Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “And careful with those pistols, O’Bryan.” Quire patted the Erin man on the arm. “If you let ‘em off too soon the ship’ll think she’s attacked by a man-o’-war and fire a broadside to destroy the whole island.”

  O’Bryan appreciated this compliment to his weapons and laughed loudly.

  Quire detected a different note to the tide and turned, taken unawares, to see the jigging lights of the Mikolaj Kopernik as her keel shuddered into sand and her oars began to smash, cracking one by one; so many whiplashes. The wind droned like an organ around the huge ship and the cries and shrieks from the decks were like the sound of gulls. Quire and Tinkler began to run towards her.

  As Quire made out the ship’s bulk he saw that she yawed markedly to starboard, seeming to lean on her broken oars like a monstrous wounded crayfish. The wind found her staysails and moved her intermittently, adding to the impression of a helplessly landed seabeast. From above came the sound of every sort of human distress. The oarsmen had doubtless been the worst hurt and from the rowing ports issued wailing screams that had an extra eeriness in conjunction with the notes of the wind.

  Tinkler shuddered as they got closer. “Ugh! It’s like banshees. Are you sure we haven’t taken some ghost ship, Captain? There’s so many have gone down in these waters…”

  Quire ignored him, pointing to the ornamental stair built into the ship’s side. “We can climb that easily enough. Quickly now, Tink—while they’re confused.”

  They were knee-deep in the surf, creeping under the splintered shafts of the huge sweeps, when they reached their goal, to see that it was further from the ship’s bottom than Quire had originally judged. Weed tangled itself about his boots and caught in his spurs. The ship creaked and groaned and sank a little deeper on its side so that for an instant Quire thought they would be crushed, but it brought the gilded stair a little closer.

  “On my shoulders, Tink.” Quire bent and lifted his swaying accomplice. Tinkler grabbed for the stair’s rail, missed, shifted himself and grabbed once more, catching it, swinging himself onto the lowest step, then leaning down so that Quire could jump, clasp his hand and be hauled up. The great ship settled again. Overhead, orders were being given in a language entirely unfamiliar to Quire and it seemed that some sort of discipline was in danger of being restored. Then, thankfully, Hogge and O’Bryan began their barrage and sent almost everyone crowding forward. Up the angled stairway they went, bodies against the ship’s side, until they had reached the main deck and could raise their noses high enough to inspect the scene. There were corpses on the deck, where men had been flung from the yards, and there were crippled sailors, with broken limbs and ribs, being tended by their fellows. Lanterns moved here and there and Quire glimpsed the captain in conference with the pilot, who was shaking his head and either pretending ignorance or professing it in good faith (Quire did not know how much Montfallcon had involved the man). He tried to see if Poland’s King was still in the sterncastle, but it was too dark. Boldly, with Tinker in his wake, he climbed rapidly for the stern, like two black shadows cast by the flapping sails above as the moon appeared mistily behind thinner cloud. Though many mariners passed them and some glanced curiously at them, Quire and Tinkler were only challenged when they reached the companionway to the castle itself. Quire held up his lantern to reveal the face of the armoured musketeer. “We’re from the shore. To help. We saw the wreck.”

  The musketeer shook his head. Quire laughed confidently and held up the lantern again, clapping the guard on the shoulder as he and Tinkler squeezed past and continued on their way to find Poland sitting up against the rail, blinking and perplexed, with some noble greybeard bending over him in concern.

  “I was sent here,” said Quire in a harried tone, “to attend a gentleman. Does anyone speak our tongue?”

  The old noble, swathed in sable, looked up, his speech halting and guttural. “I speak it, sir. You’re from the shore? What happened? The shots.” He blinked. He was shortsighted.

  “You’re wrecked, sir. Smashed up, sir. And you’ll be breaking before long if you don’t get off.” (This last, a lie.)

  “What shall we do?” Peering. “Who are you?”

  “Captain Fletcher. Coast guard, sir. The shots you heard were ours, driving off brigands who attend wrecks like crows attend a corpse. You were lucky we were close. Come now, where’s your women and children?”

  “There are none.”

  “This passenger looks like someone of quality.”

  “In truth, sir, he is.”

  “Then let’s get him over the side, and you too. Who else?”

  “This one first. I’m not important. And there are valuables. In the cabin. They must be saved. They are gifts—”

  “Valuables may be salvaged later, sir, but not lives,” said Quire chidingly.

  “These valuables are of great importance. Help His—this gentleman—to the shore. I’ll fetch the treasure.” He spoke to the King in Polish. The King smiled, vaguely.

  Quire appeared to debate with himself. Then he nodded. “Very well, if you think that’s for the best. My lieutenant here will go with you.” He offered his gloved hand to the King, who looked at it without understanding at first, then accepted it. “Up you get, your worship.”

  The King climbed unsteadily to his feet and Quire supported him, helping him to the companionway and down it. “Carefully, now, sir.”

  “I am much obliged to you, sir,” said Poland in the High Speech used for diplomacy throughout the globe, but Quire had to pretend hearty ignorance.

  “Sorry, sir, but I don’t know a word of whatever it is you talk.”

  They got to the deck and began to move back towards the point where Quire and Tinkler had boarded. The ship shuddered again, quite dramatically, and Quire was flung hard against the rail. The wind’s note changed, became shrill. The moon vanished. Water dashed itself aimlessly around the ruined ship. Quire staggered back, still half-carrying Poland, who murmured with hazy cordiality, permitting himself to be guided to the leaning steps and down them, while Tinkler cried “Here!” from behind and waved a bundle, the old nobleman at his rear calling out to the crew to follow, which was what Quire had feared would happen. “Easy, sir. Easy, sir.” He helped an irresolute Poland into the shallow water. “This way.” He took Poland’s arm and tugged. Tinkler was next, but the old man remained on the steps, still calling back for his men.

  Quire and his charge left the water and began to trudge up the beach as O’Bryan and the others came in sight. “Off we go, O’Bryan!” he called. “Hold them, Tink, and we’ll meet you at the mill.”

  O’Bryan put out a hand to take the King’s, leading him to their spare horse. “Up you go, my lord.”

  The King chuckled and shook his head. O’Bryan said something in Polish and the King laughed again, readily straddling the sorrel. Quire found his black and was up, too, taking the sorrel’s bridle while O’Bryan mounted. He heard Tinkler yell an order as sailors began to wade ashore, seeking their liege, and musket and pistol fire roared in the hands of the half-score knaves Tinkler commanded, cutting down the first rank of sailors.

  The King shouted a question to O’Bryan, who replied again, as he and Quire had arranged, that there were brigands along this coast who always came out in the hope of attacking a wreck but that their coast guards were holding the villains off.

  They were galloping rapidly through the shallows separating the island from the mainland before Poland cried out and tried to draw rein.

  “What’s he want, O’Bryan?” shouted Quire above the wind.

  “Says he’s concerned for his people, that he should stay.”

  “Very worthy. Tell him the tide’s due in and all must get to high ground, that our men are looking after the rest.”

  O’Bryan spoke slowly in Polish. The King replied, still reluctant.

  “What’s up now, O’Bryan?”

  “He says the tide appears to be going out.”

  “So it does!” Quire g
rinned. If the tide were not retreating, they would not have been able to cross this wide strip of sand at all. “He’s observant in some ways, eh? Tell him it’s deceptive. Put a bit of urgency in your tone, O’Bryan!”

  The bitter wind grabbed at them, struck them with such force that the horses staggered. “Ride, by Mithras!” yelled Quire.

  More gunfire sounded from behind. The King tried to turn the sorrel. “Oh, sweet Ariadne!” Quire rode in close, removed the King’s cap, drew a pistol from the holster on his saddle even as Poland began to crane to see what happened, and struck him hard at the base of his unkempt skull, grasping him before he fell too far, leaning him across the pommel, wrapping reins to hold him in position, taking the bridle and leading the sorrel on. O’Bryan fired off one of his pistols, apparently for the fun of it, and waved the other. They were almost at the grassy dunes where glinting snow displayed the evidence that they left the tidal flats behind and would soon be on true land.

  They rode at a gallop, inland and eastwards, away from the harbour city of Rye, for Quire had determined that they should put at least fifty miles between them and the wreck if they were not to be accidentally detected.

  Quire looked back and saw a few flashes, heard a few shots and yells. If he guessed right, Tinkler and the men had had less trouble than any of them had anticipated and were even now horsed, leaving the Mikolaj Kopernik and her crew to fare as best they could until news reached Rye and help was sent. By then it would be morning and the rufflers well on the way to London, while Tinkler joined him at the spot they had agreed, bringing with him, by happy chance, the King of Poland’s treasure.

  As they galloped, Quire began to utter a series of sharp, barking notes, between the sound of a wolf and a raven, which made O’Bryan somewhat nervous even after it had dawned on him that Quire was laughing.

  Some hours later a bedraggled, shivering Tinkler, his snag fang dancing in unison with his other, less visible teeth, a bundle clutched between legs and saddle-horn, his face blue and his eyes glazed, as if ice covered them, sighted the windmill where they had agreed to meet. It stood out as a black silhouette against the early light, its old sails squeaking as they tried to turn in the wind. The horse splashed through the shallow water of the fen; its hooves broke thin ice with every step; the frozen grass cracked as it bent. There was scarcely any colour to the scene and it seemed to Tinkler that everything which was not white was black. Even Quire’s hunched form, sitting outside the mill beside a small fire, was completely black to Tinkler’s eye. He called out and then became nervous as his voice bawled with startling loudness from his lips and sent some white geese flapping into the pale sky. “Quire!”

  Quire looked up and waved cheerfully. There was a dead, plucked fowl on his knee.

  Tinkler walked the horse over the small, decaying bridge crossing the clogged stream. “Where’s our charge?”

  “Inside, tied and sleeping.”

  “O’Bryan?”

  Quire gestured with the knife he had been using to gut the goose. The mound on which he sat stirred and groaned. Tormented, blood-shot eyes peered from out of bear fur. “He’s served his first purpose, to communicate to our charge. Now he’s serving a second. One he suggested himself. He’s kept me pleasantly warm for the last two hours, while the fire drew.”

  O’Bryan’s mouth opened and groaned again. Blood ran from between his clenched teeth and over his lips. Thoughtfully, Quire took some of the goose’s feathers and stuffed them tight against the teeth, so that the blood would not run onto the bearskin coat and spoil it. O’Bryan whimpered, imploring Tinkler for help, but Tinkler glanced away and entered the mill, noticing, as he did so, the three carefully placed daggers which stuck from O’Bryan’s twitching back.

  “What’s next?” he called, looking down at the King of Poland, who snored on ancient straw. He seated himself on part of a broken millstone and began to unwrap the bundle.

  “Montfallcon will pretend to send out men. Hogge will take the ransom note to one of the Polish merchants in London—making it clear that we have no idea whom we have captured—and eventually, after much fuss, our victim will be found, none the worse for wear—and with only a few of his valuables gone.” Quire spoke over his shoulder at Tinkler, who was holding up a golden figurine to the shaft of light which fell through the gap in the mill’s roof. “Just a few, Tink. If we were caught with too much, we’d hang this time, for certain, even though it entailed a change in the Law. Montfallcon couldn’t afford to save us. Poland would demand our lives. The treasure—or most of it—will be rescued with its owner.”

  Tinkler put the things back. He picked up the bundle and placed it casually in a corner. “And when will that be, Captain?” He scratched, characteristically, at his exposed tooth.

  “Shortly before Twelfth Night, Tink. In time for the Court Masque, when so many dignitaries and sovereigns shall be present that our poor King will be lost amongst them and his gestures, speeches, protestations—all will fall flat. He’ll be able to blame himself—as well as brigands—for his failure—but he’ll not blame Albion or Gloriana. And that’s the issue.”

  Tinkler had not been listening to most of this. He stepped over O’Bryan’s head again, studying Quire’s efficient hands. “How long will he take to cook, eh, Captain?”

  And he reached to pinch the goose.

  THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

  In Which the Mad Woman in the Walls Observes Some of the Many Comings and Goings in the Outer Palace

  LYING FLAT, with her eyes close against the grille which was immediately and coincidentally opposite to that which Jephraim Tallow had used on New Year’s Eve, the mad woman stared into the hall, her ears filled with the beauty of the choir’s single voice as it entertained the dining nobles below. She was starved, as she usually was, but she was not hungry Thin fingers held the grille, occasionally combing the tangled, red-brown hair or scratching at the grey flesh of her long body while parasites ran in and out of her rags, unheeded. There was a seraphic smile upon her filthy face—the music and the beauty of the diners filled her with so much pleasure that she was almost crying. Already sweetmeats and savouries had been served and wine waved away, heralding the end of the meal. As another might watch a favourite play, she tried to will the guests to stay, but gradually they rose, taking their leave of the grey lord in his chair at the head of the table, going about their business.

  The mad woman focused all her attention on the two who remained. The Arabian ambassador and the lord, who was her greatest hero and whose name she knew, as she knew most of those at Court.

  “Montfallcon,” she whispered, “the Queen’s trusted adviser. Her Right Hand. Incorruptible, clever Montfallcon!”

  The choir’s chant ended and the choristers began to file from the hall, so that now she could overhear some of what was being said between Montfallcon and the proud, brown man, in braided white silk and gold-twined plaited ropes at head, wrists, neck and waist.

  “…my master married to the Queen? Security for all time, for us both. Such an alliance!” she heard the Moor remark.

  “We are already allies, however.” Montfallcon smiled delicately. “Arabia and Albion.”

  “Save that Arabia’s hampered against expansion because Albion protects her. We are frustrated in our ambitions—as are all children who have grown and whose parents do not recognise the fact.”

  Montfallcon laughed aloud. “Come now, Lord Shahryar, you cannot misjudge my intelligence or expect me to misjudge yours. Arabia is protected by Albion because she has not the resources to defend herself against the Tatar Empire. She has no alliance with Poland because Poland shares her fear of the Tatars but hopes the Tatars will leave Poland alone and concentrate on Arabia, if Arabia is weak. On the other hand—”

  “My point, my lord, is that Arabia is no longer weak.”

  “Of course she isn’t, for she has Albion’s aid.”

  “And the Tatar Empire could be conquered.”

  “Gloriana will not make
war unless the security of the Realm is threatened—and is seen to be threatened. We fight only if invaded. Tatary knows this and therefore does not invade. The Queen hopes by this policy eventually to create habits in nations, so that they will not automatically go to war to gain their ends. She visualises a great Council, a League—”

  “Lord Montfallcon’s tone betrays him.” Lord Shahryar smiled. “He believes no more than I in this easy feminine pacifism. Oh, such yearnings are to be admired in any woman. Yet a balance must be established between the Male and the Female instincts. But here there is no balance. There should be a man, as strong in his way as the Queen. My master, the Grand Caliph, is strong—”

  “But the Queen does not wish to marry. She regards marriage as a further burden—and she already has many responsibilities.”

  “She favours others?”

  “She favours none. She is flattered, of course, by the Grand Caliph’s attentions.”

  Lord Shahryar stroked his head. “It is for me now to remind you of my intelligence, Lord Montfallcon. What I have said, regarding the Queen and her needs, is well-meant. We are concerned for her.”

  “Then we share that,” said Lord Montfallcon. “And if you respect her, as I do, you will respect her wishes, her decisions, as I do.”

  “You do nothing without her approval?”

  “She is my Queen. She is Albion. She is the Realm.” Lord Montfallcon lifted his chin. “She is the Law.”

  “Not always effective.”

  “What?”

  “Your Law. It seems it does not bring criminals to justice on every occasion.”

  “I cannot understand you.”

  “My nephew, Ibram, was killed in London, even as I took ship from ben Gahshi. I arrived to learn of his death—murdered—and that his murderer has gone free.”

  “King? He’s to be transported next week.”