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.