“The army and fleet will also need victuals—biscuit, cheeses, salt beef, salt mutton. Ethlebight is rich in foodstuffs, and could provide more than its share.”
Another small nod. “Indeed.”
“And consider our reputation as privateersmen.” My enthusiasm grew as I spoke. “Armed with privateering commissions, our captains could haunt Clayborne’s shores and sew up his commerce neater than a pin tuck. The prizes would come back to Ethlebight for the benefit of the city.”
The Chancellor held up a gloved finger. “There is some danger in this. For in such a broil as a civil war, who is to know whether a ship holds to Clayborne’s cause or no? Should one of your privateers take a ship, and the captain say, ‘I am a loyal subject of the Queen who found myself in Bonille by chance,’ how could we sort these claims?”
“Sir, there are prize courts for the purpose. And the ship’s papers would be carefully examined, and if any of the Queen’s enemies were found among the owners, the ship and its contents could be rightly—and justly—sold. If one of our captains took a ship owned by anyone known for their loyalty, I’m sure the ship would be released, for no captain would want to prosecute a hopeless cause.”
“You prosecute your own cause with some ability,” the Chancellor observed. “But this is a matter in which I must approach the Queen.”
“Very good, sir.”
He sipped his sauterne. “Have you any other notions for enlarging Ethlebight’s capital?”
“The foundations of Ethlebight’s prosperity are built upon wool,” said I. “Surely, the Queen’s army needs clothing, as well as tents and blankets and the like. And we also export fine leather, for harness both of horses and war, and for buff coats and cuir-bouilli.”
“I shall so note.” The Chancellor returned to his pen, made a few scribbles, and looked up. “Your city should rejoice in your embassy,” he said. “You are an able advocate.”
I put on my attentive-courtier face. “Sir, I am but a loyal servant to the Queen.”
He smiled. “As are all of us, to be sure.” He then passed to the subject of royal offices in Ethlebight, and who should fill them. I had no confidence in Sir Towsley Cobb as the new Lord Warden, and with feigned reluctance said so. I also remarked that Sir Stanley Mattingly was a great huntsman and a self-proclaimed bold veteran of the late King’s wars; but that I knew he had cheated a gentleman in a land purchase, and I didn’t know whether her majesty would be justified in confirming Sir Stanley as Lord Lieutenant, not if there were monies involved, and temptations too great.
Having, I hope, successfully scuppered the hopes of the two splenetive swashers, I listened while the Chancellor and the duke, between them, proposed a list of candidates for the offices. I knew that two of them had been taken by the reivers, and said so, and other names were proposed. But for the most part I sipped my excellent sauterne, and gave thought to my schemes for improving Ethlebight, and possibly improving my own fortunes as well.
The Chancellor put his pen aside, and turned again to me. “I understand from his grace that you were taken by bandits on your way to the capital.”
I gave his excellency an outline of my time as a guest of Sir Basil, and did not omit that I had witnessed two murders during my few days as a captive.
“He is a bloodthirsty assassin, and probably mad,” I said. “If he is not roused out of the Toppings and sent to the hangman, there will be more good people killed.”
“I am not responsible for the apprehension of criminals,” said the Chancellor. “You should apply to the Attorney General, once her majesty appoints one.”
“I will do it.”
“How did you escape?”
I had given thought to how I would answer this question, and decided that any mention of nymphs might bring my veracity into question. I gave the Chancellor the answer I had prepared.
“We were counted before we went down into the dungeon for the night. But I took advantage of some confusion, and managed to slip away in the growing twilight.”
“Very enterprising,” said the Chancellor.
“It was more enterprise than that great following of Stayne showed,” I said. “He had a small army with him, all riding off to join his warship in Amberstone, and they surrendered meekly as lambs, and even acted as under-footmen at the bandits’ table.”
A glimmer of interest shone in the Chancellor’s mild eyes. “Army?” said he. “Warship?”
I explained the Marquess of Stayne being captured along with much of his armed force, and the galleon Irresistible, its gunports filled with ordnance, that awaited the party’s arrival.
“How very unfortunate for his lordship,” said the Chancellor, and made a note.
Half an hour later, my cheeks flushed with wine, I bade farewell to the duke and Chancellor, both of whom had other business, and walked down the great stairway to the ground floor. I saw that it was raining quite heavily, and so I re-entered the Great Reception Room. Queen Berlauda sat quite grandly on her throne, and was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen, including the ever-smiling Viscount Broughton of Hart Ness.
Led by the viscount, the dance about her continued, the never-ending quest for office and opportunity. A few pigeons flapped overhead, and let their droppings fall on the grand folk below by way of comment on the proceedings.
Standing in the hall, I observed my hostess, the Duchess of Roundsilver, speaking with some gentlemen, and I walked in her direction. She was splendidly attired in a gown sprinkled with margery-pearls and yellow sapphires, and even in the dim light of the room glittered like a beacon. I put on a broad smile and approached, and took off my hat and bowed.
“I hope you will congratulate me, your grace,” I said, “for thanks in part to your husband’s efforts, I am to be appointed Groom of the Pudding, with the announcement to come next Wednesday.”
She blinked up at me in surprise, and then mischief kindled in her blue eyes. “How splendid!” she said.
“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I have not made your acquaintance, nor am I familiar with this office.”
I put on my superior-prefect face. “I am Quillifer,” I said. “And my office is new, for his late majesty was not as fond of puddings as our new Queen. But since her majesty is uncommon fond of fig puddings, and plum puddings, and suet puddings with raisins . . .”
“Blancmange,” added her grace. “Cabinet pudding.”
“O, her favorite!” I proclaimed. “As well as dock pudding, clafouti, frumenty, toffee pudding, crow’s nest . . .”
“Treacle pudding,” said the duchess. “Date pudding, groat pudding, pease pudding, flummery.”
“Baby pancake and clootie!” said I by way of a grand conclusion, and then turned to the gentlemen. “In fact, her majesty is devoted to all puddings, and she desires a pudding-bearer to be near her at all times.”
“Groom of the Pudding!” The duchess was great in her admiration. “You shall be at the Queen’s very elbow!”
I bowed. “I shall have that honor,” I said. “And rest assured, your grace, that I shall do my utmost to repay your kindness by advancing your interest with her majesty whenever possible.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I failed to quite catch your name.”
The duchess and I continued to amuse ourselves with the poor ambitious gentlemen, and as we rhapsodized about my wonderful new office, I could see the news passing among the throng like a burst of hailshot. Not everyone believed the story, but to some it seemed possible, perhaps even likely. After all, the Groom of the Pudding was scarcely more absurd than the keeper of the King’s thunder-box, known more formally as the Groom of the King’s Close-Stool. This was an ancient, well-established office, originally the lowly servant who, when the monarch was performing his private office, handed the ruler his cleaning-cloths; but which became, on account of the groom’s intimate and private contact with the King, a powerful post much sought by the well-born.