Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “I think the same. But as for your barbarian…”

  “I’ve set the Thane to finding him. Lord Rhoone’s men, too, join in the search, for Rhoone is with me in his feeling for Tancred’s innocence.”

  “I do not think you will find him,” said Una, scarcely conscious that she spoke.

  “Eh?”

  “Yet I hope that you do, Doctor Dee. Has anyone else seen him, this one you suspect?”

  “Not in the palace. The Thane, of course, and Master Tolcharde.”

  “Such a barbarian would be noted.”

  “Aye—save that we were all in disguise today. We’ll find witnesses at least.”

  “If he exists.”

  “You doubt…?”

  “I doubt nothing save that he’s the murderer. I believe that he returned, as you first thought, to his own sphere. My instinct leads me to suspect an enemy within the Court.”

  “Better to blame an interloper, surely?” Doctor Dee added a particular emphasis to his words.

  “So as to calm the Court?”

  “Aye.”

  The Countess of Scaith put a hand upon her hip and nodded slowly.

  “And we must save Sir Tancred,” added the alchemist. “He is surely innocent.”

  “Save him by a lie? For expediency?”

  “’Tis not a lie, but a speculation.”

  Una’s smile was bleak. “A fine difference, Doctor Dee.”

  “It ensures that the innocent shall not suffer.”

  “’Tis bad logic and leads to worse.”

  Doctor Dee shrugged. “I’m no politician. You could be right. Besides, the barbarian might yet be found.”

  “Let us hope he is.”

  “You’ll tell the Queen? You’ll give her hope?”

  “If it pleases you, Doctor Dee.”

  “You think me a fool, eh?”

  “You have my respect, Doctor Dee. More than you shall ever realise, I think.”

  “What?” Doctor Dee rubbed at his bearded chin. “You’re a mystery to me, my lady. It has surprised me you show such suspicion of my enquiries, when you have a brain so quick and flexible.”

  “Possibly I merely argue with your methods of research, good sage.”

  “Then we must debate. I am always willing—”

  “This is not the time.”

  “Of course. But you will reassure the Queen. I would not have her grieve more than she should. I know that Lady Mary was close to her.”

  “I understand your motives, sir.”

  “Then my thanks to you, Countess of Scaith.”

  Doctor Dee entered the passage, looking right and left, as if uncertain of his direction. Then he set off back towards his own apartments, through Hern’s Throne Room, in the East Wing. It was true, as the Countess of Scaith had guessed, that he only half-believed the Thane’s story of a mysterious barbarian, but he fully believed Sir Tancred innocent and his mission had been to make certain that the Queen knew of this. Now he was reassured and could return to his experiments, wondering if the ancient art of necromancy might be employed to raise Lady Mary from the dead, if only for a moment, and learn her murderer’s name from her own lips. However, he did not maintain much faith in such practices. He believed that there were better, alchemical means of producing the effects claimed by the old sorcerers of Hern’s time, whom he, Dee, had helped discredit.

  Yet, he thought, if the dead could be raised, by whatever means, what knowledge might be gained! All the lost knowledge of the ancients, of those distant pre-Classical ages, the previous Gold and Silver Ages of the world’s youth. The secrets of the stars, of transmutation, of navigation…

  Thus, by hopeful reverie, did Doctor Dee distract his thoughts from gloom, until he came into his chambers, wading through paper, to hesitate at his bedroom.

  He had made up his mind to enter when he noticed, with mild surprise, that he had a visitor.

  The figure sat at Doctor Dee’s desk, inspecting a half-constructed star-glass, trying to fit into it the lens which Doctor Dee had not yet finished grinding to his satisfaction.

  Dee frowned. “Sir?”

  “Sir,” said the visitor, a flat echo. A doppelganger?

  “Do I know you?” Dee enquired. “Are you one of Murdoch’s acquaintances?” He felt a thrill as if, at last, he confronted a true demon face to face.

  “I know you, sir, and I know your deepest desires.”

  “Indeed!” Dee was amused.

  “Indeed.” Another echo.

  The figure rose, remaining in shadow as it moved the length of the wall, coming closer to where Dee stood with a palm upon the handle of his bedchamber.

  “Shall we enter, Doctor Dee?”

  “Why so?” Dee had too often confronted both the peculiarities of Nature and the various manifestations of the Supernatural to feel any real perturbation, but his bedchamber contained the one secret he refused to share.

  “Because,” said the figure slowly, “I would offer you a bargain. I know what you have in there. I know the problems you have experienced. I can solve them.”

  Dee hesitated. He heard his heart begin to thump. “You know, you say?”

  “And I can give you what you have sought for so long.”

  “The price?”

  A shrug.

  Doctor Dee laughed as he turned the handle and flung open the door, to let his guest precede him.

  “You’ve come to purchase my soul, have you?” His eyes flamed.

  “No, sir. I’ve come to sell you one—or, lat least, grant you the means of obtaining one.”

  The door closed on the pair. The papers stirred for a moment, in the draught, and then settled. A black rat, which had hidden itself on Doctor Dee’s entering, re-emerged and ran across the room to a bench and began to climb. On the bench was a cage. In the cage sat another rat, a white female, staring with wary fascination at her wild visitor, her whiskers twitching, her heart pulsing.

  The black rat reached the bars, sniffing at her as she squatted in the corner of her cage. The black rat squeaked an order. Slowly, compulsively, the white rat began to move towards him until at last they were nose to nose.

  From within the bedroom there came a sudden shout and the black rat looked up, ready to run.

  “It is not possible!”

  “Oh, it is, sir, I assure you.”

  “In which case, my friend, I would give you anything at all!”

  The black rat returned to its nuzzling.

  THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  In Which Lord and Lady Rhoone Discuss the Appearance of Mysterious Disturbances in the Order of the Court

  THERE SHOULD,” said Lord Rhoone, taking the last of the beef from the salver presented by the servant, “have been a trial, my dear.”

  They broke fast in their own over-furnished apartments, warmed by the early June sunshine. Lady Rhoone, on the other side of the table, put her large red chin upon her hand and laid down a knife, picked up a piece of bread at which she stared rather dully. “Of Tancred?”

  “He is innocent, I’ll swear.”

  “He seems happy, in Bran’s Tower. He believes himself a knight of Chivalry, imprisoned by an ogre. He awaits the coming of some warrior-maid, some Clorinda, to rescue him. Innocent or guilty, my dear heart, he is mad and therefore must be held somewhere. The Queen visits him. Others do.” She bit at the bread.

  “But he should have been proved innocent and a greater effort made to discover the real murderer.” Lord Rhoone dabbed at his black beard with a napkin and sniffed. “This way, there still remains suspicion that the murderer’s abroad and might kill again. No trial—no ceremony—no resolution. That’s what set Sir Thomas to stalking.”

  “Lord Montfallcon has made all efforts, Bramandil. None but Tancred was seen in Lady Mary’s apartments. For a month Montfallcon searched and investigated. He still pursues his inquisitions, as best he can.”

  “Aye—and reassures no one. Look how strangely Doctor Dee acts—can there be something on h
is conscience? Or Sir Orlando Hawes, become stern and ferocious. Or Sir Amadis Cornfield, who has conceived a hatred of Lord Gorius Ransley—or Master Florestan Walis, who makes excuse upon excuse to be free of duties and who was, until recently, the most conscientious of the Queen’s servants. All since Lady Mary’s death. While Sir Thomas Perrott comes to Court with all his sons, swearing to cut Tancred to pieces and then, after an interview, also claiming Tancred innocent and haunting the palace night and day in his quest for the true murderer.” Lord Rhoone lowered his voice. “Then vanishing. Vanishing, my dear, in the night. And none can find him. Who saw him last? It must be the murderer himself. And killed the father as he killed the daughter, but this time hiding the corpse. And his sons maintain the search, then leave, in a pack, claiming the Saracens as culprits and refusing to name their informant.”

  “Why Arabia?” She chewed.

  “In revenge for the murder of one Lord Ibram—you recall?”

  “Lady Mary was Ibram’s slayer, then?” Lady Rhoone shook. “Oh, my dear heart!”

  “The story goes that Ibram loved her and insulted her:

  that she was avenged, perhaps by that faceless spy of Montfallcon’s, and that, in turn, she was slain.”

  “But where’s the spy?”

  “Dead. Killed by the Saracens.”

  “You are sure?”

  “It’s common knowledge.”

  “So the Perrott brothers now seek the Moor who did the deed.”

  “Rumoured to be Lord Shahryar, the ambassador, who has temporarily returned to his homeland.”

  “The Perrotts pursue him to Arabia?”

  “They would not say. But they are one of the greatest of ship-owning families. They’ve many noble kin. They’ve a large enough fleet to threaten war and seem serious.”

  “They would not act against the Queen’s interest, surely?” Lady Rhoone discovered that she was still hungry and signed for a servant to return with a tray of fries. She watched as they were piled upon her pewter. “The Perrotts are famous for their loyalty.”

  “There’s a hint they believe themselves betrayed by the Queen.”

  “And the Queen?”

  “She believes she has betrayed them, for the Lady Mary was under her protection. She believes she’s betrayed a trust. So when the Perrotts put it to her that she protected the murderer, from political considerations, she swore that she did not, yet in such a tone they believed she lied. For her voice shook, d’you see, my love?”

  “They took this for an admission?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ah, the poor Queen. As if her grief were not already overbearing!” Lady Rhoone sadly chewed a fry. “And she with no artifice at all to disguise her true feelings, save her dignity, which is natural. Did not Montfallcon speak to the Perrotts?”

  “They mistrust him. They always have, for in Hern’s time Montfallcon betrayed their uncle to his death.”

  “So they have precedents.”

  “Exactly. Old scores, which their father buried on Gloriana’s accession. He was loyal and he was ambitious for his girls. One married well, to Sir Amadis Cornfield, and another fairly well, to young Sir Lepsius Lee (who had been a lover of the Queen’s), and all three girls were much in favour at Court. Through this favour Sir Thomas Perrott expanded his estates and his fleets, giving good service to Albion in return, as all would swear. But now the sons call their sisters little better than traitors and, I heard, at least five of their ships are already refitted as war-vessels. Montfallcon, of course, is at his wits’ end.”

  “Great Mithras, Bramandil, my lord! You are suggesting civil war? In Albion? Under the Queen?”

  “Not civil war, for none would join the Perrotts. Not yet, anyhow. But a bloody uprising to disturb the Realm and shatter the faith of the common folk. Unless the Perrotts are allowed to attack Arabia—meaning war with one of our own protectorates, and the most powerful. So civil war of sorts abroad, indeed, if the Perrotts are not stopped.”

  “And Sir Tom Ffynne?”

  “The Queen has paid what is virtually a ransom for his restoration. She has agreed to make amends for the shipping he destroyed in the seafight. With his return, Her Majesty will receive advice, at least. And he’ll not be affected by the madness affecting the rest of the Court since Lady Mary’s murder. He’ll have intelligence from Arabia, also.”

  “You think, my love, that Arabia is responsible for the murder?”

  “I think it unlikely. Lord Shahryar struck me always as a practical man.”

  “Then someone works to turn one against the other?” Lady Rhoone frowned, surprised at her own insight. “It can only be that.”

  “In whose interest is such disruption?” Lord Rhoone moved his bulk and stood, feet spread, stretching in his green and red uniform, his brass breastplate seeming to swell as his chest swelled. “The Court depends on stability. This is not Hern’s time, when advantage could be gained by murder and treachery. Now advantage is gained by service, charity and loyalty.”

  “Some foreign plot?”

  “We are all too ready,” said Lord Rhoone wisely, “to blame some outside source for our dismay. I am ever reluctant to shift the blame onto strangers before I am certain that the malaise is not indigenous.”

  His wife embraced him, her great bosom engulfing his armour. “You are too just, dear heart. Too cautious. Too kindly for your position.”

  “I protect the Queen.”

  “And sturdily.”

  “To protect her, I must not give rein to the night-horses of the imagination, which would bear my thoughts off, willy-nilly, away from my simple duty. Therefore I refuse speculation. As does Lord Montfallcon, though his task is harder. If the Court suffers a summer madness worse than some it has suffered in the past, then it is my task to counter it with common sense.”

  She kissed him. “But you would not object if I were to visit our estates, taking the children with me?”

  “My own thoughts. Go soon.”

  Lord Rhoone lifted his massive head to stare pensively at a plate of apples.

  THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

  In Which Questions of Diplomacy Are Debated and Lord Montfallcon’s Mind Grows Darker Still

  IGUANAS AND PEACOCKS gave a singular, tropical quality to the Queen’s summer lawns as they stalked and prowled the grass, the flower beds and the terraces of her gardens. The strange, leathery smell of the huge iridescent reptiles, brought as a present by Sir Tom Ffynne and kept through most of the year sleeping near the furnaces heating the palace, reached Gloriana’s nostrils through her open windows as she studied the plans presented to her by Master Marcilius Gallimari, Master of her Revels.

  “It will as usual be a bright and elaborate affair, Your Majesty,” he told her eagerly, “with all the trappings of ancestral Chivalry. In the great courtyard, to remind the people of their fortune. With yourself as Queen Urganda, to attend the Tilt.”

  She sighed. “The plans seem most cleverly conceived, Master Gallimari.” She leaned back upon her couch and moved a lassitudinous fan near her face. She was clad all in light-coloured linens, muslins, lace and silk, with a little lace cap upon her glowing hair. “I assure you of my approval.”

  “I shall ask Master Wheldrake for some verses—since the topic is so close to his heart.”

  “Verses? Of course. And you should commission a few lines, at least, from Master Wallis, or he will be offended.”

  “Perhaps a prelude and a song?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Master Tolcharde will create the illusions. And the parts—of knights, gods, goddesses, monsters and so forth?”

  “Choose whom you will.”

  “Some already have chosen their own parts. Your permission is required, Your Majesty.” His dark face sought a smile.

  “They have it.”

  Master Gallimari was somewhat frustrated; disheartened by the Queen’s evident uninterest in his elaborate entertainment, planned for Accession Day. He had, however, become use
d to her apparent indifference since the Spring Festivities. He was sure, sometimes, that she blamed him for Lady Mary’s death. Hesitating, in the hope of detecting denial or confirmation of his fears, he added: “And the music, Your Majesty?”

  “Commission some.”

  “Composer and consort must be paid.”

  “We shall pay them.”

  “And dancers.”

  “Master Priest can supply dancers, as usual.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  Master Gallimari looked down upon the heavy, tragic face of Albion’s Queen. “Your Majesty is not displeased?”

  “With the Summer Entertainment? Your inventions, as ever, Master Gallimari, are excellent. There should be jolly sport.”

  He was certain he detected irony.

  “It seems, Your Majesty, that you have lost interest in my work. If there is something lacking…”

  She smiled and became gracious. “Master Gallimari, your only fault is that you interpret disapproval when all you find in me is sadness.” She was brave. “I look to you, Master Gallimari, to improve my humour. Make your best efforts. They shall be appreciated by us.”

  Relieved, the handsome Neapolitan swept, bent and backwards, from her presence.

  The Queen saw Una, Countess of Scaith, in summer silks and swinging farthingale, crossing the lawn in the company of a listing Lady Lyst who widened blue eyes at the heavy reptiles and clutched, with comical gesture, at the Countess’s arm. “Dragons, in faith!”

  “They guard the Queen,” Una was saying lightly, “as the dragons of old guarded Queen Gwynifer.”

  “She needs ’em.” Lady Lyst straightened. “We’re all in danger. Women especially. There’s more femicide planned. Wheldrake thinks it, too.” She exchanged a glance with a cold-eyed lizard.

  “You’ve heard something?”

  “Sensed, that’s all.”

  “Unlike you, Lady Lyst, to trust to a feeling only.”

  “These are not days for trusting to logic. The greater one’s intelligence, the greater the confusion. And my poor brain is ever confused, at the best of times.” Lady Lyst smiled self-mockingly, then curtseyed when she saw the Queen emerge into the garden. “Your Majesty.”