Triumff: Her Majesty's Hero (31 page)

    He had hoped to be in Wanstead among the roses this year. Now, he was in the thick of far more dangerous thorns.

    “There are so many people,” he murmured as they topped the stairs and crossed the riverside walk. Neither of his companions saw fit to answer him.

    The huscarl posted at the annexe doorway recognised Gull as he approached, and snapped to attention, his pike quivering upright in the air. Gull swirled past him in a storm of cape, and Mother Grundy followed him as if caught in his slipstream.

    De Quincey felt as if he ought to say something encouraging to the alert soldier.

    “A lot of people,” he managed with a friendly frown and a nod to the crowded lawns.

    “Sir,” replied the huscarl, mouth tight and serious beneath the visor-lip of his Coventry sallet. There was a limp sprig of lucky nettle pinned to his tabard.

    “De Quincey!”

    De Quincey broke into a nervous little run, and entered the Palace.

    The North Processional was a panelled corridor a quarter of a mile long. Travelling down it meant passing beneath the following eyes of thirty Glorianas, each framed in gilded foliage, each rendered in the manner of her age. There was Elizabeth III, one lace glove spread on a map, the other languid on the Orb of State; there was Elizabeth IX, a Mannerist Madonna, her elongated, dreamy face averted heavenwards; there was Elizabeth XIV, Barbizon-style, a dot in the middle of the rolling landscape; there was the Moralist Elizabeth XX, with her rosy cheeks and her comical courtiers; there was Pre-Raphaelite Elizabeth XXV, dressed as a winsome Maid of Orleans with a dainty, lethal estoc and a consumptive frailty; there was Elizabeth XXVI, a Futuristic blur of speeding gown and streamlined tiara; there, apparently, was the De Stijl Elizabeth XXX.

    De Quincey felt their regal gaze on his hurrying back. He felt, in the same moment, an acute kinship with the courtiers and royal servants, who had, in past ages, felt the burn of those gazes in actuality. How many intrigues, conspiracies and potential insurrections had those courtiers put down in the name of their monarch? How many times had the Crown teetered on the brink of downfall, only to be wrested back by the diligent loyalty of men and women like him?

    The notion churned his troubled mind still further. History, with whom he was at least on nodding terms, was full of brave legends and worthy tales: Lord Bartleby and the Redditch Uprising, Gilead Warner and the Baron’s Revolt of ‘73, Jakob Smallwood and the Prussian Betrayal. Noble men, noble deeds

    What of him? What of Neville de Quincey? Thus far, he had played his part as well as any ill-prepared understudy, who suddenly has the script of a lead role thrust into his hand. He was certain that the association he had made between his own troubling observations and Mother Grundy’s dreams was of vital import, but now things dragged on. The excitement of the urgent river chase had emptied to make space for Lord Gull, the thronging Palace and all the other trappings of reality that had poured in on him. He was aware of how small and insignificant he was, and how laughable his speculations.

    For all its heroes, how many also-rans had fickle History forgotten? How many dramas had been played out in the secrecy of the Royal Palaces, their protagonists long-dead and un-remembered? He wanted to be a Bartleby, a Warner, a Smallwood, immortal ever-after in song and statuary, but all he could see was a little plot in the Wanstead Parish cemetery, remembered only by a spray of fresh-cut roses.

    Then, as he reached the far end of the North Processional, he realised that he wasn’t really interested in fame at all. He wanted to live, but even more than that, he wanted to be right. He wanted to be right, at the right time, which, with any luck, was right now. And if he was a catalyst in the making of a new English legend, then so much the better.

    Gull and Mother Grundy had come to a halt in the processional ante-room, where Gull conversed briefly with a waiting steward, and then sent him off into the depths of the Palace.

    “Why do we wait?” asked de Quincey, voicing what Mother Grundy must have been thinking.

    “The steward has gone to fetch Cardinal Woolly,” Gull told them. “We wait for his arrival.”

    “How long?”

    “Soon,” snapped Gull, looking at de Quincey sharply.

    “Hmmph. Take the street of by-and-by, and you arrive in the house of never,” Mother Grundy intoned.

    “Very true,” de Quincey agreed, pushing past Gull towards the door.

    “Where are you going, man?” asked Gull dangerously. “Don’t tell me you’re acting on every daft adage this old dam utters forth?”

    “Yes, I am,” said de Quincey directly. He caught Gull’s deadly look, and his eager resolve wilted slightly, but not entirely. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the Palace is packed out. It might take ages for word to reach the cardinal, and ages on top of that for him to attend you here. Wait for him, by all means. We needn’t all wait. It can’t hurt if I take a little look around. I’ll report back in a quarter of an hour.”

    “And I’ll go with him,” said Mother Grundy.

    Gull draped his cloak over the back of a chair.

    “No. No, no, no,” he said. “The greatest turmoil of the century hangs about us, not to mention the biggest party of the year, and you two would have me believe that an unimpeachable member of the Church is behind this evil. If Woolly’s going to swallow this story, I’ll need you with me to make it ring true.”

    “That’s why we’ll be back before his worship arrives,” said Mother Grundy. She rummaged in her hopsack, and produced a little whistle carved from a chicken’s shin-bone. “And if we’re not, sound this twice. We’ll hear it. We’ll come.”

    Gull took the whistle, and somehow managed to contain his anger. There was something in Mother Grundy’s tone that helped in this.

    “Be quick,” was all he could say.

    De Quincey led the old lady out into the corridor to the east. Rush matting deadened the sound of their hurrying feet.

    “Your master is a surly oaf,” said Mother Grundy.

    “That’s how he got where he is, mistress,” replied de Quincey. He paused by an open casement that overlooked the front lawns. Darkness, wispy and unemphatic, was beginning to settle across the vast, busy area. Thousands of tapers and lamps were being lit, making a carpet of fireflies across the crowd and the tents. Through the din of voices, he could hear a tune from the players’ pavilion.

    “‘Tarleton’s Resurrection’,” he mused, “one of my favourites. I play the viheula for recreation. I’m not very good, but this is a tune that I like to pass the t-“

    “Don’t ramble, de Quincey,” said the old woman. “Rambling’s fine for country walks, and no good for conversation.”

    “Do you make these up?” he asked.

    Her gaze said everything. It spoke volumes: twenty-six or more hand-tooled, leather-bound, marbled and lavishly illustrated volumes.

    “Sorry,” he said, “I’m rather nervous.”

    Three huscarls were passing around a between-shifts pipe at the end of the corridor. De Quincey flashed his medallion of office at them.

    “We’re looking for Divine Jaspers of the Church Guild. Any sign of him, chaps?” he asked.

    They shook their heads.

    “If you see him, report it to Lord Gull. He’s in the Processional ante-chamber.”

    The huscarls nodded their heads.

    De Quincey took the smoking pipe from the man nearest him.

    “Sorry,” he said, “I’ll have to confiscate that. Fire hazard.”

    Closing the next pair of doors after them, de Quincey paused, and dragged hard on the stem-pipe.

    “Ooooh, I needed that,” he said. “Left my pouch at the Yard.” He paused, noticing Mother Grundy’s surly look.

    “Am I going to get another stern adage about tobacco and the ills of the flesh? ‘Need the weed and heed not what they plead’ or some such?” he asked her, tetchily.

    “Only if you don’t give me a toke of that,” replied Mother Grundy. She smiled, for the very first time in their acquaintanceship.

    “I’m rather nervous too, Neville,” she told him.

Louis Cedarn set down his lute. “Tarleton’s Resurrection” was one of his favourites, but his heart hadn’t really been in it. The musicians’ tent was an amber den of starched ruffs and rosewood sound-boards, thanks to the tapers around them. Score sheets fluttered in the evening breeze, and three dozen music stands cast spidery shadows up across the tent wall.

    From where he sat, he had a good view of the stage, and, beyond that, the well-lit, open-fronted pavilion tents in which the Unity’s finest were rowdily assembling. The most splendid area of the pavilion was still empty. The Royal party was minutes away from arriving. Charcoal embers fluttered up into the night air. There was a rich smell of cooking from somewhere to the south-west. Fire-eaters and tumblers cavorted like devils on the open lawn in front of the stage, earning a smatter of applause, and a hearty laugh or two.

    Jean-Baptiste Couperin, the music master, took a note from a page runner, read it dutifully, and turned back to the poised musicians. Cedarn took up his lute again. His heart pounded against his ribs.

    “Mesdames, Messieurs,” he announced, “we ‘ave time for one furzer galliard, zen we will commence the Royal Salute. Ze time is almost upon us. Attendez!” He rapped the top of his lectern with his baton. The tapers fixed to the corners of the lectern fluttered.

    “Ze King of Denmark’s Galliard if you please,” he said.

    The baton swung almost hypnotically. Music blasted into the night like fireworks.

    Doll sipped a beaker of hot-water-and-honey to ease her throat. The tiring tent was a tangled knot of nerves and creative differences. She eyed her splendid reflection in the tall mirror, adjusted her gauze and her golden half-mask, and took a deep, counted breath. Her lines swam in her head like a shoal of minnows, darting away every time she reached for them.

    She was proud of the fact that she had been given all the really stonking lines of the “Goddess of the Day” sequence. She prayed they would not leave her when the moment came, the moment in front of a thousand or more nobles and the Queen herself.

    Across the tent’s hubbub, she could see Mary Mercer and Alice Munton, her partners in the scene, and London’s most noted actresses, hugging and reassuring, and cooing at each other. Never spare a minute for me, eh? Doll mused bitterly. Me, the non-star, the no-name. Damn your bitchy eyes!

    De Tongfort was by her side suddenly.

    “Ready?” he asked, gloomily. “Three minutes, no more, then the Queen’s in place. You won’t shame the Oh, will you?”

    Doll felt her nerves strain like lute strings.

    “Of course I won’t,” she said, her voice hoarse again.

    De Tongfort walked away, towards Master Horace Cato of the Swan, who was to take the part of Orion, the hunter. Cato’s clown act was famous across the City, but he had wangled himself a serious part in the Masque. His gold-painted laurels and cute toga barely contained his plump girth. She watched as de Tongfort whispered to him, and handed him a long, ash arrow for his hunter’s quiver. The arrowhead, flashing in the lamp-light, was a barb of steel.

    Her pulse quickened.

    She stepped forward, about to make some excuse to be elsewhere, when a hand caught her shoulder. Turning, she found herself facing the tearful Alice Munton and Mary Mercer. Alice was a slender, painted Diana, Mary a barely decent hillside-worth of Artemis. They clutched their bows and arrows to their bosoms.

    “Dear sis,” began Alice, “best of luck.” She hugged the unprepared Doll, and kissed her cheeks hard.

    “And from me, dearest daughter of the stage,” said Mary, clutching Doll to her ample bosom. “I know we’ve all been at odds in the past, but now’s the time to make amends. Bless you, my dearest! Let the muse inspire us all!”

    “Thank you. And you,” said Doll, with the most overblown emotion she could summon. Bloody actresses, she thought, so over the top at times like this. They’ll hate me tomorrow. Still, just for now, I’m one of them, an equal.

    It made her feel good. She felt her own tears rise. Doll took up her own stage bow and quiver, and followed them to the edge of the wings. She glanced back. Neither Cato nor de Tongfort was in sight.

The Palace gates were, according to Drew Bluett, shut tighter than a Vestal’s knickers. Uptil was busy musing on Drew’s colourful description as the weary trio pushed to the front of the crowd by the gatehouse. Under the moth-bothered lamps, a squad of huscarls made threatening “be off with you” noises to the gathering throng. The sounds of music and laughter, and hundreds of voices filtered through the heavy gates.