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?”