“Lord Ingleborough speaks the truth, as I understand it.” Tom Ffynne fingered the plumes of his hat. “Count Korniovsky-if I remember his outlandish name accurately-said much the same, though not directly. His master has little grasp of statecraft, is primarily obsessed with music and such things. Platonically speaking, the nation’s entirely decadent. There is a parliament in Poland, representing the interests of commons and nobles alike, and this makes all the King’s decisions for him, Your Majesty, so it’s said.” The little admiral gave vent to a high-pitched giggle. “A strange land that has a King and doesn’t use him, eh?”
Queen Gloriana smiled slowly, almost wistfully. “Well, we thank thee greatly for this service, Tom Ffynne. Have you more news? Of your own venturings in the West Indies?”
“Golden ballast saw us through the storms, Your Majesty, and it’s still aboard, at Charing Cross, awaiting your pleasure, in the holds of the Tristram and Isolde.”
“You have an inventory, Sir Thomasin?” Sir Orlando Hawes’s manner was almost warm towards the mariner.
“Aye, sir.” Tom Ffynne hobbled forward, drawing a roll of paper from his belt and, bowing with great ceremony, handed it up to Queen Gloriana. She unrolled the document, but it was obvious to most of those who watched her that she did not read it.
“Enough to build and fit a whole squadron of ships!” Gloriana rolled the document and passed it to Lord Montfallcon, who gave it to Sir Orlando. “Would you divide a tenth part between yourself and your crew, Sir Tom?”
“You are generous, madam.”
“A tenth of this!” Like a startled stallion, the Lord High Treasurer’s nostrils flared. “It’s too much! A twelfth, Your Majesty-”
“For so many lives risked?”
Sir Orlando sniffed. “Very well, madam.”
Queen Gloriana peered the length of the table. “Master Gallimari. Are entertainments prepared for all today’s functions?”
“They are, Your Majesty. While you dine, the music of Master Pavealli-”
“Excellent. I am sure all other choices will be appropriate. And the gown for this evening is ready, eh, Master Orne?”
“To the last button, madam.”
“And you, Master Wallis, have prepared the speech for this afternoon?”
“Two, Your Majesty-one for foreign ambassadors, one for London’s mayor.”
“And there are no decisions I need make concerning dinner or supper, I gather. And, Sir Vivien, I regret we shall not be able to go to the hunt until next week, but I beg you hunt without us.”
Thus the Queen improved the atmosphere in the Council Chamber, causing all to laugh, for Sir Vivien’s passion was a standing joke.
Slowly Gloriana got to her feet, smiling back at her suddenly jovial Councillors. They rose, in formal respect. “There are no urgent matters, then? That was the only pressing problem, Lord Montfallcon?”
“It was, madam.” The old Chancellor bowed and handed her a scroll. “Here’s my suggested solution for Cathay and Bengahl.” She accepted it.
“I bid you all adieu, gentleman.”
Thirteen legs bent. Gloriana departed this worshipping concourse and was at once surrounded, again, by pages and maids, on her voyage back to her own lodgings where she might gain, with luck, half an hour in which to indulge an inquest on the matter of Poland with her co-conspirator in innocence, the Countess of Scaith.
Perion Montfallcon, frowning, signed first to Lisuarte Ingleborough and then to Sir Tom; the three were cronies, survivors of a tyranny they had sworn must never return. Montfallcon bid a hasty farewell to his fellow Councillors, and led the two through the small door, across the antechamber, into his own offices. These were huge rooms. They were filled with books of Law and History. Some of the volumes were as large as Montfallcon himself. The rooms were lit by high windows arranged so that none might ever spy upon the occupants. Diffused light entered, seeming to settle near the ceilings, and scarcely any of it reached the floor where the three men now stood, beside Lord Montfall-con’s ordered desk.
The Lord Chancellor sighed and rubbed his heavy nose, shaking his head. “It is the first time she has acted so whimsically. Was it because I lay on my sick-bed and she felt abandoned by me? ‘Tis the action of a foolish child. From birth she was never that.”
The Lord Admiral leaned his bones on the desk. “Perhaps she yearns to be unburdened?”
Tom Ffynne refused the notion. “She is too conscious of her responsibility. Perhaps she was ill.”
“More likely.” Montfallcon rubbed at an arm which seemed suddenly to ache as if he’d been in battle. “Yet-did you detect pain? Perhaps, for a few moments while she penned and sent those letters, she hoped to be free.”
“It would be the only time she’s displayed such an aberration.” Lord Ingleborough sighed and laid a hand flat against his left thigh. His own agony threatened to wrench his body entirely out of shape.
Lord Montfallcon said: “We must make it our duty to ensure it does not occur again. And save her pain, if possible.”
“You grow sentimental, Perion.” Tom Ffynne uttered, quietly, a chuckle which had chilled the blood of thousands. “But how are we to solve the dilemma?”
“It must solve itself,” said Ingleborough. “Surely?”
Montfallcon shook a determined head. “There’s another way. There’s more than one, but I’ll try the least dramatic first. I’m used to such manipulations. If the Queen but knew what I do to ensure her Faith and that of her subjects! In this case the art is to trick and delay all suitors, to keep all in hope, to give no true assurances, to offend none, to weary the persistent and to give a touch of encouragement to the crestfallen. Thus I play the flirt for the Queen.” And he performed a small, uncharacteristic dance, which perhaps he thought flirtatious, before he sat himself down. “Decadent Poland comes from this direction, warlike Arabia from that. The secret is to let them arrive at about the same time in the hope they’ll collide-look, as it were, into a mirror and mis-like the reflection-and leave in dudgeon.”
“But Poland comes too soon for that!” Tom Ffynne insisted.
“Then I’ll stop him.”
“How?”
“Sabotage. His ship can be delayed awhile at The Havre.”
“He’ll find another.”
“True. Then closer to home-” A knock on the door and a frown from Lord Montfallcon. “Enter.”
A young page came in. There was a sealed envelope in his extended right hand. He bowed to the company. “My lord, a message from Sir Christopher, to be delivered urgently.”
Lord Montfallcon received the envelope and broke off the seals, reading swiftly, then glaring. “The very man I considered-the only man I considered-and he’s pronounced a murderer and hunted. By Zeus, I’d be glad to see that toad hopping on a stake.”
“A servant of yours?” Tom Ffynne grinned. “A bad servant, by the sound of him.”
“No, no. The best I have. There’s none so clever. There’s none so wicked-but he has overextended himself, it seems. And an Arabian princeling, at that. Of course! Sir Launcelot’s Arab!”
“We’d be illuminated, Lisuarte and I,” said Tom Ffynne, and twinkled very merrily, making it obvious to his two friends that he was more than a little curious as to the letter’s contents. But Lord Montfallcon screwed the message up, then burned it, without thinking, in a grate already black with past papers.
“There’s no more.” Lord Montfallcon became cunning. “Now I must plot to save my toad, my unwelcome familiar, from his roasting. How may I defeat the Law we both support?”
“This seems secret and weighty.” Sir Thomasin Ffynne limped for the door. “Will you dine with me, Lord High Admiral? Or better yet, make me your guest to dinner?”
“Gladly, Tom.” Lord Ingleborough, noblest of these survivors, seemed troubled by the Chancellor’s words, as well as by his actions. “By the gods, Perion, I hope you will not bring back the bad days with these schemes of yours.”