CHAPTER NINE
Red Queen
The Black Friar walked purposefully east, past the end of Westminster Bridge, through the thin flow of pedestrians, none of whom, of course, could see him; or if they could, had strong rational brains that wouldn’t believe the evidence of those irrational and untrustworthy eyes.
The Thames was to his right, and the great tower of Big Ben soared overhead, the illuminated clock face shining out into the gathering dark.
His eyes flicked sideways as he passed an impressive double equestrian statue. A regal woman in a simple shift dress, flowing cloak, and a small spiky crown stood in a chariot, her right hand holding a businesslike spear and the other hand languidly urging her two surging chargers forward.
She was flanked by her two daughters, crouched for balance over the brutally curved blades sticking out from the center of the chariot’s wheels. The whole group seemed on the very point of careering off the plinth and into Westminster Square.
The Friar nodded as he walked past. When it was clear he had no intention of stopping, the Queen spoke.
“Friar.”
He paused, waited a beat, then turned, not entirely hiding the fact he didn’t want to do so by the polite smile he erected on his face.
“Queen.”
“You do not bow.”
His smile deepened.
“Indeed.”
“You never bow.”
He spread his arms wide, the gesture of a man with nothing to hide, nor a care in the world. “I am friend of all men, equal to all, subject to none. I mean no offense by it.”
Irritation ticked across the royal brow. “And yet you give it.”
“Not by intent. It is my way, the way of my calling.”
“Priests bow to kings.”
He exhaled in the long drawn-out way that people do when they wish to make it clear how long-suffering they are. “Not good priests, dear lady. Not ones I should value, at any rate. But I was not talking about my calling. I was talking about my profession. As a publican. Why, as a host and a tavern-keeper, all men are equal in my sight.”
“And women,” she interjected sharply.
A shadow of a smile passed over his face, gone as soon as it appeared. “Women, in my experience, are perfectly equal as long as they keep to the lounge side of the bar.”
She bristled and gripped her spear tightly. Behind her, the two daughters exchanged a look. “You find this amusing? This is how you preach, fat man?”
The Friar raised an eyebrow at her. He smoothed the cassock over his belly. “You crave a sermon, lady? Why, upon my word, I thought war was more your pleasure.... But certainly, I’m sure I can conjure an improving text for you to consider. Let me see. Yes, it goes like this: ‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?’”
She glared at him as if trying hard to work out both where and how deep the insult hidden in the words was. Eventually she waved it off as too much trouble. “Blowhard words beyond my understanding. Perhaps they make more sense in an alehouse.”
He smiled his unimpeachable smile. “Well, I can see they wouldn’t make sense in a palace, where queens imagine themselves better than ordinary people.”
The spear shook in her hand as she spoke, the huskiness of anger building within. “You are purposely insolent!”
His face broke into a perfect grin of good humor, like a great round cheese splitting. He chuckled apologetically. “No, ma’am, I beg your pardon. It is a childish pleasure in me to tease a fine fiery redheaded woman such as yourself; for as the woodsman knows, no tinder is quicker to kindle than the red-barked.”
The daughters gasped and immediately looked away.
“You take me for a redhead, priest?”
“Certainly. Why else would they call you the Red Queen?”
She finally exploded, eyes flashing, jerking the sharp end of the spear at him as she did. “Not for my hair, fat man, not for my hair! They call me red because I swept down on this city in vengeance for the wrong to my daughters, and when I and my army turned our backs on the smoking ruins and hied us homeward, my arms were red to the elbows with the blood of London and its insolent—”
“Mother,” said the daughter on her left, taking her arm, trying to slow her down.
The other one took her right arm and attempted to stop the tirade by redirecting her attention. “Mother. The glint . . .”
The Queen controlled herself with visible effort.
The Friar’s eyes were all innocent good humor, much too innocent—enjoying the fallout of the detonation he had provoked.
She spoke as calmly as she could. “Yes. Of course. The glint. A glint, Friar. Last night we saw a glint run past us. With a boy.”
His eyebrows rose skyward in a show of surprise belied by the entirely uninterested face below them. “Oh. And you’re sure it was a glint?”
“You know as well as I that we sense them as strongly as they sense what is in stone. She was young. She was strong. And she was brave. But she ran. We wish to know what has happened to her.”
“And why is that, pardon my impertinence, but what business of yours are glints?”
The Queen gripped her spear and banged the haft on the floor of her chariot. “They are strong girls and they live at a peril beyond bearing. We have not seen one in years.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken.” The Friar shrugged.
“Not about that, Friar. Any woman in peril is my charge and care.”
“And why is that, pray?”
She slammed the spear down even harder, making her daughters jump. “Because I will it so. I have ALWAYS willed it so!”
Fire seemed to blaze from her eyes. The Friar had been right about how quick she was to kindle. “Why do you ask me this, madam?”
“Because she was running along the river, and sooner or later, the bank passes your door.”
He ran a hand over his face and wiped off all mirth. He inclined his head again, but not far enough for the gesture to be considered a bow of any kind. “The river passes many doors. I saw no one. Good night, ladies.” And with a nod of his head, he strode off eastward.
The Queen watched him go. She took several deep breaths, then turned to the daughter on her right.
“He lied. There is a glint abroad. We must ride. If this feeling I have in my bowels is true, there is a girl in peril.”