Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

Gloriana nodded dumbly. The strain of maintaining a balance of attention between the haughty Hassan and the confused Casimir had been greater than she had expected, and she would be glad of the hour she had to herself. “You do your duty, my Lord Chancellor, as I do mine,” she murmured. Her smile was thin. “Now you must don your disguise and join in the pleasure of the Masque. Do you know your lines?”

  “I intend to read them, madam. There has not been time…”

  “Of course. In an hour, then, my lord.” With a guilty movement of her hand she passed into her apartments and allowed the doors to be closed, for once, against her watchdog.

  Lady Mary Perrott came forward, looking a little weary, as usual. Gloriana raised her arms. “Strip me off, Mary.” She removed her crown with a sigh. “And then, I pray you, stroke me for a while, to rid me of my aches and pains.”

  Lady Mary took the crown and gestured for the maids to disrobe the Queen. Her costume was ready, near Gloriana’s. She was to go as a Valkyrie while her demanding lover Sir Tancred went as Baldur.

  In her own rooms, the Countess of Scaith inspected the jewelled casket which had been sent to her. She read the note, in Hassan’s own hand. It thanked her for her courtesies and kindnesses (she recalled none) and begged her to remember him to the Queen with great affection. Una shook her head as her maids unlaced her, wondering if she should tell the Queen of this development or leave the story for an airing when they both relaxed. She decided on the latter.

  In nothing but her shift she resumed her position on the couch, took another pipe of tobacco and cast her eyes over Master Wheldrake’s opening lines for the Masque.

  In Winter, when the Year burns low

  As Fire wherein no firebrands glow,

  And Winds dishevel as they blow

  The lovely stormy wings of snow,

  The hearts of Northern men burn bright

  With joy that mocks the Joy of Spring

  To hear all Heaven’s keen clarions ring

  Music that bids the Spirit sing

  And Day gives thanks for Night.

  They lacked his usual intensity, she thought, but then he was usually reluctant to write for the Court Entertainments, and it seemed that of late he had been particularly distracted, spending most of his time with that ruined intelligence, that fragile beauty, the haunted Lady Lyst.

  The pipe smoked, Una considered her costume; then, with an effort, got to her feet and moved to the cupboard where it was kept. Her fellow Norns, the Lady Rhoone and Lady Cornfield, would expect her to be on time.

  Una paused, looking about her, certain that she was watched, but the room was empty save for herself and the maid’s cat. She looked up into the shadows of the ceiling where a small grille admitted air, then shrugged and reached for her corselet.

  In the Great Hall of the palace, decorated now in symbolic representation of icy mountains and doomy skies, the masquers took their sieges, wearing furs and brass and silver and all the barbaric magnificence of some Arctic castle’s denizens, while the audience, composed of most of those who had been presented earlier to the Queen, sat, rank upon rank, in chairs, and the musicians in the gallery began to play the music composed by Master Harvey for the occasion, full of sonorous horns and bass viols.

  The Countess of Scaith, in hood and black fur, had already spoken her gloomy introduction and stood back so that Odin and Freyja might come forward. Odin, in eye-patch and flop-brimmed hat, a stuffed raven swaying on his shoulder, a plaster head in one hand, was played by reluctant Lord Montfallcon. Queen Gloriana played Freyja.

  Lady Rhoone, as Skaal, the Norn of the Future, gave her lines in a voice to rival her huge husband’s (Lord Rhoone played Thor):

  “Now Fimbul Winter falls upon the fields,

  The Age of Knife and Axe and Cloven Shields,

  And violent deeds are wreak’d on men of peace

  While Odin, holding Mimer’s sever’d head,

  Plans the Last Fight ‘gainst those living and those dead,

  And in Black Grief’s Gulf the Fenris wolf’s releas’d!”

  Awkwardly Lord Montfallcon held the plaster head aloft and read from the page he tried to hide, while in the farthest rank poor Wheldrake winced and clutched at his body, feeling an agony he could never experience at Lady Lyst’s hand.

  “Harken! Heimdal’s horn is blown

  And nine worlds wake!

  Across our ancient bridge the Giants do come

  And Bifrost breaks!

  Soon Skoll shall swallow up the sun

  The world-ash quakes!”

  It was now Gloriana’s turn. She had seen Master Wheldrake and wondered if his grief were not, in some degree, inspired by guilt. She drew breath and, as Freyja, intoned:

  “On Ironwood’s hill Storm Eagle’s wings

  Flap wild wind across the world

  While in Midgard commoners and kings

  To Hela all are hurl’d

  And Fjular-Suttung in disguise goes he

  To steal the Sword of Victory.”

  Next, burly Lord Rhoone, as Thor, sporting a good-sized hammer:

  “The Gods of Asgard do not fear their Dusk

  But to the Battle gladly go.

  I’ll dare the Midgard serpent’s tearing tusk,

  Destroy mankind’s most deadly foe,

  Then die midst fire and snow!”

  And on in this vein for a while before Una must step forward again to conclude the Masque with:

  “Thus Ragnarok is come and Gods lie dead!

  In noble conflict were they slain—

  Bluff Thor, sly Loke, fair Frey—none fled

  The final battle or the fiercest pain.

  And so the World’s New Age they ascertain’d

  That Glorious Albion might their burden bear

  While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!”

  Una noticed that Master Wheldrake had not waited for the applause but was already, with desperate glance to Lady Lyst, sliding from the hall. It seemed to Una that if the quality of Master Wheldrake’s masques continued in this course then the Queen must soon admit that a new poet should be found for the Court, but the hands of the audience were clapped with gusto and Casimir and Hassan leapt forward, almost colliding, to congratulate Gloriana on the beauty of her performance, the nobility of the lines, the wisdom of the sentiments, the appropriate sonorousness of the music, and Una was able to slip behind one of the screens on which the scenes had been painted and tear off her uncomfortable hood, finding that Lady Lyst was already there, giggling uncontrollably to herself Fearing that if she caught Lady Lyst’s eye she would also be infected, Una returned to the front and was immediately taken up by Lord Montfallcon, who was almost gay He was most definitely warmer than usual towards her, for he disliked her, regarding her as a rival to the Queen’s ear, a disruptive voice that lured the Queen away from duty “Fine words, eh?” said Montfallcon. “Wheldrake excelled himself this Twelfth. We must give him a knighthood in the spring. I’ll speak to the Queen. ‘That Glorious Albion might their burden bear, While in Albion’s Glory shall the whole globe share!’ Very true, eh?”

  Delighting to find their normal roles so thoroughly reversed, Una grinned, “Oh, yes, my lord! Very true, my lord!"—and heard a further burst from behind the screen. She moved, with Montfallcon on her arm, towards the centre of the Great Hall, where the Queen enjoyed the flattery of kings and princes and, in her present mood, might set an earldom on the shoulders of the poet whom, a few minutes before, she had been ready to thrash as thoroughly as, in his secret thoughts, he desired. Thus with inadequate verse did Master Wheldrake find honour and lose the only reward he would ever value.

  Doctor Dee passed by, giving his close attention to the words of his old friend King Rudolf of Bohemia, who was explaining the results of his latest experiments.

  “And was the transmutation then attained?” asked Dee. Una saw him lift his eye in one swift, stealthy glance at the Queen’s neck.

  “Unfortunately t
he success was only partial. The theme of the Masque reminds me of something I was reading concerning the true nature of the dwarves who featured in the old sagas. They were, in fact, powerful sorcerers, not originally of this planet, who journeyed from another world, bearing with them all the alchemical secrets they had learned there. This is the basis of our own fragmentary scientific knowledge, you see. If their writings could be found—perhaps somewhere in the North Pole—we should truly be embarking on a new age in mankind’s history. I have sent out three or four expeditions, but unfortunately none has, as yet, returned….”

  The music, lively and delicate now, had begun again, and, still in costume, masquers joined with audience in the Trippe, a complicated form of gallimard, which was currently in fashion, but not at all suited to someone dressed in the costume of the Norn of the Present. Una of Scaith began to look forward to the Feast.

  In the wide yard of the Gryffyn Inn there blazed a magnificent Twelfth Night bonfire hot enough to warm everyone who stood around it. Hot enough to warm even those who lounged in the open galleries above, pouring beer upon the heads of friends and enemies, guffawing at the antics of the troupe of dwarf fiddlers who pranced in a circle around the fire and squeaked and scraped in a boisterous parody of music. Feeling for the parts of their companions denied them, for one reason or another, through the earlier days of the festival, tearing at pieces of meat and bread and cheese, capering, dancing or merely swaying from side to side, pissing, farting and vomiting in less than private corners of the innyard, claiming everlasting affection for acquaintances of that night or eternal hatred for their oldest comrades, they filled every space. The cold air seemed to burn and was rich enough to nourish anyone who breathed it, carrying as it did the fumes of boiled beef and roasted fowls, of wine and rum, of sweat and spunk, of blistering wood and melted snow. There came yells of laughter from all corners of the inn, and sometimes, as when Tinkler was pushed backwards into the fire by a doxy who did not favour him, the laughter was so loud that the timbers trembled. Here, too, were professional clowns—some of those who had earlier entertained the Queen herself—the zanies, the harlekin, the bragging, strutting gallant, the old dotard, the beautiful ladies—in clothes of an Italian cut, though most of them were native to London—in their cups thanks to the Queen’s gold and giving to this audience free what the Queen had paid for.

  Into the noisy mob, with his arm about the waist of his paramour, stalked cocky Captain Quire, his sword jutting behind him like the wagging tail of a triumphant mongrel who has found the way into the butcher’s store. The elaborate white and silver costume of his companion, the little tinsel crown upon the coiffeured head, face powdered white, eyes hugely exaggerated, lips a startling crimson, were in evident parody of the Queen as she had appeared during the festivities on the ice.

  Tinkler, patting at the back of his singed coat, staggered up to greet his master and was shocked. “Hermes, Captain, what’s this?”

  “Our very own Queen, Tink, come to see her people. Pay your respects, Sir Tinkler. Let’s see you make a good leg.”

  And Tinkler, infected as always by Quire’s confidence, fell in with the charade at once and bowed deep, whipping off his tattered cap, his snag tooth twisting upwards in a grin. “Welcome, Your Majesty—to the—the Court of King Booze!” He giggled and staggered, grabbing hold of dark-chinned Hogge, who passed with two tankards in either hand. “May I present to Your Majesty Lord Grunt of Hogge and"—he pulled on the wrist of the wench who had pushed him into the fire—"Lady Sow, his beautiful wife.” She pushed him again and he sat down in the slushy mud of the yard, still grinning. “But which Queen is it we honour? What’s her name?”

  “Why, it’s Philomena,” said Quire, struggling from the bearskin coat to reveal his own black cloak beneath. From his belt he took his folded sombrero and smoothed it out, brushing at the crow’s feathers. “Queen Philomena—the Queen of Love!” Quire pinched his queen upon the painted cheek, upon the silken bottom, and caused a simper, though the huge, hot eyes were also a little startled, a little wary. The pair moved closer to the bonfire and Quire took one of Hogge’s tankards for himself, another for the Queen. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Gryffyn. A cheer, if you please, for your sovereign, Queen Philomena, who dubs this night a Night of Love and bids you celebrate in her name.”

  As the crowd began to cheer, and some of them cried out bawdy promises to Quire’s queen, the captain looked about him in mock astonishment.

  “I see no throne. What’s become of it? Where’s the Queen’s great Chair of State? What shall she sit upon?”

  The answer was loud and conventional. Quire continued to play to the crowd. He held up his hands. “You are bad hosts. Sir Harlekin here will tell you that the Queen’s guests were better treated.” He put his arm around the patch-coated shoulder of the comedian, who hiccuped theatrically in his face and scratched his eye under his mask. “All had chairs, did they not?”

  “They did, sir.”

  “Good, solid chairs?”

  “Excellent chairs, sir. Your Queen’s a beauty and I’d swear she’s—”

  But already a large, high-backed chair was being passed over the heads of the mob and placed so that it was framed by the firelight behind. Again Quire bowed. “Be seated, madam, if you please.” With an awkward curtsey the mock-queen sat and stared around at the newfound Court, who, slack-mouthed, stared back. It seemed that she was drunk, or drugged, for her eyes were glazed and her own mouth moved oddly, though she showed lechery enough for Quire whenever he tickled her and licked her ear and whispered into it.

  “Oh, Phil, how you’d satisfy the Caliph now—so much better than the real Queen.” Quire grinned, and hugged his concubine tighter.

  And Phil Starling, gone quite Eros-mad, simpered at his lover, his master, and looked at the wonderful ruby ring upon his finger and could not believe that such riches could be his.

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  In Which Some of the Queen’s Subjects Consider a Variety of Alchemical, Philosophical and Political Problems

  IT SEEMED SO PERMANENT,” said Lady Lyst, kneeling on her window seat and looking down into the February morning. “I thought the snow had come to stay forever. Look, Wheldrake, it’s melting. See, crocuses and snowdrops!” She stared over her shoulder at her untidy room, scattered with books, papers, ink, instruments, dresses, bottles, stuffed animals and living birds, where her tiny crimson-combed lover strutted, in a black dressing gown, a sheet of paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

  “Um,” he said. “Well, spring won’t be long now. Listen"—and he quoted the sheet:

  “And Ada’s Ardour’s slowly growing cold

  ’Neath leaden hammer blows

  Of Slavic Prose,

  As picking at his Academic nose

  He’ll pass in Public as a

  Wit And Labouring Iron transmute to Gold.”

  “Well, what d’you think? Got ’im, eh?”

  “But I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said. “A rival poet? Really, Wheldrake, you become increasingly obscure and decreasingly inventive as times goes on.”

  “No! It’s him! He grows obscure!” Master Wheldrake’s arms flapped as if some primitive pterosaur tried desperately to take to the air for the first time. “Not me!”

  “You, too. And I don’t know him.” Her lovely blue eyes were wider than ever as they regarded him with a certain distant sadness; her lovely golden hair fell in unruly strands across her golden face. “And I doubt, Wheldrake, dear, from your tone, if he knows you.”

  “Damn him!” Wheldrake stalked, as best he could, through the rubble of her room. Parrots and macaws cackled and fled for the thicker growths of ivy near the ceiling. “He’s rich—because he panders to the public. Makes ’em think they’re intelligent! Bah! While I’m here, forever, dependent on the Queen’s patronage, when all I want is her respect.”

  “She said how much she liked the last Masque, and Montfallcon murmured of an imminent knig
hthood.”

  “I’m wasting my time, Lucinda, writing indifferent attacks on rival poets, self-pitying verse against women who’ve rejected me, and earning my keep by writing elephantine, grandiloquent farts to be performed by the Court’s Philistines. My poetry, my old poetry, is slipping away from me. I lack stimulus.”

  “Arioch, Wheldrake! I’d have thought you’d have had enough of that to last you through a hundred sonnets at least!”

  He frowned and began his return flight, ink from his pen splashing upon her upturned chests and draperies, her half-read metaphysical tomes, crumpling the paper as he came. “I told you. No more scourges.”

  She turned again to the window. She was neutral. “Perhaps you should return to your North country to your borders?”

  “Where I’m even more misunderstood. I’d considered a journey to Arabia. I have an affinity I believe, with Arabia. What did you think of the Grand Caliph?”

  “Well, he was very Arabian. He had a good opinion of himself, I think.” Lady Lyst vaguely scratched her ribs.

  “He was confident.”

  “Aye, he was that.” She yawned.

  “He impressed the Queen, you could tell, with his exotic sensuality. So much more than poor, bumbling Poland.”

  “She was kind to Poland,” said Lady Lyst.

  “Yet both departed, frustrated in their ambitions, with Albion unconquered. They made the mistake of laying siege when they should have delivered themselves as captives at her feet.”

  Lucinda Lyst was dry. “You invent a Gloriana for yourself, I think. There’s no evidence…”

  He blushed so that skin and hair were, for one radiant moment, of the same colour. He began to uncrumple his satire. A maid came in. “A visitor, your ladyship. The Thane.”

  “Good. It’s the Thane, Wheldrake. A fellow countryman.”

  “Scarcely.” Wheldrake sniffed and came to join her on the window seat, lounging a little theatrically, unaware that he had exposed a scrawny knee.

  Gaunt but hearty, in strode the Thane of Hermiston, in flapping philibeg and monstrous bonnet, his sporran slapping and his hands already on his hips as he jutted out his red beard and grinned down at the couple. “Ye’re a pretty pair, just fresh from yer beds, eh, like lazy kittens. Well, well, well!”