The Midnight Queen (33 page)

That afternoon, as soon as he had finished dressing, Gray was shooed out of what had until recently been his bedroom, so that Henriette, Jenny's maid, might work her magick upon Sophie. At loose ends for more than an hour, he wandered about the first floor, peering into the drawing-room, the library, and Sieur Germain's study; noticing everywhere an unaccustomed disorder, he concluded vaguely that the housemaids must have been pressed into service to help the ladies dress. At length he determined to try his luck with Joanna, who had spent most of the day behind closed doors, in sulky silence. His inquiries after her welfare being met with stony silence, he descended the stairs again and sat down at the foot of the staircase, gloves in hand, to await the arrival of his wife.

Down she came at last, moving slowly and carefully. Jenny's dressmaker had enveloped her in deep green velvet, bodice and hem crusted with gilt embroidery; gilt threads and strings of seed pearls glimmered in the phantastickal construction of her hair. She looked so unlike herself that for a long moment Gray could only stand and stare.

“I wish you would not look like that,” she said at last, in her own beloved voice. “You frighten me.”

He closed his mouth and blinked. “You look very beautiful,” he managed.

So she did; but it was a hard, unyielding beauty that she wore, glittering and cold—the fearsome, inhuman beauty of Helen, of Circe, of Venus or Diana. Gray felt he would be very glad, when all this was over, to have his own warm, mercurial Sophie back again.

Mrs. Wallis came down a few moments later, equally splendid and strange in her festival attire of midnight blue, and before long the entire party were assembled. Mrs. Wallis examined the disposition of her charms—the ring on Sophie's finger, the bracelets concealed beneath Master Alcuin's and Gray's shirt-cuffs and the long slender neck-chain looped about Sieur Germain's throat and tucked out of sight. The garish brooch, she had pinned at her own waist; the hairpin, Gray supposed, must be still on Jenny's dressing-table. Treveur and Bertha brought cloaks and wraps, and as the ball-goers were donning these Jenny herself came slowly down the stairs, still pale and wrapped in a dove-grey dressing-gown, bearing in her arms the last essential element of their apparel: five stiff, elaborate velvet masques, painted in gilt and silver, trimmed with glittering beadwork and ribbons and feathers.

“Joanna helped me to make them,” she said, as she distributed each to its intended wearer. It scarcely needed saying: Gray's was as ill suited to him as could possibly be imagined, so much beaded and embroidered that its black velvet ground was scarcely visible, and edged in peacock-feather eyes sewn in place beneath some sort of thin, silvery cord.

“Must we look so . . . so
gaudy
?” he protested weakly, holding it at arm's length.

“We must,” said Mrs. Wallis. “My cousin's charms will carry us only so far, and a charm, as you know, Mr. Marshall, may easily be lost. It would be foolish to draw attention from the merely curious by failing to look our parts.”

Sophie held her own masque briefly before her face, and for a moment disappeared entirely into the character of Sieur Germain's pretty young cousin.

“The carriage, my lord,” said Treveur, holding out the last, voluminous cloak for his master.

Jenny stood on tiptoe to kiss Gray's cheek and murmur a blessing; she embraced Sophie, clasped hands with Master Alcuin and Mrs. Wallis, and at last, looking troubled, stepped forward into her husband's arms. “You will be careful?” Gray heard her whisper, as Sieur Germain kissed her brow.

Finally she stood back and looked them over, her pale face carefully expressionless. “May Fortune smile on you,” she said softly, “and all the gods protect you.”

They descended the stairs; Harry arrived, inexplicably breathless, to open the front door and let down the carriage steps; Gray and Sieur Germain handed Sophie and Mrs. Wallis into the carriage; and in no time the Kergabet coach had joined the throng of similarly festive traffic along the road to the Palace.

Sophie's hand found Gray's, and he clasped it tightly.
There can be no turning back now.

In Which a Princess Goes to a Ball

The carriage shuddered
to a halt, and the footman sprang down to open the door and unfold the steps. The travellers descended into the great forecourt of the Palace, hung everywhere with sheaves of grain, horns filled with fruit, strings of tiny magelight lanterns. Concealing their faces behind their phantastickal masques and their urgent purpose beneath an air of festivity, they ascended the wide white marble stair.

Sieur Germain reached into a pocket of his coat, where Sophie had earlier seen him conceal their warning missive to the King:

Your Majesty is in mortal danger. Do not trust Lord Carteret, Lord Wrexham, or Lord Spencer, for they mean you and your children harm. If you will consent to speak with me, send word by the bearer of this letter. If you will not, then at least, for your own sake and the kingdom's, I beg you will take great care with your meat and drink.

—A loyal subject and friend

“Wait here,” Sieur Germain commanded. “I shall return as quickly as I may.”

Then he was caught up in the swirling, laughing, flirting crowd, and carried away beyond their seeing.

The rest of the party stood hard by the west wall of the vast Octagon Room—of which Gray had so often heard from those of his fellows more in tune than he with London society—near a large bas-relief of Perseus slaying Medusa. In the main, the noisy throng paid them little heed. Every so often a curious eye came their way, and as quickly turned again; from time to time, too, some young man cast an appreciative glance at Sophie and tried to catch her eye. But her attention was all on the marvels around her—and who would fault her, Gray asked himself bleakly, if she should prefer
all this
to a life of genteel poverty with her hastily chosen spouse?

Then an ostrich-feathered dandy, whose neck-cloth dripped with costly lace, gave her a gallant, smiling bow as he passed; she put a hand to her mouth and turned her face away, hiding laughter. Gray recollected with a smile what manner of woman he had wed, and was reassured.

The longer they stood waiting, however, the more restless he became. There were a great many guests already arrived, to be sure, and all of them masqued, but how could it take such a time to locate an acquaintance with whom one had arranged a rendezvous and put a letter into his hand? Was their presence discovered so soon, and Sieur Germain made prisoner, or worse? Were they, in fact, altogether too late?

A hand on Gray's arm startled him from his increasingly melancholic reflections; Sieur Germain was at his elbow, gesturing discreetly for the others to lend him their ears. “The King and Queen are expected within the hour,” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. He spoke in Brezhoneg; Gray murmured a translation, in Old Cymric, to Master Alcuin in even lower tones. “My friend is gone to speak with His Majesty now, bearing our letter, and he will find me out again—even if he has no reply to bring—to say how his errand has sped.”

“So now we wait,” said Sophie.

*   *   *

Their only task, for the moment, was to observe without attracting observation, and much was there to be seen. Magelight lamps and lanterns of every conceivable shape and size hung all about the walls and on cords criss-crossing the high ceilings, illuminating painted scenes from Virgil and Homer, Ovid and Apuleius. Displays of flowers, of fruits, of tree-nuts and grains and wine, competed for space with the numerous statues of gods and goddesses, long-dead monarchs and famous mages, that filled every corner and alcove. From high-hung galleries near and far drifted snatches of music—strings and flutes, horns and clarionets; as the party made their slow circuit of the vast reception rooms, Sophie caught now this tune, now that, till her head began to ache with the effort of following three or four melodies at once.

And more splendid yet was the spectacle presented by Their Majesties' invited guests.

Sophie's own gown, and Mrs. Wallis's, which she had thought such a mad extravagance, seemed moderation itself beside the attire of the women around them: gowns of satin and velvet, so heavily embellished with satin roses, jet beads, gilt embroidery, silk lace, that it was difficult to imagine how their wearers remained upright; jewels marvellously wrought, draped about throats and wrists, across décolletés and bodices, as though each lady wore her whole fortune on her person; masques and headdresses heavy with feathers, pendant jewels, strings of pearls.

The male contingent, Sophie saw as she scanned the glittering throng for any sign of the three conspirators she knew by sight—her stepfather, Viscount Carteret, and the second man they had confronted in the Master's Lodge at Merlin, the presumed Lord Merton—was scarcely less gloriously adorned. Its evening full-dress was grander than anything in her experience, its masques—in character ranging from the elegant to the flamboyant to the macabre—testifying to the anxious labour of many a milliner and many a lady. Of her own party, only Sieur Germain came near to equalling the ostentation of the rest. Master Alcuin could scarcely help looking what he was, an elderly man profoundly indifferent to matters sartorial, and Gray's fine new wedding-clothes were built on more simple lines, far better suited to himself than to present company. That preposterous peacock-feather masque—surely Joanna's doing—could not quite disguise his incredulity at the scene before him.

This, then,
Sophie marvelled,
is what Mama and Mrs. Wallis left behind them, all those years ago.

What a relief it must have been!

*   *   *

An age seemed to pass before, at last, a man of about Gray's own age, dark-haired and solidly built, approached Sieur Germain. “I have not sped,” he said.

Sieur Germain drew him aside, into the shadow of the nearest piece of statuary, and the others, without discussion, discreetly moved to screen them farther from view. Gray, standing nearest, thus heard clearly what was surely meant to be a private confession of failure.

“I was able to gain His Majesty's dressing-room,” the young man began, still in the language of Breizh. “And I gave the letter into his own hand, before there was time for anyone to ask my business. But I had chosen my moment ill, for he was not alone; with him, besides his body servants, were the Queen's brother, and the healer Lord Spencer . . .”

Gray felt the colour draining from his face, and at last found reason to be grateful for Joanna's peacock feathers.
We are too late. Once more we are too late.

“And then?” Sieur Germain demanded.

“I made my bows and went away,” the messenger admitted. “I lingered some time in the corridor, to see whether one of His Majesty's servants might be sent with a message for me, but to stay longer must have aroused suspicion. I know not, therefore, whether the King has read your letter or no, nor can I know who else may have done so.”

Sieur Germain's curses were none the less vehement for being delivered in an undertone that few could hear. “Were you recognised?” he asked at last. Gray, scanning the room in the direction from which the stranger had come, held his breath in anticipation of the answer.

“I cannot be certain,” said the young man. “I believe that I was not, but my lord Wrexham, I know, is a far more subtle schemer than you or I. I am very sorry, my lord . . .”

“It is of no matter,” Sieur Germain assured him, rallying. “Your errand was not our only stratagem. You have already been of very material help to us, and—”

“Cousin,” Gray hissed, reaching behind him to attempt a quelling gesture, for at that moment he had seen, amidst the milling, lighthearted festive crowd, two men—masqued, but moving with a purpose and determination which set them quite apart from all the rest—making their way towards the Kergabet party. He doubted that any of the others had seen them; the one advantage to being taller than anyone else in nearly any room was that of seeing one's adversaries approaching from a great way off.

After one last, covert glance at these pursuers, Gray spun round and bent to address Sieur Germain and his companion more directly. “You have been followed,” he told the latter, and to his brother-in-law he said, “Shall we ask . . . our cousin to hide him, or had he better get quite away?”

Though conducted in the lowest possible tones, their conversation had by now attracted the notice of the rest of the party, who equally needed no telling that their first attempt at saving King Henry's life had not gone as intended. They arrayed themselves now in a tighter arc, shoulder to shoulder, so that Gray heard the others' breathing as loudly as his own.

Gray glanced across the circle at Sophie, who met his gaze with a brief, anxious lifting of her shoulders. Looking over her head into the crowd, he saw the two men he had remarked earlier, drawing ever nearer—not speedily nor directly, but inexorably. “Whatever we do,” he murmured, “must be done with all possible dispatch.”

“Take this,” said Sophie quietly; there was a small, disapproving sound from Mrs. Wallis, and Gray saw that Sophie had removed her mother's charmed ring and was holding it out towards Sieur Germain's ill-fortuned messenger. “What . . .” he began, but stopped, staring goggle-eyed at the delicate object in his hand.

“You may go or remain, in equal safety,” Sieur Germain said, laying a broad hand on the younger man's shoulder. “The lady has given you a charm to conceal you from unwelcome eyes.”

“I shall return it to you as soon as may be, m'lady.” The stranger bowed deeply to Sophie, who looked perplexed. Then, with another backward glance, he took a hasty, quiet leave of them all and melted away into the throng. His pursuers came near; looked, but saw nothing to interest them; and passed away again.

The Kergabets, real and counterfeit, looked at one another. “Next, then,” said Sophie, “we seek out our . . . friends.”

This task required that they disperse themselves, for each of them knew some of their quarries by sight, yet none knew all, and they dared not yet risk the use of a finding-spell. It was now, as they hastily redistributed the six conspirators among five watchers, that they felt the absence of Jenny—though Gray could not deny that it was a relief to him, to know both Jenny and Joanna safe at home. This, after a hurried prayer that the Mother Goddess and Ceres of the harvests—whose festival, in part, this was—might speed their search, they had begun to do, when, at some signal that Gray could not at first discern, the whole teeming, chattering crowd fell into an expectant silence, and every gaze turned upwards, to the head of the great staircase that made one side of the Octagon Room.

Trumpets sounded. “His Majesty, Henry, King of Britain,” a voice (surely projected by magickal means) intoned.

The twelfth Henry stepped out onto the landing and saluted his guests; a cheer erupted from the assembly, though Gray thought it was not so unanimous as might have been expected.

“Her Royal Highness, Queen Edwina.”

The plump little queen, her blond hair coiled atop her head in a shining coronet, emerged to join her husband. The crowd's approval now was unequivocal; shouts of “
Vive la reine!
” echoed in Gray's ears.

The three young princes were announced, to the same hearty acclaim: Edward, Roland, Henry. From behind his peacock feathers, Gray studied the Crown Prince—a sturdy towheaded boy just a year older than Joanna, and not very much taller—and tried to imagine him taking Sophie's part against Lord Carteret and the Iberian ambassador. It was as well that Sophie and he had taken the decision out of others' hands.

*   *   *

The royal family having been announced, it occurred to Sophie that no one else had been. “No names, and no faces, and no welcome-oaths,” she murmured, incredulous. “It is an assassin's dream.”

“Indeed.” Master Alcuin appeared to have heard her self-directed remark. “It has long been the custom for Samhain, but you will find that when a monarch believes himself less than universally beloved, he will always discover some reason that the custom ought not to apply
this
year . . .”

Sophie sank her voice still further to reply, “Would that His Majesty had been more perceptive.”

Then Gray, whose arm she held in what she hoped was a maiden-cousinly manner, moved another way, pulling her with him. Master Alcuin too moved slowly off, nodding affably at everyone he passed, till he was lost to her sight.

The royal hosts having at last made their appearance, the festivities could now begin in earnest. Very soon the great doors opened, with ponderous slowness, and the King and Queen led their guests into the Palace ballroom. They took their places at the top of the room; hundreds of other couples arranged themselves below, and a great consort of musicians—half a hundred at the least, thought Sophie, awed—struck into the evening's first
contredanse
.

Sophie and Gray took up a station suited to observe their fellow guests and, standing a little apart, turned once more to the search for those conspirators whom they might reasonably hope to recognise—the Professor, of course, as well as Lord Carteret and Lord Merton.

Sophie cast many a wistful glance at the long lines of dancers. She had never before attended so much as a neighbourhood ball in Breizh; Amelia and Joanna, having both learnt at school, had taught her dances enough, but except when some evening party of Amelia's ended in an impromptu dance, she had never seen them properly performed—and even then she had been always pressed into service to supply the music.

You are not here to dance with handsome young men, you silly girl,
she admonished herself, scanning the dances, and the surrounding mêlée, for any sign of their quarry. But perhaps she did not do it so well as she had meant—perhaps she allowed her body too much sympathy with the rhythm of the music, or her face too much admiration for the dancers' graceful movements—for after some moments Gray's hand fell softly on her shoulder, and she lifted her face to hear him say, “
Petite cousine
, you will perhaps do me the honour of dancing the first two dances with me?”