Triumff: Her Majesty's Hero (29 page)

At Richmond.

Murmuring armies choked the fields and lawns around Richmond Palace. It was nearly two in the afternoon.

    Better than twenty thousand people were converging on the splendid Palace from all compass points. Fifteen hundred of them were invited guests: ambassadors, clergy, nobility, foreign potentates and senior military staff. A further three thousand were the augmented Palace staff: full-time retainers, huscarls, militia men, ladies-in-waiting, maids, gentlemen-ordinaires, stewards, chefs, servers, musicians and a large number of temporary helpers-out.

    The balance were Londoners, spilling from the City in gaggles of extended families, clubs and works outings, dragging with them carts of food and drink, explosives and makeshift musical instruments. None had been invited, and none would get any closer than the meadows beyond the Palace walls, but that was close enough for them. Simply to be within a mile of the Queen as she celebrated her coronation filled them with a sense of pride and place, and of patriotic importance. Besides, Her Majesty’s fireworks were bound to be the biggest, the best and the most “ooooohhh!”-worthy in all the land. They trampled down the grass, dug in, lit fires, and popped corks. All any of them could see was other people doing the same thing, except for the really lucky ones, who could see other people doing the same thing and the Palace wall. Everyone assured everyone they were with that they had definitely got a good place.

    People carpeted the area. They covered the twenty acre Green and, beyond Trumpeters’ House, could be seen right up Richmond Hill. The Shene was covered with them, and the towpath, and they were beginning to intrude on the Deer Park and Richmond Park itself. Some were even clinging to the branches of the one hundred and thirteen elm trees on the Green.

    High above, on the flat roof of the Palace’s East Wing, Cardinal Woolly lowered his spyglass, and stepped back from the parapet, handing the instrument to the waiting steward.

    “More than last year,” mused the steward, cheerfully.

    “More than ever,” reflected Woolly. He glanced along the length of the roof, noting the huscarls patrolling at regular intervals. Each carried a Swiss crossbow fixed with a telescope spotter. Woolly nodded to himself.

    “When Lord Gull arrives, conduct him to my presence immediately,” Woolly ordered. “I want to go over the security arrangements again.”

    “Of course, your Reverence,” answered the steward, following the cardinal back over the roof walk to the tower stairs.

    Three deacons from the Curial Office stood waiting for him at the base of the tower flight, in a corridor packed with men moving mahogany pews. There was a lot of groaning and grunting, and “down your end”-ing. The corridor looked like a log-jammed river.

    Deacon Spench sashayed through the wooden tide, and made it to the cardinal’s side. He carried a leather clipboard, complete with a purple silk place-marker, which he consulted regularly.

    “We’ve all but cleared the upper auditoria and the Green Rooms,” he said. “The Head Housekeeper thinks there may be some more benches in the storeroom of the Addey Camera. They may need a bit of a dust-down, but they’ll have to do.” He consulted his seating plan carefully. “Either that, or the parties of Viscount Hailsea, the Earl of Slough and the Sardinian Ambassador will be on canvas chairs at the back of the third file.”

    “Find them proper seats, Spench,” the cardinal told him. “We don’t want to go to war with Sardinia. Or Slough, come to think of it.”

    They began to jostle down the crowded passageway.

    “Items ninety-six to one hundred and three are ready to be dealt with in your suite,” Spench told him.

    Woolly’s suite was thick with knots of waiting men and pipe smoke. Woolly took a minute or two to issue lists and back-stage medallions to Messrs Holbein, Bailey and Blake, the official portraitists of the occasion, who stood near the door next to a pile of easels, smelling of turps.

    “Approved sketching only, gentlemen,” Woolly cautioned them, “no cartoon opportunities, please. I don’t want to see candid vignettes of pie-eyed nobility appearing in the broadsheets on Monday.”

    The artists nodded and collected up their clattering equipment.

    “The players,” intoned Spench, leading Woolly across to a second group, “Gaumont of the Swan, Flitch of the Rose, Huntingdon of the Mermaid, Trobridge of the Oh, and Baskerville of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

    The player-managers got hurriedly to their feet, from the chairs they had been lounging in, and ignited professionally competitive smiles of adoration. Except Huntingdon, who cast a nervous, involuntary glance of guilt at the un-stoppered decanter of brandy on the cardinal’s desk, and hoped that his breath wouldn’t give him away.

    Woolly noted it all. It would have made him smile if he hadn’t been in such a serious, businesslike mood. He noted the way they jostled for position to be in front, to smile broadest, to look relaxed and reliable, despite the sneaky elbow-prods and shoulder-barges each was giving the others. It might have been a mistake to try to involve all of the City’s theatre companies in one blockbuster presentation. They were the most competitive, jealous bunch of people in London. Still, Woolly could well-remember the outrage and back-biting that had followed his choice of Chamberlain’s Men to stage last year’s entertainment alone. Anything was better than that, even this.

    “Thank you for attending, gentlemen, I know you all must be busy with last-minute preparations,” Woolly began, cordially. He knew there was nothing better than a good bit of simpering when it came to getting on the right side of thespians. The quintet launched into a chorus of “Don’t mention it”s and “Not at all”s and “Heavens! Compared with the work you have on your shoulders, your Reverence?” Woolly acted up his best smile and allowed the hubbub to die away.

    Then the cardinal got down to business.

    “I trust,” he said, in a voice that suddenly hinted at tumbrels and gibbets and keen axes, “that everything is in order?”

    “Oh yes!” said the quintet, one body with five mouths.

    “Good. We will commence at ten. We will only commence later if the dinner runs over-long, and only then if I signal you in person. Understood?” asked Woolly.

    “Yes, indeed.” said the five-mouthed creature.

    Woolly turned from them, strolled to his desk, and slowly, pointedly, re-stoppered his decanter. There was a thick silence, broken only by the susurrating din from outside the windows.

    “Gentlemen, I very much appreciate the work you have put in complying with my request,” said the cardinal. “I know it is against your natures to work together to please the public.”

    There was a pause, and then Woolly smiled to show them it was a joke. They exploded into raucous hilarity to compliment the cardinal’s fine wit. All except Huntingdon, who managed only a snigger, due to the fact that he was half-dead with relief.

    Woolly smiled his false smile again. They smiled back. You ought to sign me up, thought Woolly, I’m acting better than you ever have.

    “However,” said Woolly, “for the purpose of this evening, I must perforce appoint one of you in overall charge. This will rankle with the others, I know, but it is necessary. For the sake of efficiency, in what will doubtless be a thoroughly hectic night, I must deal with one spokesman, one that the others will obey at all costs. It can be no other way, and I will come down most firmly on any that disaffect this request of mine. Is that clear?” The creature nodded its heads.

    “I intend to be as fair about this as possible. Deacon Spench? Your biretta?” The deacon stepped up, and handed his hat to Woolly. The cardinal produced five twists of paper from the pocket of his robes. He dropped them in the cap and agitated it gently. “Spench?”

    With a breezy smile, Spench reached gingerly into the cap, and pulled out one of the scraps. He untwisted it with slow, clumsy hands, shooting cheery “nearly there” grins at the uncomfortable players.

    Spench opened the paper twist at last, squinted at it, turned it up the right way, and read out, “Basil Gaumont.”

    Gaumont smiled with genuine pleasure, and found himself on the receiving end of four nasty looks.

    “Mister Gaumont it is. My thanks, gentlemen. That will be all. I will go over the last details with Gaumont now, and he can inform you momentarily.”

    Huntingdon, Trobridge, Baskerville and Flitch took turns to shake the cardinal’s paw, and then shuffled out.

    Woolly led Gaumont over to the comparative privacy of the desk, and set down the biretta.

    “My apologies for that palaver,” he said. “I had to be seen to be fair. I didn’t want you troubled by bickering in the wings.”

    “Understood. Many thanks, your Reverence.”

    Woolly’s voice dropped to a murmur. “How goes it, Agent Wisley?”

    “As well as can be expected, chief,” said Gaumont. “The whole affair’s looking most vulnerable, but if Lord Gull’s boys do the stuff security-wise, we shouldn’t be open to compromise.”

    “Anything I should know about?”

    “Nothing springs to mind.”

    “What news of Agent Borde Hill?” asked the cardinal.

    Gaumont frowned, toying idly with the paper scraps left in the biretta, and said, “I’d say he was a dead-end. He seemed to come up with nothing. I’ve reported back the sum of his espial thus far, and none of it amounted to much. I don’t know where you got him from.”

    “Neither shall you, Wisley,” said Woolly. “His origins are particularly sensitive, and higher than even your clearance allows, I’m afraid.”

    “Say no more,” said Gaumont.

“Where is he?”

    “That’s the thing. I haven’t clapped eyes on the fellow for hours,” replied Agent Wisley. “Not since last night, in fact. Must be here somewhere, doing his thing. Damn fine lutenist, I’ll give him that.”

    Woolly scratched his chin thoughtfully, and said, “If you see him, send him to me at once. Invent some story to cover it. It is important I speak with him.”

    Gaumont nodded. He looked down at the twists of paper. “Well heavens! These all say Basil Gaumont!”

    “Of course they do,” said the cardinal.

    Woolly dismissed Gaumont, and moved to consult with the kitchen staff. The ice-sculptor was looking morose, and his shoes were sopping wet. A bad sign, Woolly noted.

    Eastwoodho entered the suite, and stood waiting by the window drapes like an off-duty Rhodesian Colossus.

    “A moment, gentlemen,” Woolly told the kitchen staff, and crossed to the massive CIA agent. “Report?”

    Eastwoodho shook his anvil of a head.

    “Borde Hill gave me the slip again just before dawn,” he said, “after I’d located him following that litter business. He’s a tricksy gent. There was some altercation in the theatre. I went in to investigate, and he must’ve slipped out the back door. Sorry, sir.”

    “Did you find no clues at all, officer?”

    “Nothing, sir,” said Eastwoodho, “except a broken lute.”

    Down by the massive pavilion on the Palace lawn, three huscarls were chasing a popping, sparking Catherine wheel, which was fizzling explosively across the grass. The various stewards and musicians around about applauded and cheered them on.

    “Catch it! Stamp on the bloody thing! Keep it away from the main cache!” the officer of the watch was bellowing.

    One of the huscarls managed to reach it with a flying tackle, and clamped his barbute over it just as the main charge went off. The helmet lofted twelve feet into the air, excreting blue sparks in a trail behind it. Then it dropped and bounced off the sprawled huscarl’s head with a dull
thump.

    “Ooooohhhh!” said the onlookers, and applauded again.

    The officer of the watch thundered over to the huscarls, and embarked on a fierce diatribe about smoking on duty. De Tongfort turned from the brief spectacle, and glowered at Cedarn.

    “You’re late,” he snarled.

    “Sorry,” said Cedarn, adjusting the ruff of his musician’s uniform.

    “Where’s your lute?”

    “I was coming to that.” said Cedarn. “It’s warped. The wet weather. Can’t play it.”