Triumff: Her Majesty's Hero (33 page)

    “Oh,” said de Quincey, examining it by the light of the lamp Mother Grundy helpfully raised aloft.

    “It all seems to be in order,” nodded de Quincey, wincing at Mother Grundy.

    “I was just doing a general view of the scene from up here before going down into the crowd for a few portraits. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, yes,” said de Quincey.

    “What do you think, then?” asked Holbein, getting to his feet and holding up his canvas. “I was busy scumbling it when you surprised me.”

    “Were you? Very nice,” said de Quincey.

    “Indeed it is,” added Mother Grundy. “Very nice.”

    “Have you, erm, seen anything this evening?” de Quincey asked, helping the artist to re-erect his easel.

    “Like what?” smiled Holbein. He gestured out of the window at the firelit scene below. “Anything in particular?”

    “Have you seen the Divine Jaspers of the Church Guild?” asked Mother Grundy.

    Holbein frowned.

    “I’ve seen just about everyone who is anyone here tonight,” Holbein answered, puckering his forehead in thought. “Jaspers Jaspers Youthful bloke, fleshy lips?”

    “That’s the one,” said Mother Grundy.

    Holbein reached down into his knapsack and took out a thick sketch book.

    “Let’s see, then,” he said, flipping the pages. “Lord Gorse there not bad that, if I say so myself. Richard of Brookshottes. I really got the nose, don’t you think?”

    De Quincey nodded impatiently as the pages of pencil roughs flicked over.

    “Lady Mary Lusterman. Quite a bosom, eh?” said Holbein.

    “Very nice,” said de Quincey, wishing the artist would get a move on.

    “What I wouldn’t give to paint her nude,” snickered Holbein.

    “Wouldn’t you get cold?” asked Mother Grundy. De Quincey nudged her.

    “Here we go. Jaspers. That’s him, isn’t it?”

    “Yes!” said de Quincey, taking the sketchbook.

    “I caught him earlier, just before I came up here. He was chatting to these folks here. I got them all rather well, didn’t I?”

    De Quincey held the book closer to the light. “Lord Slee Regent de la Vega Lord Salisbury.”

    “Quite some company this vile divine keeps, Mister de Quincey.”

    De Quincey nodded and breathed out hard.

    “They were chatting together out of sight behind the kitchen tent,” Holbein explained. “I saw them, and thought I’d do a quick sketch. You see, a true artist captures the offguard moments, the intimate things. Anyone can do rousing posed shots of the Court watching the fireworks. I think a true record of an event like this is in the informal moments.”

    Hasty though Hans Holbein’s sketch must have been, there was no denying the subtlety of the rendering. The four illmatched men were huddled in the folds of the tent, masked by the shadows. Slee was talking and the others were listening. De Quincey felt his stomach turn uneasily.

    “Their apparent nervousness Their guarded manner That’s not artistic interpretation, is it?” he asked.

    Holbein looked wounded.

    “Of course it isn’t, of course it isn’t,” said de Quincey, nodding hastily.

    Mother Grundy leaned over and pointed to something around the Divine’s neck.

    “What are these?” she asked.

    “Pouches. Three of them. Little drawstring doodahs,” said Holbein. “Didn’t have time to sketch them in properly. Why, is it important?”

    De Quincey looked across at Mother Grundy. “Is it?” he asked.

    “A sorcerer a dabbler in Goety might keep talismans in pouches like that,” she said.

    “He might keep his change in there too,” de Quincey ventured.

    “Three pouches? No. He wouldn’t want them to touch his skin, but he’d want them close to his heart. The pounding of the heart muscles keeps the Magick in them vital,” Mother Grundy explained.

    “Oh dear me,” said de Quincey, sitting down heavily on Holbein’s stool.

    “I say, this all sounds very exciting,” said Holbein, his eyes gleaming, “more exciting than sketching rich folk for a pittance at any rate. Is there anything I can do?”

    “You don’t want this much excitement,” de Quincey told him. He looked over at Mother Grundy. The lamplight made her look more skeletal than ever. “We should tell Gull about this.”

    “We should keep looking. There’s no time to go back,” said Mother Grundy.

    De Quincey got to his feet, saying, “Master Holbein, how would you like to perform a duty of national importance? Hurry down to the ante-room off the North Processional and show this sketch to Lord Gull. Tell him we sent you.”

    “Will do!” said Holbein eagerly. He hurried away down the corridor.

    De Quincey looked around at Mother Grundy, and was alarmed to see her swaying, holding a hand to her brow.

    “Mother Grundy?” he asked.

    “I’m sorry,” she said. “It just hit me. Like a heatwave. That smell, do you sense it?”

    De Quincey sniffed. He could smell cold, damp darkness, and woodsmoke and food cooking, food that must have been basted in molasses.

    “It’s started,” she said. “The devil has begun his business.”

    “I say,” said Holbein, returning out of the gloom. “All the doors are locked.”

The first icon crumbled to dust in his fingers.

    Jaspers brushed his hands and sighed. Blood pounded in his temples.

    Behind him, a fanfare began to trumpet out into the night. Jaspers rose from behind the shelter of the stone buttress, and retraced his steps, back through the dark to the VIP tent. He slipped in through the rear flap, holding it aside for other noblemen on their way to the latrine. The open-fronted tent was smoky, and stank of spilled wine. Jaspers resumed his seat next to Salisbury.

“Good piss?” asked Salisbury, knocking back some wine.

“Quite satisfactory, thank you,” said Jaspers.

    Jaspers watched how the fat man’s hands trembled around his goblet. He knew that Salisbury dearly wished that either Slee or de la Vega had taken charge of the Divine, but they were both required in the Royal Pavilion.

    Jaspers leaned over, and filled his glass from the jug on the table.

    “I know you don’t like me, Hockrake,” he said, “but try not to be nervous or we’re all dead.”

    Salisbury nodded. He looked across at Jaspers. Their eyes met properly for the first time ever.

    “You frighten me, sir,” said Salisbury. “I’ll be plain. We’re in this together and all, but you frighten me.”

    “So I should,” said Jaspers. “I’m the most dangerous man in the Unity.” He chuckled and moderated his tone to mollify Salisbury. “Relax. As you say, we’re in this together. We’ll have to trust each other if this is going to play out to our advantage.” He raised his glass and his voice.

    “A health to Her Majesty!” he said.

    Salisbury clinked his trembling goblet with Jaspers’s as the nobility around them answered the toast.

    “So, your little toy?” he asked quietly under the din.

    “Has sealed tight every door in the Palace,” finished Jaspers. “Our main players are trapped on this public stage. A few minutes more, and we reach the culmination of this business.”

De Quincey tried the door again.

“We could break it down,” Holbein suggested.

    “Indeed, if you want a broken shoulder bone,” Mother Grundy told him. “These doors aren’t locked, they’re shut Goetically.”

    “Which means?” asked de Quincey, knowing full well what it meant.

    “Which means, Neville, we’re trapped up here,” said Mother Grundy.

On the carpeted walk beside the Royal Pavilion, Lord Slee shook hands with another group of dignitaries, and then crossed to Cardinal Woolly, who stood by the steps of the great tent, admiring the roof of the huge marquee that had been painted with verisimilitude summer clouds. Gold dust coated every surface like a yellow frost.

    “Your worship,” said Slee.

    “My lord.”

    Slee handed Woolly a sealed tube of parchment, saying, “The Speech of Thanks. The Chancellor asked me to pass it to you.” Woolly nodded and tucked the tube into his waistband.

    “A fine night. The Royal Pavilion looks glorious. That touch of gold will complement Her Majesty’s hair. You’ve done well, if you don’t mind me saying,” Lord Slee said, smiling.

    “Thank you,” said Woolly. “I trust it will go well.”

    Slee smiled again.

    “I have no doubt,” he said, and turned away.

    Ten yards took him around behind the Pavilion, and into the awning of the players’ tent. De Tongfort was waiting.

    “It’s all set, my lord,” said de Tongfort.

    “Cato has the arrow?” asked Slee.

    “Aye, and I see the Divine is in place. Have you passed the item to that fool cardinal?” asked de Tongfort.

    “Lower your damn voice!” hissed Slee. “Yes, I have. Now wait and be ready. Is that fellow Cato prepared?”

    “I gave him the blessed arrow. He suspects nothing. I told him it was from the Queen’s quiver, and that she would favour its use in the pageant. He took it gleefully,” said de Tongfort.

    “And the venom?” asked Slee.

    “Carefully painted on the barb.”

    Slee took the half-empty bottle of poison from de Tongfort, and slipped it under his cloak.

    “Where’s de la Vega? Have you seen him?” he asked.

    De Tongfort nodded and said, “He met a steward who was looking for Woolly. He went into the Palace.”

    Slee looked across at grim, looming Richmond.

    “I-” he began, but was cut off by another fanfare.

    “Here comes Her Majesty,” said de Tongfort.

    The cavalcade flowed out of the Palace like a burning river. Pages, trumpeters, hautboys, awning-bearers, an echelon of huscarls in glittering plate, standard bearers holding aloft the lion of England, the swords of Spain, the Royal coat of arms that combined the phoenix and the pelican, the complex blazon of the Unity, and every other subsidiary emblem in the Commonwealth. In the midst of the triumphant march, luminous, and beautiful, was the Queen herself.

    A hush fell on the gardens, broken only by the strident trumpets. The river flowed, burning bright, into the Pavilion, and three thousand people bowed.

    Taking her seat, Gloriana spoke.

In his place in the musician’s tent, Cedarn could neither see nor hear Her Majesty. He waited. Master Couperin took up his baton.

    “Ze Royal Salute, s’il vous plait!” he announced.

    This is it, thought Louis Cedarn.

The Palace undercroft smelled of damp and rainwater. Agnew found a lamp from somewhere and lit it.

    “How did you know about this?” Uptil asked Drew Bluett, his voice a carrying echo in the stony vault.

    “Older days, older duties,” replied Drew, leading them down the dripping tunnel. “The intelligencers of the Court needed secret ways into the Palace for private audiences. This isn’t the first time I’ve run these rat-holes.”

    “I was most impressed by the door to this passageway,” said Agnew, “so seamlessly flush with the wall from the outside.”

    “When the spymasters build a secret tunnel, Mister Agnew, they build it properly,” said Bluett.

    Uptil paused, cocking his ear to the cold, mildewed roof above them.

    “I hear a fanfare,” he said.

    “It’s just the wind,” grumbled Drew.

    “No, it’s a fanfare. It’s all getting underway up there.”

    “Then we’ve no time to lose,” Drew said.