Across the Atlantic, another wedding took place – that of Extepan and Precious Cloud. After a formal courtship of only a month, they were married in Matogee’s capital, Eagle Butte. The ceremony, shown live on television in the early hours of the morning, combined Mexican, Sioux and Christian rituals, the couple knotting the hems of their marriage robes and exchanging gifts before a shaman and a Catholic priest. Tetzahuitl stood among the dignitaries, attending for Motecuhzoma, who seldom left Tenochtitlan these days. Among the guests were Cheyenne and Mohawk princes, the Brazilian emperor, entourages from China, Japan and Peru. But it was the New English who made the most impact by dispatching both President Vidal and Vice-president Wolfe to the ceremony, funereally attired in black suits and stovepipe hats as a sartorial expression of their disapproval for the whole affair.
I watched the ceremony with mixed emotions, relieved to have escaped Extepan’s designs on me but also regretting that I was now less likely to have his ear than in the past. Though I remained as opposed as ever to what he represented, I had grown to enjoy his company more than I was prepared to admit.
Not a day passed when I didn’t think of Victoria, but there was no further news of her. Bevan no longer seemed to have the ear of any revolutionaries, and he gave me the impression that the resistance movement to Aztec rule was dormant, perhaps even extinct. He seemed to be biding his time, pottering about the balcony garden and apparently content to do little else.
Perhaps he shared my feeling of being reduced to a mere observer in events. When Xochinenen first arrived in London, I arranged an audience with her in the hope of gauging the sincerity of her feelings towards Richard. Now seventeen, she received me courteously enough but remained infuriatingly lighthearted, very much the older child rather than the young woman. She had been taking English lessons, and her command of the language was considerably improved, something I accepted as positive evidence of a degree of commitment to her prospective role as Queen of England. To all appearances, she was delighted at the prospect of marrying Richard and was thoroughly fond of him. I could not decide whether she genuinely lacked maturity or was already very accomplished at hiding her real feelings.
Extepan was still technically Governor of Britain, and a week before Richard’s wedding we were told that he and Precious Cloud would be returning to London to attend the ceremony, after which he would resume his duties. The news cheered me, because I had imagined that we were condemned to suffer Maxixca’s over-zealous administration from now on. It also meant that I would, at least, have some continued access to him.
On the day before the wedding, I had the final fitting of my dress, an Eastwood creation which combined English silks with Tlacopan lace. Privately I thought it too elaborate, but on this occasion I was determined to play the part required of me in the ceremony.
Bevan appeared from the garden just as the leather-clad designer himself was putting the finishing touches to the dress.
‘Very nice,’ he observed. ‘Pretty as a picture, as my mam would say.’
‘Are you taking the mickey?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. An English rose without the thorns.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘Talking of roses, any chance of giving me a few minutes in the garden? Nasty case of black spot we’ve got.’
He obviously wanted to talk to me in private. Since Maxixca’s security sweeps at the complex, we both operated on the assumption that our rooms might be monitored and never said anything confidential indoors.
I got rid of the dressmaker, changed into informal clothes, and went outside. The garden had flourished all summer under Bevan’s attentions, and the mild autumn meant that buddleia and Michaelmas daisies were still attracting a variety of butterflies, among them New World monarchs, whose larvae Extepan had shipped to London from Mexico each spring – an indulgence typical of the Aztecs.
Bevan was perched on the balustrade at the edge of the balcony.
‘What’s up?’ I said to him.
He was looking down towards the river, where a pleasure boat was carrying Mexican tourists up the Thames.
‘You might not be interested in this,’ he said, ‘but I thought I’d mention it anyway, just in case.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be at the palace, tomorrow, for the wedding.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Bevan.’
‘There’s a rumour going round.’
He was slouched against the rail, turning a blob of tzictli in his mouth.
‘I’m listening,’ I said.
‘It may be nothing, but there’s talk about the park. Word is, they’ve built something there, in the grounds near one of the lakes. Some sort of secret installation.’
I waited for more, but nothing further was forthcoming.
‘What sort of secret installation?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s what nobody knows, do they? Might be worth taking a look, if you get the chance.’
Today he was dressed in a crimson-and-navy lumberjack shirt and an ancient pair of black barathea trousers. It was a balmy day, but he made few concessions to the weather – or to good grooming. He looked as if he had walked in off the street, a rather seedy character.
With little hope of an answer, I said, ‘Bevan, who are you working for?’
He squinted at me in the hazy light. ‘Work for you, don’t I?’
‘You know what I mean. All this time together, and you’re still a mystery to me.’
‘What you see is what I am.’
I sighed. ‘Can I trust you?’
He cracked a pink bubble of gum. ‘Never let you down yet, have I?’
‘It’s important for me to believe you’re on my side.’
The gum squelched between his teeth. ‘I’ve told you before – I’ve got a lot of time for you.’
‘How gracious you are! Am I supposed to feel flattered?’
‘Take it as you please. But if you’ve got to have a reason, then you can say I still owe you. You kept me out of it when Mad Mash found the disk. So I’m keeping you in the know about anything that crops us.’
As always, there was no sense at all that he was being deferential to my status. He treated everyone the same. I had grown to admire him for that, even when I found him blunt to the point of rudeness.
‘This installation, as you call it. Do you think it’s important?’
‘I reckon the fact they want to keep it under wraps speaks for itself.’
‘Then why run the risk of letting Richard marry in the palace, so close to it?’
‘Popular sentiment,’ he said emphatically. ‘It’s what he wants, and everyone’s behind him at the moment. They’d risk drawing more attention to the place by refusing, wouldn’t they? It’ll be crawling with guards, no doubt, and you’ll be lucky if you get a look in. But you stand a better chance than anyone else. It’s worth a shot, if you’re up for it.’
‘And if I find anything interesting, what am I supposed to do? Report back to you?’
He pulled a string of gum out from between his teeth.
‘Wouldn’t do any harm, would it?’
Richard and Xochinenen were married in the central transept of the Crystal Palace at noon on a bright autumn morning; the wedding march was played on the great organ, a relic of Victorian days. I was seated at the front of the congregation with Extepan and his new bride. Earlier I had briefly been introduced to Precious Cloud, whom Extepan had christened Chalchi. She seemed rather overawed by the occasion, but friendly enough. Extepan kept her close to his side and paid solicitous attention to everything she said.