Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “I can’t understand you, Quire.”

  “I am an artist, and you, Master Priest, are a tradesman. For you, every action must result in an evident cash profit, however small, however indirect. You keep accounts. I create events. There’s room for us both in the world. Do as I tell you. Do not try to understand me. Remember both those things and you’ll be a happier Priest, Josias.”

  A hard, important look into Alys’s eyes, and Quire was gone.

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  In Which Queen Gloriana Entertains Guests to Supper and Considers Her Condition Together with That of Albion

  THE LONG TABLE resembled to Gloriana a white path along which she must run, as in a nightmare, with traps at regular intervals on both sides and a tangle of obstacles (a silver nef for spices, elaborate salts shaped as fabulous beasts) to block her progress down the centre; each place setting representing a malevolent spirit. She took more wine—for once abandoning her normal caution—and pretended to listen to her nearest guests, on left and right, while making abstracted expressions of interest, astonishment or sympathy. Refusing both apathy and cynicism, she must suffer her pain, her yearning, unadulterated (for the wine did nothing but remove a little of the accompanying tension).

  Indeed, my lord. How true, my lord. What a pity, my lady. How clever…How sensible…

  Lord Montfallcon, as grey as granite, in black plush, with a grey, starched ruff, and a chain of ebony and gold upon his chest, spoke portentously across the table to Sir Amadis Cornfield, who tried to ignore the murmurings of his small wife and hear his lordship.

  “There are those, Sir Amadis, who would take Poland’s example and make a democracy of Albion. I have heard such views expressed here, in the palace itself. Some would do away with our monarchy complete! The penultimate step to total decadence, as Plato says, is the establishment of democracy in a land.”

  Oh, to have the burden lifted! But no, there is Duty…Duty….

  Sir Amadis, in his conservative elegance, in contrast to his wife’s rather lively gown of purple and green, put a morsel of partridge between moustache and beard and chewed slowly, to show that he listened with appropriate gravity. “And Arabia? Are there not others who look to tyrannical Arabia—and would make Albion a war-like nation, an all-devouring dragon?”

  “To weaken herself forever in one great, bloodthirsty rampage.” Sir Orlando Hawes waved a black, short-fingered hand in which he gripped a pickle-fork. “Wars waste money as well as lives. They take a country’s youth. All investments are squandered to gain glory, which we do not need, and land, which requires tending.” Sir Orlando’s economic theories were still sufficiently radical for the majority not to understand him.

  “War!” called the Tatar ambassador from some distance down the table, as if he thought mention of the word might be sufficient to create the situation he most desired. “War strengthens the strong nation. Albion should not be afraid of war!”

  But I fear war and all that attends it…. Violence simplifies and distorts the Truth and brings the Brute to Eminence….

  Gloriana had a clear image of the Brute in her brain. He was not unlike the father she had known as a little child. The threatening, weeping, malevolent creature of unchecked power, who could resolve too complicated issues quickly, by means of the axe and the rack, and justify any decision by a mixture of self-pity and suspicion that his, and therefore his country’s security was threatened. She recalled the madness and the sorrow….

  “Certain nobles of Virginia are declared republicans.” It was the Lord of Kansas, splendid in sombre reds and dark yellows, with the wide, high collar that was fashionable in his own land. He smiled at his listeners, glad of the effect he had made, and took some wine.

  “And yet I thought Virginia the loyalest nation in Albion!” Sir Amadis’s wife (the eldest of the Perrott sisters) turned rounded, pretty eyes on Lord Kansas.

  “So we are, ma’am. The Queen is worshipped there almost as a goddess. No question.”

  “And yet…?”

  “They’re republicans, not anti-monarchists. Poland’s their example. A hundred years ago the twelfth Casimir (known as the Level-Headed) gave Parliament all power and became the representative rather than the ruler of the State.”

  “And should war threaten Poland—serious war—” cried Oubacha Khan, “she’ll be finished—a thousand decisions will be made where only one should exist!” He turned enthusiastic eyes to the Lady Yashi Akuya, whose approval he could always depend upon. “While commoners babble—a King acts. Ancient Athens is your example there!”

  There were not a few who agreed with him. Even Count Korzeniowski, a trifle deaf as well as a trifle short-sighted, nodded in assent.

  “A republican is a traitor to the State,” said Lord Ingleborough, who was propped in his chair and wearing a fur robe over his ceremonial clothes. He had come late, a mild heart attack delaying him. He coughed. “That must be logical. Traitors should be—well…” He became confused, glanced at his Queen, looked away. “Exiled,” he said.

  He means killed. Executed, chopped, strangled, sliced, torn apart…There must be no more blood. Too many died…too many…. I will not kill in Albion’s name….

  “A traitor, Lord Ingleborough,” rumbled the fair-minded Rhoone from where he sat picking methodically at the bones of his bird, his black beard stained with its juices, “is one who would actively plot against the Queen’s person or the security of the State. If the holding of republican views, or Stoical views, or theological views, or, truly, any views at all, does not directly threaten us, then those who hold them cannot be called traitor. A well-run Court contains a composition of opinion and belief, for it must be representative of the Nation and, if possible, the world. A monarch is required to sit at the head of this Court, to be advised by sage, knowledgeable fellows, like yourselves, my Lords Councillors, and by any others whose wisdom is of usefulness, as to facts and understandings—then the monarch can reach a thoughtful decision.”

  Oh, trusting, faithful Rhoone. How ordered and unmalleable is your perfect universe! How strongly your faith enchains me. That sense of Liberty we share—it makes slaves of us….

  Lord Shahryar, the Caliph’s envoy, set aside a plate almost untouched, saying: “Agreed, Lord Rhoone. Would you also agree with me that a nation’s stability is maintained by means of a royal line, trained from birth in the responsibilities of government?” With bland calculation he raised a ghost, then hastened on; “I speak in abstract, Your Majesty.”

  Gloriana nodded, only half-hearing him, understanding from his tone what the familiar sentiments must be. She took more wine.

  Lord Gorius Ransley, the Queen’s High Steward, seated next to the Saracen, turned a head full of artificial curls so that he could look upon the speaker. He pushed lace back from both wrists and picked up a piece of fowl upon his knife. “In Poland, you’ll recall, the King’s elected.”

  “From those directly in line to the throne,” Lord Shahryar pointed out. He refused to notice the glaring looks he received from more than the Queen’s Councillors. “But old King Hern,” he continued, “so successfully destroyed his rivals, that there are none in Albion who could ascend—”

  “Sir!” Mild Sir Vivien Rich sucked at his plump cheeks. “This is not mannerly intercourse!”

  “I am sure I say nothing that has not already been a sober subject of discussion amongst those holding Albion dear,” said Lord Shahryar in apparent humility. “I apologise if I have been naíve.”

  Doctor John Dee was not the only gentleman who felt acutely for the Queen, though the Queen herself appeared to overlook what had been said, with splendid insouciance. “You have been that, at least, sir.” He attempted to dispel the growing atmosphere. “Besides, all this is speculative. It suggests our Queen is mortal! And all know she is immortal!” He raised his glass. The Queen smiled kindly and Dee interpreted this as approval for his words. “The whole of Albion is certain that the plague will never descend upon them!�
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  “The plague?” Oubacha Khan became nervous. “There is plague in Albion?”

  “There is no plague in Albion,” Sir Vivien explained, “because the Queen lives. Have you not heard the common folk’s greeting—’Pray the plague will never come upon us’? You’ve heard ’em, eh? There’s the legend that when Pericles died plague came to Athens.”

  “But all fear plague. What, Sir Vivien, is the significance?”

  Sir Amadis Cornfield grinned, lending his own energies to changing the dangerous mood of the table. “They do not fear the plague—that’s the point.” His wife reached under his leaning body to take a piece of cheese. “The greeting indirectly refers to the Queen’s health.”

  “My health?” Gloriana spoke as one waking from sleep. “My health?”

  “The plague, Your Majesty,” said Lord Montfallcon. “You know—the belief of the common people that if you should die a great plague would immediately fall upon Albion.”

  Gloriana drew up her shoulders and was valiant. “Aha! Then let ’em all believe so and I’ll have no enemies in Albion. It could preserve my life forever.” She drained her glass. Some laughed with her.

  But such false words from that sad mouth served to make the guests nearest her aware of her mood.

  “Aye, ma’am,” bravely answered old Lord Ingleborough. “Pray that those republicans who would destroy Tradition and therefore the cornerstone of our State take heed of the prophecy ever so profoundly!” And thus he added his own limp to that lame gait, that heartless measure.

  Again Sir Amadis rallied himself and stood upon his feet, raising his golden goblet. “I would give all a toast. To the next half-century of our Gloriana’s reign!”

  Then all must stand and drink, save Gloriana.

  Gods, would that I were old now, and my body suffering the simpler sensations of senility…. Why cannot I be reconciled? Because to be reconciled is to let the Spirit die. Yet this is flesh that speaks to me, drives me, torments me…Flesh, not Spirit. Oh, they are one, as Gloriana and Albion are one…. Am I doomed to my Quest, as Chivalry’s knights were doomed to seek Bran’s Cup and never find it, because they were not pure enough? Have I ruined myself through dissipation, have I lost the secret which I might have found in virgin innocence? Oh, Father, that knowledge you demanded and which I did not deny, because I feared you so, honoured you so, and, Father, loved you so…If you had only granted me and yourself a little more ignorance….

  “Gloriana! Gloriana!”

  They were drinking.

  Then, conscientiously, up she stood, and she raised her own glass. “To all my honourable gentlemen and their ladies, to all the envoys of the foreign courts, I wish you health!”

  And this, because of the previous reference to the plague, seemed like a good joke of the Queen’s at her own expense. Their enthusiastic merriment rang in her ears and she listened to their compliments and smiled, as if the joke had been deliberate, noticing that Oubacha Khan and Lord Shahryar in particular were looking at her shrewdly, misjudging vagueness for irony and believing themselves to have received a fuller impression of her character, since neither had recognised the deliberate ironies she had offered during their formal encounters. This amused her and she was forced to disguise it, to give undue attention to the servant who poured her fresh wine.

  How I wish my Una were here, returned from Scaith. There’s a consort for a Queen! Should I change the Law and marry the Countess? Una and I could rule better together. I wish she would take more power. I miss you, Una….

  She looked up. Near the end of the table was the battle-suited Sir Tancred Belforest, creaking to his feet, aided by Lady Mary Perrott, whose loss from her bed Gloriana now began to regret. Not long since Lady Mary had played boy for the Queen with enthusiasm. Now she played demoiselle to Tancred’s sober chevalier, apparently delighting in his clumsy innocence; in love with him. Gloriana felt a threat or two of jealousy winding through her half-drugged heart and, disgusted by her ignoble thoughts, dismissed the sensation, though it was not Sir Tancred she envied, but Mary, who had found a focus for her faith in a single individual.

  “Your Majesty,” began Sir Tancred, his red face glowing from within its case of steel, his unruly moustache bristling, his huge plumes dancing, “as Your Majesty’s Champion, as Albion’s Champion, as Defender of the Queen’s Honour, I offer my sword to you.” He, the only one present allowed to carry a large weapon, dragged the heavy ornamental broadsword from its scabbard of Iberian enamel-work, and held it upright by the blade. “And I beg leave to challenge any one of these present who would insult Your Majesty or Albion’s name.” He paused, for he was considerably drunk. Gloriana loved him, then. “To a tourney at arms—sword, mace, lance or any other honourable weapon—to the point of grave wounding or death.”

  Gloriana became a Queen, clear-voiced and kindly. “We are grateful for this display of loyalty, Sir Tancred, which is inspiring and worthy of the Court of the Bear and the Great Age of New Troy, when Chivalry was at its height. And should there come a time when we are insulted here, we shall command you to avenge that insult by force of arms. In the meanwhile we pray you to conserve your energies for the May Day Tilt.”

  Sir Tancred blinked. “But, Your Majesty, there’s more than one here, tonight, who has so insulted you!”

  “We heard no insults, Sir Tancred—only innocent jests. We all make merry and forget formality, for we are good friends at this table.”

  Oubacha Khan turned eagerly to look up into Sir Tancred’s frowning face, murmuring: “Honour. Aye, honour.” He fingered the pommel of his little dress dagger.

  Sir Tancred opened his mouth again, but was tugged by his paramour from behind, by a strap, and sat down with a sudden crash.

  Oubacha Khan murmured very softly to the Lady Yashi Akuya, who nodded rapidly, even though she made out only half his words. “Thus are even the brave and the honourable turned to milksops by this overloving mother.” He looked across the table at Lord Shahryar and they exchanged mutually knowing glances.

  Gloriana, recalled to diplomatic duty by the incident, singled out Lord Kansas. “You have been adventuring, far from Virginia, so I hear, my lord?”

  “To the East Indies, madam, and to the interior of Africa, wherein I discovered several new nations ruled over by mighty kings, who treated me with great hospitality and sent their greetings to Your Majesty.” He spoke with modest, civilised good humour, conscious of his expected role.

  “You must give them our greeting in return, my lord, if you should ever venture that way again. And there were savages, too, were there not?”

  “Many tribes of them, madam. But again we were well and courteously received. I found the chiefs of these tribes as good company as any civilised man!”

  “They are less restricted by formality and ritual, perhaps?” said she.

  “On the contrary, madam, they seem to have more ceremonies and rituals than we do—though such things are not always recognised for what they are by those who practice them.”

  “True, Lord Kansas. You learned their tongues?”

  “One or two, madam. I discoursed with their priests and their wise men. It is fairly said, madam, that while Man’s store of knowledge increaseth, his wit doth not. So is the savage equal to the civilised sage.”

  “Well put, Lord Kansas!” She liked the long-faced, wry man with his dark-tanned, leathery skin, his simple Virginian Stoic costume (it had been Stoics who had settled Virginia originally) and his air of tolerance. She considered him for a lover. She went further, and considered him for a husband. For she must take a husband, soon. Though Lord Shahryar’s remarks were resented, they voiced the thoughts of everyone there who valued Albion’s continuing security. But to take a husband who could not please her, for whom she must also give up her Quest, would be madness. If she gave up her Quest, she felt, she gave up Belief-—and Albion would have a hollow symbol that would crumble, causing the very structure of the State to crumble. She had a vision of Albio
n in flames, with thick black smoke drifting from coast to coast, from ocean to ocean of the Empire—of cruel war, carnage and waste. It was a vision instilled in her since she had been a child, by her mentor, Lord Montfallcon. It was a vision that would come true if once she forgot her Duty. And now all were agreed where her Duty lay—in marriage….

  But they do not realise how weak I am. I cannot maintain this responsibility forever. If I marry I shall share my burden but cease to be Gloriana. And unless I remain Gloriana, Albion’s endangered. Or does it matter? Perhaps I should proclaim Albion a Republic? But no, this would make both commoners and nobles despondent and weaken us, making us vulnerable to our enemies. Republics are born of necessity, not morality.…I must remain true to my

  instincts and my Duty. Or should I, like the Princess in the fairy tale, make it known that I shall marry the first Prince to bring me to fulfillment, or marry Arabia, utilising my energies to make war on Tatary, on Poland, on the rest of the world? To turn those energies, as Father did, into a kind of awesome, horrifying Art, bringing the turmoil of the liver and the heart, the kidneys and the brain, to the whole Realm, forcing it to reflect and feel the anguish he felt and which I inherit. No! For I swore this would never be—this need of mine must always be private and privately must it be satisfied…. Only twice did Father succeed in finding private release and, by his first action, created me, while by his second he placed his burden upon my womb as firmly as Montfallcon placed the public burden upon my head when, four years later, he supervised my coronation….

  The table had become a road again, the heads on either side so many carrion birds waiting to pick at her corpse. Firmly she drove the images away Such images had belonged to her father as he grew increasingly insane, seeing every eye accusing him, every voice imploring him for a portion of his fragile substance, until, to close the eyes and still the voices, he had turned more and more to desperate murder in the guise of Justice. Thus had Lord Montfallcon’s family perished, thus Lord Ingleborough’s brothers and his father, thus Sir Thomasin Ffynne’s mistress and son—whole households, whole villages had been slain. If he had lived, King Hern might have executed the population of Albion to the last baby, in an effort to deny the guilt he suffered for his rejection of Duty. And then Montfallcon, who had consoled himself with this ambition through all the terror and the danger, who had maintained his own sanity by making her his Faith, had crowned her Queen, announced a new Golden Age, named her a modern, female, pacific Pericles, named her Justice, Mercy, Love, Pity and Hope, and banished Chaos, overnight, from Albion—brought Light to Albion, Trust to Albion, Truth and Dignity to Albion, across all the lands of her Empire—and Queen Gloriana the First, within five years of her rule, received all the credit for this transformation, while Montfallcon, made shy and reserved by habit and from character, still posed, when necessity demanded, as the Devil of the Past.