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.