Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “Do you invent hypothesis, Perion?” Tom Ffynne would know.

  “Not a bit. Quire was my agent. He turned against me.”

  “You outlawed him?”

  “He outlawed himself. He has ambitions on the throne, I’d swear. He’s gone mad for power. I once thought he might.”

  “He’d be our King, then? Other commoners have raised themselves thus, in Albion.”

  “The line’s remained pure for the past fifteen hundred years,” whispered Lord Ingleborough. “Direct from Oberon and Titania of legend. And they, in turn, were descended from fabled Brutus, who overthrew Gogmagog. She is of the blood of Elficleos.”

  “Are we not all, by this time?” Tom Ffynne smiled.

  “It isn’t the blood I seek to protect,” Montfallcon told them impatiently, “it’s the flesh, the soul, the very life of our Gloriana. If Quire were nought but a tavern ruffler and could protect Albion by marrying the Queen I’d make him a noble, prove him highborn, if necessary, or change the Law. But Quire’s birth is not the question. I fear Quire’s intentions. Quire killed the Saracen. He kidnapped Poland’s King. Oh, and he has done much, much more. He began the events which have led us to our present pass.”

  “And you have not told the Queen?” Ingleborough frowned. “Why not?” He turned his aching neck to watch his page, pacing the flagstones in the distance. The sound of Patch’s footfalls was like slow-dripping water.

  “Quire knows why. It’s his gamble.”

  “Because to reveal his character you must reveal your own secrets, is that it?” Tom Ffynne pursed his lips.

  Montfallcon admitted it.

  Lord Ingleborough sighed. It was as if a far-off storm was heard amongst the buttresses of the roof. “Shall timocracy threaten us so early? Shall we fall through all the stages in a single reign—next to oligarchy, then to democracy, and finally return to tyranny? You must, indeed, reveal your secrets.”

  “And do more harm?” Montfallcon was contemptuous of the entire argument. “No, Lisuarte, you shall talk to her. Tell her you have heard that this Quire is a thief, killer, spy. Tell her, if you like, that he is probably the murderer of all her friends—including the Countess of Scaith.”

  “I’d lie.” Ingleborough swayed in his chair. “What do you mean?”

  “You would not lie!” Montfallcon stood up, clambering towards the madman’s throne, his robes swaying. “You would repeat what you had heard.”

  “But you killed her. Did you not tell me? You?”

  “I did not.”

  “I am confused.” Lisuarte Ingleborough moistened his mouth. “You wish me to play false witness against a man of whom I had no knowledge until two days past? This is mindless plotting, Perion. I said I’d not be involved in your schemes!”

  “It is critical.” Dust danced as Montfallcon turned at the top of the dais and slumped into the asymmetrical chair. “She’ll believe you. She mistrusts me, at present. Quire has helped her to that conclusion. She’ll think me merely jealous.”

  “Give her the facts, then,” said Ffynne with common sense.

  “The facts will corrupt her.” He sulked.

  “You say that Quire does that already—and threatens to bring her to the final corruption.” Sir Thomasin scratched his ear. “What do you think you’ll lose, Perion?”

  “Albion. This nobility we have made.”

  “You do not respect her.” Lord Ingleborough looked hard at his friend. “You think the knowledge will break her.”

  “Such knowledge as that would make her find fault with everything. She would sneer at virtue, lose belief in sincerity. And become Hern reborn, to rule with cynic tyranny.” Montfallcon’s fist struck the arm of the throne. “Would you bring all this back? Have you the courage to risk it, my lord? Would that result be to your conscience’s liking, my lord? Would you congratulate yourself if you were the one to release Hern’s spirit howling upon the world again?”

  “She resists that spirit as firmly as any of us,” said Tom Ffynne. “I’m with Lisuarte in this. You should respect her. Give her the knowledge.”

  “And be misbelieved? Thus bring her suspicion without proof? How can I prove all I say without revealing every underhand thing I have done in her name? I beg you tell her, Lisuarte. You know she’ll listen.”

  The pain-haunted eyes were lowered. “If you think so, Perion. But you swear you had nought to do with the murders in the palace?”

  “I swear it.”

  “And you promise me you’ll contemplate no killing? That Quire will be justly dealt with—exiled, say?”

  Montfallcon knew there could be no more corpses. Another hint of murder and the Court would return to a mood worse than that existing before the summer Tilt. “I swear that, also. Quire shall not die at my hand, nor by my instigation. But banished he must be.”

  “Then I shall speak to her tomorrow.” Ingleborough raised a twisted hand to his face. “I am easier, in the morning.”

  “You’ll serve Albion—and the Queen,” Montfallcon promised.

  “I hope so.” He winced. His heart. “Patch! Fetch the men, lad, for the chair.”

  The little page had gone, perhaps already anticipating his master’s wishes.

  The three men waited together in silence, for there was nothing more to say. It seemed each one was sceptical of the others, at that moment, and must test his thoughts alone.

  Eventually, Tom Ffynne grew impatient, and went to seek page and lackeys for himself. He discovered the lackeys and ordered them to work, but Patch was not to be found, and Ingleborough, almost fainting in his agony, scarcely noticed his little catamite’s absence as he was returned to his lodgings.

  THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

  In Which Lord Ingleborough Receives a Visitation, a Warning and a Release

  LORD INGLEBOROUGH lay with his hand clutched about the arm of his chair, with his head upon the rest behind him, square before the open door of his lodgings, which opened onto a small, homely courtyard that, in turn, opened onto the great square beyond. In Ingleborough’s courtyard grew marigolds and roses, while a small fountain played from the centre of a pool. It was a warm evening and he was watching insects form patterns with the water’s spray. His footmen waited on him, with brandy wine to hand, while from time to time he would ask after the missing Patch, affectionately believing the lad to have strayed off, indulging, as he sometimes did, in games with his fellows. The gate of the courtyard opened with a creak, to make him focus his eyes, in the hope of seeing Patch. But the approaching figure was somewhat taller (though by no means a tall man) and wore faded black. It was Captain Quire, the Queen’s new favourite, the man whom tomorrow Ingleborough had promised to accuse. Ingleborough thought it possible that Montfallcon, in his fury, had apprised Quire of this intent and that Quire now came to placate him, or to parley. The old man straightened in his chair.

  Captain Quire had already doffed his headgear, to display the mass of thick black hair framing his face. His sombrero was beneath his cloak, in hidden right hand, while his hidden left was upon the hidden pommel of the sword which the Queen, in her infatuation—naming him her Champion—had allowed him to retain.

  “My Lord High Admiral.” The man’s voice was level and even gentle in its tones. He bowed civilly. “You enjoy these evenings, my lord?”

  “The warmth loosens my bones a little, Captain Quire.” Ingleborough, always the most sentimental of the three survivors, found himself unable to adopt any kind of haughtiness to the stranger, particularly since he had also taken a large amount of brandy and so further mellowed a mellow nature. “They are seizing up, you know, day by day. Petrifying, my physician says.” He twisted his lips—a smile. “Soon I shall be all stone, and the agony, at least, shall be gone. I’ll stand over there,” a nod into the courtyard, “and save a mason the trouble of carving my memorial.”

  Captain Quire allowed amusement to show.

  “Some wine, Captain?” Ingleborough made a painful movement.

 
; “Thank you, sir, but I will not.”

  “You do not have the look of a drinker. Are you one of those who believes all wine an evil?”

  “Merely a time-waster, my lord. A clouder. Nations have been made great or brought to disaster by the stuff. I acknowledge its power. And power is not necessarily evil.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve a taste for power.”

  “You’ve heard of me, my lord. I’m flattered. From whom?”

  “Lord Montfallcon, who is my old friend. He tells me you were in his employ.”

  “He was my patron for a while, aye.” Quire leaned against the doorframe so that he was half in shadow, half in light, sideways to the Lord High Admiral.

  “I formed the impression from him that you were a rough sort of fellow.” Lord Ingleborough was studying him. “And something of a villain.”

  “I do have that reputation in certain quarters, my lord. As has Lord Montfallcon. And Sir Thomasin Ffynne. All have had to be harsh, on occasions, for expediency’s sake.”

  “And I?”

  Quire seemed almost surprised. “You, my lord? You have led an exemplary life, all things considered. Oddly, you are not thought secretly wicked.”

  “Oho, Captain. You came to flatter me, after all!”

  “No, my lord. Besides, Lord Montfallcon and Sir Thomasin are in the main admired for their cunning. I was not praising you.”

  “But I am more pious, eh?”

  “Innocent of blood, at least.” Quire continued to speak softly and casually, as if he passed a little time with a sick friend whom he regularly visited. “And it must have been a rare soul could remain innocent through King Hern’s reign.”

  “I have never been called innocent before. Why, I’m a known sodomist. All these footmen of mine—these young men—have been my lovers.” Ingleborough shifted in his chair. He turned to look at his grinning servants. He was piqued. “Innocent!” Yet Quire had managed to please him. “Ho, ho!” He winced as the pain ran through him. “Hypocrates, Hypocrates! I do so need thy aid! More wine, Crozier.” The footman filled a pewter cup with brandy from a jug and put the cup to Ingleborough’s lips. “I thank you.”

  He looked sharply up at Quire. “I’ve played my share in building the new Albion, you know. I’ve gone against my chosen beliefs once or twice, for the Queen’s sake—to protect the Realm. And I’ll protect the Realm against any enemy.”

  “As would we all, I think. I have served the Queen’s interests consistently.”

  “Have you, truly?”

  Captain Quire put a finger to a lifted lip. “Well, sir, shall we say that I have taken actions which others have told me were in the Queen’s interest?”

  “You have no opinion? Is that what you are saying? Or are you sceptical?”

  “I have no opinion.”

  “Then you are amoral.”

  “I think, my lord, that that is probably what I am.” Quire smiled delightedly as if Ingleborough had all of a sudden enlightened him. “Amoral. As any artist must be, in many respects—save, of course, in the defence of his art.”

  “You are an artist, sir?” Ingleborough gestured rapidly for more wine to be poured into him. “In paint? In stone? Or are you a playwright? A poet? A writer of prose?”

  “Closer to the last, I would say.”

  “You are modest. You must tell me more of your art,” Ingleborough had taken a strong liking to Quire, though his opinion of the man would not alter his pledge to Montfallcon.

  “I think not, my lord.”

  “You must. You have my attention, Captain Quire. Why hide a talent? Tell me what you do. Music? Mime? Or are you, in your private rooms, a dancer?”

  Quire laughed. “No, sir. But I’ll give you an example of my art if it’s to you alone.”

  “Excellent. I’ll dismiss the servants.” He moved his head slightly and was interpreted. The footmen left their master and Quire together.

  “Lord Montfallcon has told you that I aided him in his policies,” said Quire, as if he had overheard that morning’s conversation. “He has mentioned a Saracen, the King of Poland. I laboured mightily in his cause, my lord. I travelled the whole globe. I have been to the famous land of Panama, where the Queen’s ex-Secretary now rules as King. I put him there, on Albion’s behalf. And since then savage, bloody, unthinking customs have given way to civilised justice. I have always despised savages, my lord, as I despise all who are ignorant and put precedent before interpretation. Such habits give birth to hypocrisy.”

  “Not knowingly, Captain Quire.”

  “Of course not, sir. But enlightenment is better.”

  “Much better, Captain.” Lord Ingleborough humoured his visitor. “God-worship is a great destroyer of Man’s dignity, for instance.”

  “Quite so. Well, I’ll not list all my achievements, but they have spanned the world.”

  “But you mentioned your art. A demonstration.”

  “That is my art.”

  “Espionage?”

  “If you like. Part of it. Politics in general.”

  “And you do have a moral purpose. Albeit a general one—of enlightenment.”

  Quire listened keenly. He considered Lord Ingleborough’s statement. “Possibly I have. Aye. A very general one.”

  “Continue.”

  Quire’s stance grew more relaxed. “My art encompasses many talents. I work directly upon the stuff of the world, whereas other artists seek only to influence it, or represent it.”

  “A difficult art. There must be dangers in it, not found by other artists.”

  “Of course. My life and liberty are constantly at risk.” Quire became serious. “Constantly, my lord. When, tomorrow morning, you visit the Queen, on Lord Montfallcon’s behalf, you will be putting my plans and possibly my liberty in danger.”

  Lord Ingleborough smiled, almost forgetting his pain. “So Montfallcon has told you. And you are here to plead.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then to charm me into giving up my word.”

  “I meant, my lord, that Lord Montfallcon has told me nothing directly and that I am not here to plead. I overheard your conversation. I saw you gathering and followed. I am, as Lord Montfallcon guessed, familiar with the palace’s secret parts.”

  “You were eavesdropping, eh? Well, I’ve done the same, in the old days. Did you kill the Countess of Scaith?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  “You believe Lord Montfallcon slew her?” Quire’s tone was neutral.

  “Well, he was never her friend.”

  “The rumour says she’s fled the land.”

  “There’s no evidence. More evidence to say she’s dead. But we are off the original subject, Captain Quire.” Lord Ingleborough’s strength was leaving him again. The twilight grew steadily deeper. “Well, I had best tell you what I intend to do. It is my duty to honour my word to Montfallcon and inform the Queen of her danger from you. You have confessed to me that you are a killer, a spy, and worse. I admire your honesty as I admire all honesty—honest cruelty, honest greed, honest crime. I prefer it, as many of us, to the hypocritical kind. And I’ll tell that to the Queen.”

  “She knows what I am already,” said Quire in a small, furious voice.

  “You have told her everything?”

  “She recognises me for the artist that I am. She is deceived because she would rather be deceived by me than by you, or Lord Montfallcon or the Grand Caliph of Arabia.”

  “I understand you. But I must list your crimes—as Montfallcon sees them—in the morning. I do not think you mean personal harm to the Queen. Not now. But I think you could, in time, do great harm to the Realm, and corrupt the Queen. You are much cleverer, you see, than Lord Montfallcon gave me to understand.”

  Captain Quire bowed acknowledgement. “If you had been my patron, this position would not have come about between us.”

  “What are your plans, Captain Quire? What do you seek to achieve here?”

  “To
amplify and define my senses,” said Captain Quire. “I answer the same to all such questions.”

  “But you must have plans. Are you loyal to Albion?”

  “Anyone can claim that. What is loyalty? A belief that what one does for another is the best thing one can do? Well, I do not interpret. I have been told that what I do is best for Albion.”

  “So you do serve a master. Who?”

  “I have a patron, my lord.”

  Ingleborough gasped as pain came hard into him again. Quire stepped to the brandy and poured, putting the cup to the writhing lips.

  “Thank you, Captain Quire. Who is this patron?”

  “It is not my habit to disclose such names.”

  “You spoke freely of Montfallcon.”

  “Never when in his service, my lord.”

  “This patron’s task for you?”

  “The same, he tells me, as Lord Montfallcon’s. To save Albion.”

  “But he is at odds with Montfallcon?”

  “In some respects.”

  “Perrott? Is Perrott alive and employing you?”

  Quire shook his head. It was growing cool. He stirred. “So you will speak with the Queen?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Captain Quire folded back his cloak and displayed a scabbarded dagger.

  Lord Ingleborough looked at him through the gloom and shrugged. “Murder me? With so many witnesses?”

  “Of course not. I am not sufficiently well-established at Court.”

  “Yet your gesture was calculated.”

  “I promised an example of my art.”

  “So you did.”

  Quire looked into the darkness of the courtyard. “Well, I have caught your catamite.”

  “You have Patch!” Lord Ingleborough raised both swollen hands to his face. “Ah!”

  “I secured him as soon as I knew your intention. I have been playing with him this afternoon.” The dagger was touched. “He’s mine. Yours again, if you swear silence regarding me.”

  “No.” Ingleborough was shaking, his voice all but inaudible. “Oh, I will not.”

  “He’ll be safe. If you tell he’ll be killed.”