"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.
He stopped.
"What is it?" asked Agnew.
Drew grunted, and said, "The door, it's stuck solid, as if it's locked. That's impossible. My key should fit this."
"Let me try," suggested Uptil.
Behind them, something heavy slapped down onto the wet stone of the floor.
"A-hem! Gentlemen?" said Agnew.
Drew and Uptil turned from the jammed door and saw the huge shadow that loomed behind them.
Tantamout O'Bow slowly slid the hand-and-a-half sword from his belt.
"Hello," he said. "So nice to make your attainment.
"Bye the bye," he added, conversationally, "you're all going to die."
* * *
The door to the Processional ante-chamber swung open and de la Vega stepped in. He closed the door, carefully, behind him.
"My Lord Regent," said Lord Gull from the fireplace. "You have a key, then?"
"I do not understand, Lord Gull," frowned the Spaniard.
"The last few times I've tried that door, it's been locked fast," Gull said with a shrug. "I supposed you to have a key, as you entered so easily."
"So I do," nodded de la Vega, stepping forward. He stood next to Gull, and warmed his hands at the fire. "A cold evening, Lord Gull, is it not?"
"Cold as death," said Gull cheerfully.
"Your quaint English expressions," de la Vega said with a smile and a wag of his finger at Gull. He crossed to the drinks table and poured two large glasses of port. "One for you, my lord?"
"My thanks, sir," said Gull, not moving.
De la Vega picked up the two brimming glasses and returned to Gull.
"I regret that you and I have never had the time to converse much, Lord Gull," he said. "We are alike, you and I."
"How so?" asked Gull.
"Warriors born," said de la Vega, handing one of the glasses to Gull. Neither sipped. "They say you are the greatest swordsman in the Unity. They say the same of me in Toledo."
"Two strong swords to serve Her Majesty are better than one," Gull mused.
"Just so," de la Vega said, looking down into the contents of his glass. "I intercepted a steward you had sent to Cardinal Woolly. He claimed that you believed the Divine Jaspers was a danger to Her Majesty."
"That is so," said Gull. "I trust you sent him straight to the cardinal."
De la Vega shook his head. He looked straight into Gull's black eyes.
"Well, Lord Regent," said Gull. "I suppose then we are about to discover who really is the best swordsman in the Unity, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are," said de la Vega, setting down his glass, "indeed we are."
CHAPTER NUMBER TWENTY-TWO.
Of divers various FIGHTS.
Amid the thirty-seven thousand, one hundred and sixtythree people gathered within a mile of Richmond Palace, there were five fights in progress. It was four minutes after ten o'clock in the evening, which meant that was pretty good going.
Fights one and two were happening outside the Palace walls. At the gate on the Green, members of the Militia were engaged in a rowdy brawl with some drunken Admiralty subalterns. The latter were insisting they had an urgent message to take to Admiral Poley, who was within, and the former were insisting that the latter should pull the other one. Fists were now being employed in this pulling, which was none too gentle, and the watching crowd had begun to go "oooh" and "aaaah", until the Militia lost patience and involved them in the fight too.
Out on the Shene marshes, sloping down beyond the edge of the Deer Park, the Hotchkine and Scubbold families had embarked on a physical altercation concerning the whereabouts of a bottle of musket. Apparently, at some point in the evening, said bottle had "rolled" out of the Scubbolds' hamper and been half-drained by Grayham Hotchkine. As Grayham had lost most of his teeth, liquid refreshment seemed his only option, but the Scubbolds, to a man, a woman and a red-spotted setter, had deemed it unwise for him to finish the musket off.
Bloody though both parlous disputes were, neither was as fundamental to the continued fortunes of the Unity as those that raged within the Palace walls.
On the stage of the Royal Pavilion, Master Lucas of the Chamberlain's men, Master Graves of the Oh and Master Cato of the Swan were in the middle of the carefully rehearsed "Battle of the Glorious Dawn" before the excited crowd. Prop swords swung and sparked and clacked, and there was a lot of grunting and oathing and straining, punctuated regularly by one or more of the combatants stepping forward and delivering a soliloquy to the crowd. Said crowd was particularly delighted when Master Lucas delivered a swinging slice to Master Graves, causing the latter to backflip off the stage onto a hidden crash-mat. They were so delighted, in fact, they thumped their tankards on the trestle tables until Master Graves got up, took a bow, and did it again.
The Queen, it was reported, was tankard-thumping as loudly as anyone. It seemed she approved of this dramatic opening to the Masque performance.
It is interesting to conjecture, therefore, how much the Gloriana, and indeed the crowd in general, would have clapped had they been able to witness the fight that was currently in full swing in the ante-room of the Palace's North Processional.
This unseen combat was distinguished by two key factors: firstly, it was between Lord Gull and the Regent of Castile, two of the most admired swordsmen in the Unity. Any display given by these two sword-masters would have ordinarily drawn crowds bigger than the Masque had.
The second factor was that the fight was in brilliant, unrehearsed, bloody earnest.
Consider yourself lucky, then, beloved reader, that you get a chance to witness this otherwise unwitnessed clash of Titans.
It was an affair of the coldest, most steely nerves. Both warriors had more than his life to battle for, the fate of the Unity lodged in their hands. Yet both entered the fight methodically and correctly, drawing swords, nodding, appointing and saluting before it began. Vital though their fight was, neither saw fit to spoil it by rushing in with ungentlemanly haste before the other was ready.
In truth, they both wished to savour the battle. It wasn't often that either of them got to test his skill against an equal.
Gull unsheathed his rapier. It had been made for him by a Dresden sword-cutler named Isaach Spaaatz, and its Sswept hilt and curled quillons were of blued steel, inlaid with silver wire and pique dots. In his left hand, Gull held the matching dagger.
De la Vega's sword was a cup-hilted bilbo with a guard of quite exquisite pierce-and-chisel work, demascened in gold and silver. His coat of arms was inscribed on the ricasso. The blade was of Toledo steel, and a good six inches longer than Gull's. He held it with a Continental grip, his first and second fingers hooked over the quillons as if it were a hugely-needled syringe.