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.