himself on part of a broken millstone and began to unwrap the bundle.
“Montfallcon will pretend to send out men. Hogge will take the ransom note to one of the Polish merchants in London-making it clear that we have no idea whom we have captured-and eventually, after much fuss, our victim will be found, none the worse for wear-and with only a few of his valuables gone.” Quire spoke over his shoulder at Tinkler, who was holding up a golden figurine to the shaft of light which fell through the gap in the mill’s roof. “Just a few, Tink. If we were caught with too much, we’d hang this time, for certain, even though it entailed a change in the Law. Montfallcon couldn’t afford to save us. Poland would demand our lives. The treasure-or most of it-will be rescued with its owner.”
Tinkler put the things back. He picked up the bundle and placed it casually in a corner. “And when will that be, Captain?” He scratched, characteristically, at his exposed tooth.
“Shortly before Twelfth Night, Tink. In time for the Court Masque, when so many dignitaries and sovereigns shall be present that our poor King will be lost amongst them and his gestures, speeches, protestations-all will fall flat. He’ll be able to blame himself-as well as brigands-for his failure-but he’ll not blame Albion or Gloriana. And that’s the issue.”
Tinkler had not been listening to most of this. He stepped over O’Bryan’s head again, studying Quire’s efficient hands. “How long will he take to cook, eh, Captain?”
And he reached to pinch the goose.
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
Lying flat, with her eyes close against the grille which was immediately and coincidentally opposite to that which Jephraim Tallow had used on New Year’s Eve, the mad woman stared into the hall, her ears filled with the beauty of the choir’s single voice as it entertained the dining nobles below. She was starved, as she usually was, but she was not hungry Thin fingers held the grille, occasionally combing the tangled, red-brown hair or scratching at the grey flesh of her long body while parasites ran in and out of her rags, unheeded. There was a seraphic smile upon her filthy face-the music and the beauty of the diners filled her with so much pleasure that she was almost crying. Already sweetmeats and savouries had been served and wine waved away, heralding the end of the meal. As another might watch a favourite play, she tried to will the guests to stay, but gradually they rose, taking their leave of the grey lord in his chair at the head of the table, going about their business.
The mad woman focused all her attention on the two who remained. The Arabian ambassador and the lord, who was her greatest hero and whose name she knew, as she knew most of those at Court.
“Montfallcon,” she whispered, “the Queen’s trusted adviser. Her Right Hand. Incorruptible, clever Montfallcon!”
The choir’s chant ended and the choristers began to file from the hall, so that now she could overhear some of what was being said between Montfallcon and the proud, brown man, in braided white silk and gold-twined plaited ropes at head, wrists, neck and waist.
“…my master married to the Queen? Security for all time, for us both. Such an alliance!” she heard the Moor remark.
“We are already allies, however.” Montfallcon smiled delicately. “Arabia and Albion.”
“Save that Arabia’s hampered against expansion because Albion protects her. We are frustrated in our ambitions-as are all children who have grown and whose parents do not recognise the fact.”
Montfallcon laughed aloud. “Come now, Lord Shahryar, you cannot misjudge my intelligence or expect me to misjudge yours. Arabia is protected by Albion because she has not the resources to defend herself against the Tatar Empire. She has no alliance with Poland because Poland shares her fear of the Tatars but hopes the Tatars will leave Poland alone and concentrate on Arabia, if Arabia is weak. On the other hand-”
“My point, my lord, is that Arabia is no longer weak.”
“Of course she isn’t, for she has Albion’s aid.”
“And the Tatar Empire could be conquered.”
“Gloriana will not make war unless the security of the Realm is threatened-and is seen to be threatened. We fight only if invaded. Tatary knows this and therefore does not invade. The Queen hopes by this policy eventually to create habits in nations, so that they will not automatically go to war to gain their ends. She visualises a great Council, a League-”
“Lord Montfallcon’s tone betrays him.” Lord Shahryar smiled. “He believes no more than I in this easy feminine pacifism. Oh, such yearnings are to be admired in any woman. Yet a balance must be established between the Male and the Female instincts. But here there is no balance. There should be a man, as strong in his way as the Queen. My master, the Grand Caliph, is strong-”
“But the Queen does not wish to marry. She regards marriage as a further burden-and she already has many responsibilities.”
“She favours others?”
“She favours none. She is flattered, of course, by the Grand Caliph’s attentions.”
Lord Shahryar stroked his head. “It is for me now to remind you of my intelligence, Lord Montfallcon. What I have said, regarding the Queen and her needs, is well-meant. We are concerned for her.”
“Then we share that,” said Lord Montfallcon. “And if you respect her, as I do, you will respect her wishes, her decisions, as I do.”
“You do nothing without her approval?”
“She is my Queen. She is Albion. She is the Realm.” Lord Montfallcon lifted his chin. “She is the Law.”
“Not always effective.”