Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  Doctor Dee had begun to pick up his charts. His face was red and sweat darkened his beard.

  “I did not intend to make too much fun of Master Tolcharde,” said Una. “In reality, I respect his gifts.”

  “Are you well, Doctor Dee?” The Queen was solicitous.

  “Well? Aye, madam. (O, gods, would that I had the courage to pull you from that throne and bear you down upon this floor and plunge flesh into flesh…. )”

  “You have a fever?”

  “No, madam. Perhaps the heat. My own rooms are cooler. (They must be, or I should burst into flame!)”

  “You’ll be with us, later, at dinner?”

  “With your permission, madam (though I’d rather chew at your sweet shoulder).” He bowed, and gasped. “Ah!”

  “Doctor Dee?”

  “Until dinner, madam!” His voice was high as, in blustering cloak, he fled the Throne Room, out into the passage which branched to the left, head down, as if he pressed urgently through a powerful wind, so that when Lady Lyst, the beautiful young drunkard, most brilliant of scholars, turned a corner and fell, with a hiccup, against him, he did not recognise her and made to push her from his path.

  “Good morrow, Doctor Dee!”

  “Aside, fair maid, aside!”

  But she clung to his jerkin and at last he saw her face. “Advice, good sage, I pray.”

  “Advice?”

  “On a matter of philosophy.” Glazed, cheerful eyes looked up into his. A warm hand encircled his waist as she steadied herself.

  “Aha!” He could think of no lovelier substitute. He became avuncular. He, in turn, squeezed her shoulders. “To my apartments! Come quickly, Lady Lyst, and I swear I’ll fill thee full of my philosophy.”

  Amiably, he helped her mount the steps to take them to the East Wing and his tower, where, a traditionalist in all things, he maintained his studios, his laboratories.

  THE FIFTH CHAPTER

  In Which Captain Quire Is Brought Secretly to the Palace, and Lord Montfallcon, to Be Apprised of a Desperate Mission

  LORD BRAMANDIL RHOONE, huge and jovial, Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners, the Queen’s Guard, /received charge of Quire (hooded like a querulous hawk) from Sir Christopher’s men and immediately began to brush and primp at the shrinking spy, whose clothes (borrowed) bore more than a fair share of the contents of Marshalsea Jail; dung, straw and mould gave Quire something of the odour of a long-deserted farmyard.

  “This won’t do, villain, if ye’re to have audience with the great Lord Montfallcon. Though why the identity of such as you should be protected I don’t know.” The round, red face beamed above the scarlet ruff, the ruddy hands straightened Quire’s collar while Quire promised himself that if ever Lord Rhoone should fall foul of Lord Montfallcon, or if he should ever stray into the thieves’ twitterns in the city, he would take precisely forty-eight hours to kill him, giving him mercy on the sixtieth second of the forty-eighth, while he smiled beneath his hood and came close to curtseying, bobbing in the big man’s grasp. “Thank you, my lord. Much obliged to you, my lord.” And suffered Rhoone to slide his good sword from its sheath.

  “This must be kept. No swords at Court, save for the Queen’s Gentlemen and her Champion.” He tapped his own. “Come.” Striding rapidly along the corridor, a hand on Quire’s arm, so that the half-blinded captain was forced to run, aching as he was already from the buffets of his jailers and from the bench and stones of the prison in which he had spent an entire night.

  “A little slower, my lord. I have not been well.”

  “Lord Montfallcon is anxious to see you. Perhaps he’d question you further concerning the Saracen. You’re lucky Lord Montfallcon spoke for you, saying you were on his business in Notting village that night and that the man mistaken for you was a scoundrel similarly dressed.” Casting his eye over patched motley, Lord Rhoone relished the telling of what he strongly suspected was a compendium of lies. “Still, I’ve no fondness for Saracens. Or murderers,” he added piously, “whatever their reasons. The Queen has made her views plain.”

  “I agree entirely, my lord.” Quire panted and clutched at his side. “A stitch, I fear.”

  Lord Rhoone’s thick lips flapped like the lips of an overheated stallion. “We’ll soon be there, man.” They reached a large hall, the Third Presence Chamber, wide enough to be a good-sized market square, in which courtiers conversed in clusters, taking a passing interest in the hurrying pair. Lord Rhoone greeted some, here and there. “Sir Amadis. Good morrow, Master Wheldrake. Lady Lyst.”

  Captain Quire, on the other hand, was careful not to recognise his few acquaintances, though with his hooded head he drew more attention than Lord Rhoone. They took the central passage, turning aside before they reached the doors of the Throne Room, stepping before a door whose handle only could be seen, for the rest was hidden by a tapestry. Lord Rhoone rapped. They were admitted.

  Lord Montfallcon stood beside his fire, his back to them, his warrior’s shoulders hunched. “Rhoone?”

  “My Lord Chancellor. He’s here.”

  “I thank you.”

  Lord Rhoone flicked at Quire’s shoulders once more, then, smiling to himself, he departed, bearing the Toledo sword away. Quire looked after it once, furiously, then composed himself. He did not want to waste time, however, on feigning humility. He scanned the room. It held nothing unfamiliar. He scratched his ear. He removed his sombrero from beneath his borrowed cloak. He tugged his hood free to disclose his dark little self.

  “Captain Quire, sir. I did your bidding and here I am.”

  Lord Montfallcon nodded, pulling a coat of silk and beaver about his chest as he began to turn. “You are lucky, Quire, aren’t you?”

  “As ever, my lord.”

  “Not even on the night of New Year’s Eve. You were clumsy, overreaching, and you were seen.”

  “I was not clumsy, my lord.” Quire threatened to flare.

  Lord Montfallcon sighed and revealed a frozen, angry eye. “Tinkler brought me your note. The intelligence concerning Arabia was useful. But Lord Ibram was well-connected. Indeed, we had assured his uncle he would be safe in London. If it were not for a reputation for wildness in him, which went a way to explaining what happened, we should be mightily embarrassed, Quire. Perhaps I should have let you suffer the full consequences. An unlucky Quire is no use to me.”

  Quire warmed his hands. He did not posture, but spoke with reasonable pride. “Slay me? Aye, in the cause of Knowledge, perhaps—for an I die, then the foot I keep on Pandora’s lid shall lift and out shall pour all those secrets best left bottled. Or perhaps you’d disagree, sir, with such cautious philosophy, and play Doctor Fauste with the Queen’s darker mysteries?”

  Montfallcon listened, not from interest in the subject, but because he believed he gained insight to Quire’s soul.

  Quire continued. “However, sir, I know this cannot be your thinking. You’ve already seen the point of preserving Captain Quire’s life. At all costs, sir, eh? At any cost, what? For I am guardian Cerberus turned to keep the devils and the damned from ‘scaping Hades. I am the protector of your security, Lord Montfallcon. You do not honour me sufficiently.”

  Thinking Quire had gone too far, and thus betrayed himself, Lord Montfallcon became more relaxed. “Ah, it’s a misunderstood dog, is it?”

  “A badly treated dog, my lord. Sir Christopher’s constables handled me ill and I was given the worst cell in the Marshalsea. I expected better, for agreeing to your schemes. Also, my identity was not completely concealed.”

  “My reward to you, Quire, is your freedom. I saved it.”

  “I risked it, sir—and did not flee. I’m the best man you have in London—in all Albion—in the Empire. For I am an artist, as you know. And I am not vulnerable.”

  “That makes you a doubtful servant in some ways, Captain Quire. You are too intelligent for this work. You spring from excellent yeoman stock, you were educated at John’s in Cambridge, where you might have become a muc
h admired theologian, but you refused all respectable opportunities.”

  “Creative inclinations of a stronger sort sent me to exploring my senses, my lord, and the geography of the world. I have no talent, save for what’s called evil, and in your service, sir, I am enabled to pursue my studies further. I’ve considered many callings, but all seem worthless. I like not the examples of the various professions I have encountered and I believe my own occupation, at your service, my lord, and therefore the Queen’s, to be as good as, if not better than, any. At least, you’ll agree, I’m able to judge the exact degree of evil I perform—if evil it be. These others, these scholars, lawyers, courtiers, merchants, soldiers, statesmen, who are pillars of our Realm, they throw stones over their shoulders, anxious in case they should see what or whom they strike. But I look in the eyes of those I strike, my lord. I tell them what I am doing, as I tell myself.”

  Lord Montfallcon had become calmer. He was not offended by Quire’s speech, as Quire had known he would not be. Quire was given to such speeches, defining his work as a poet might define his calling. If Quire had sought to apologise, had been placatory, Montfallcon would have become suspicious of him. He employed Quire for his impertinent creativity, his courage as well as his cunning. The old Chancellor seated himself behind his desk. Quire remained by the fire. “Well, you have inconvenienced me badly, Quire. At a time when I needed no more complications. Still, it’s done.”

  “Aye, my lord. King’s to emigrate for a murder he did, after all, help at, even if he didn’t initiate the deed.”

  “Few believe that. Sir Christopher does not. I doubt if the Saracens will for long, when they receive their own reports of the affair. You’d best be wary, Quire. They can be a vengeful race.”

  “I’m always wary, my lord. What’s my new commission?”

  “You must go to the coast. You’re to play wrecker to a galleon due on tomorrow’s early tide. If possible I want no one killed, but she must come onto the sands at the mouth of the river at Rye. Already I’ve sent a skiff to intercept the pilot and place one of our own people on board. He’ll redirect the ship to Rye—claiming the frozen Thames as excuse.”

  “A fair one. No ship could move into or out of London at present, without threat to her timbers. But what’s my function? This pilot can perform the task without my aid.”

  “Not easily. You’ll give the plan a twist and make sure it all goes smoothly. Then the sequel’s entirely yours. I leave its details to your imagination.”

  “I’m glad you continue to trust me, my lord.”

  “In such matters, Quire, you’re always the most inventive. The King of Poland’s ship, the Mikolaj Kopernik, must run aground, the King must be captured as if by common wreckers, as a noble held to ransom. Here’s a rough likeness I had drawn for you. If he speaks our tongue, he must be led to believe that he’s been mistaken for nothing more than a foreign dignitary. Use your knowledge of the High Tongue only if you must. He must then be held for a time—I’ll tell you when and by what method he’ll be released.”

  Quire was amused. “A King? Well, my lord, you set me after splendid quarry. But I’ll need a full pack for this hunt.”

  “Pick ‘em.”

  “Tinkler. Hogge. O’Bryan…”

  “You’ll employ that braggart, still?”

  “He’ll do well at this. Moreover he’s spent two years in Polish employ, as a soldier, and we might need him for his language. I’d consider Webster—”

  “No! The rogue’s been associated with certain young men at Court. He could be recognised later.”

  “Kinsayder?”

  “None of that gang of ink-stained would-be gentlemen will do. Some fools already think they represent the Queen. Fools who do not know the Court but merely its detritus.” Montfallcon frowned. “Besides, they’re gossips. You’d be carrying a hen-house with you.”

  “Good fighting cocks, my lord, and braver than your common ruffler.”

  “Aye, and more ambitious. And more inventive. I employed their kind under old King Hern, but you’re the only half-gentleman I’d care to use now, for you are not, like them, addicted to grog, airy language and promiscuous comradeship—for which they must always pay with the only currency they have in quantity: small-talk, scandal, embellished anecdote.”

  Quire’s thin lips moved. “Your point’s made, my lord. I’ll draw my list later, following your advice.”

  “Send me word when all’s accomplished.”

  “I will, my lord.”

  “Protect this secret from your hirelings, if you can.”

  “I will. But it’s an unsubtle scheme.”

  “The best there’s time for. We must retain Poland’s friendship. If we used diplomatic means, they’d guess at once. This plan’s so desperate none will suspect devious Montfall-con’s hand.”

  “But the consequences…?”

  “There’ll be none that are unwelcome, if you play your part correctly and with your usual skill.”

  Quire sniffed. “My sword—that stickler Rhoone took it. I’ll leave through the Spiders’ Door.” He tugged the hood back on.

  Montfallcon rang a brass bell for a lackey. “Clampe: Ask Lord Rhoone to give you this man’s blade.” He came to stand by the fire.

  “The plot belongs to King Hern’s time,” continued Quire. “Let us hope none recollects how you served him. I remember…”

  “You were a boy when Hern took his life.”

  “I feel no nostalgia. Did I say so?”

  Montfallcon passed fingers over his lids. “You and I, for all that forty years separate us, are both of another age. It’s ironic we should work together to resist a return to that darker past.”

  Quire humoured him. “Or that I, most villainous of villains, with my love of such an antique art, should benefit for living in a world where justice is so much stronger. Where Virtue rules.”

  Montfallcon raised his right arm and stretched it, saying acidly: “I am needed while such as you remain on Earth.”

  Quire considered this, then shook his head. “On the contrary. It could be argued that I am needed while noble souls of your sort continue to exert themselves. After all, Plato tells us how vulnerable is the age of the perfect monarch.”

  Montfallcon was baffled. Angrily, he changed the subject. “Some roads are impassable with the snow. You’ve good horses, I hope.”

  “They’ll have to be rented.”

  “Gold?”

  “Aye.”

  The lackey returned with the sword as Montfallcon took out his key. Quire stepped forward to draw the blade from the man’s hand. “Thanks.” He sheathed.

  Montfallcon waited until the servant’s back was to them before he unlocked the box. When the servant had gone he opened it. He counted coins. “Five nobles?”

  “Aye—that’ll pay for horses and men.”

  Montfallcon put the gold into Quire’s careless palm. “You’ll leave before dark, this afternoon?”

  “As soon as all are hired and I’ve dined and cleaned myself.”

  The two men entered a smaller room and then another still smaller. A third door, hidden in a panel behind a chair, led into the walls: a way from the palace which Quire, Tinkler and their patron believed only they knew. Quire gently pulled back fresh webs, as if he handled ancient lace, and let himself through. A muffled farewell to Montfallcon before the panel closed on him and he dragged off the hood and dropped it, reversed his cloak so that, with his sombrero on his head again, he was all in black. The place he entered was full of grey light, the source obscure, in which thousands of spiders crawled, upon floors, walls and pearly silk. He stood upright and moved carefully, to crush as few of the spiders as possible. The tunnel was of glass and had perhaps once been an orangery, for there were remains of tubs and pots, rotted branches. Now dust covered the glass and a roof had been erected some distance above that. It was through windows at the far end of what appeared to be a gigantic shed that the light came. The tunnel curved gradually, horses
hoe fashion, and the air grew colder, the spiders fewer, until Quire came at length to a repaired door which he used, crossed a hard, littered floor until he reached a wall which must once have been an outer wall, to a garden. Through a gap in this he went, into semi-darkness; down steps, over a patch of naked earth. Now he shivered and dragged his cloak to his body, approaching a high, vast wall. A shoulder against one part and it swung so that he half-tumbled into daylight, into deep snow. He pushed back the brick door. He stood beneath a tall cliff of weather-yellowed brick and before him was a long, narrow ornamental garden, abandoned, overgrown, forgotten, whose outlines were made more precise by the snow and the ice. Black branches spread against the sky, broken statues stared from beneath a clothing of snow—the demigods of some sunnier realm, in ermine, frozen. Quire’s breath seemed grey against all this. Stepping high, he plunged booted feet along a familiar, but unseen, path, between the squares, circles and oblongs of barren flower-beds and clogged fountains, turning left towards another wall overhung with evergreens, jumped a small, iron gate, entered a grotto and trod a few cobbles that were free of snow, coming at length to a larger gate which he opened with his picklock, to stand upon a hillside where there was no longer a road. He was hungry. He began to run down the hill towards a thick grove of poplars lining a pathway, black with cart-ruts, glimpsed beyond. Wind blew the light top-snow so that it resembled the rippling waters of a wide, shallow river. Quire fell, rolled, cursed, then chuckled, stumbling to his feet, reaching the trees and their shelter, pausing to catch deep breaths which cut his lungs, leaning his stiff back against a bole while he looked down at the smoke of the city, not too distant now. A fence was his final obstacle and he clambered carefully over, not anxious to be seen, dropping into the spoiled track and slithering on the ice of a puddle before he was on the run again.

  Through the ruts and the snow flew Quire, the crow’s feathers in his hat flapping in the wind, his cloak crackling like black fire, dropping faster and faster along the twists of the track until suddenly he had come to London’s walls and the unguarded archway which took him into salubrious northern streets and a respectable inn where he maintained the persona and name of a visiting gentleman scholar whose studies brought him frequently to the nearby Library of Classical Antiquity. The original scholar Quire had slain, during an argument over the likely identity of the poet Justus Lipsius, and taken his character complete. Here Quire bathed, dined on a better meal than any he would be likely to find in his usual ordinaries, and hired a good black stallion for himself. The cold had increased, driving many inside; the streets were almost deserted as Quire galloped east, for the river and the Seahorse, to tell Tinkler which men to rouse and where to go for the best steeds. Tinkler, infected by Quire’s briskness, hurried in his creaking new coat to the door and was gone, and Quire, finishing off a small measure of hot rum, was about to follow when Master Uttley’s unhealthy features confronted him. In all his spots and pocks, his little eyes were almost lost as he laid a propitiatory hand on the captain’s arm. “You’ve an enemy, sir, outside. Where your horse is.”