Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “No.”

  “You admitted you had no evidence against me. The Queen will want some. She will be anxious to retain the friend she has in me. You can imagine that, my lord.”

  “Of course. But I must do my duty—all the more so now. I must warn the Queen.”

  “Then Patch will begin to die.”

  “Spare him.” The voice was a far-away wind. “I beg you. You’ll serve no purpose in harming Patch. I love him.”

  Captain Quire drew out the slender dagger in his gloved fist. “Already my little pudding prick has pricked poor Patch’s little pudding. Heated and inserted—so…why he’ll die the old, famous buggers’ death.”

  Lord Ingleborough groaned.

  “Promise silence, my lord—from Patch as well as yourself, of course—and your page shall be restored.”

  “No.”

  “You cling to a word reluctantly given—and slay, in terror and in pain, your darling.”

  Lord Ingleborough was weeping. The side of his mouth twisted.

  Quire straightened up. “Shall I go to fetch him, my lord?”

  “Just bring him back, Quire.” His speech slurred.

  “And…?”

  “Bring him back, I beg you.”

  “You’ll be silent?”

  “No.”

  “Then I must keep my word, too. Whatever befalls, I’ll bring you a memento. An eye? Or a tender, tiny testicle?”

  “Please spare him.”

  “No.”

  “I love him.”

  “That’s the point of my capturing him.”

  Ingleborough began to tremble. His mouth opened and shut rapidly. His eyes glared and his colour became quite ruddy, then turned blue.

  With some delight Captain Quire recognised the symptoms. “Easy, my lord. Your heart is failing.” He took the brandy from the table and held it a little way from the hand that reached for it. “Frequently it is the heart which fails first, when folk are afflicted as you. An uncle of mine…No, no—wine can only do harm. Shall you die and not save Patch? Patch must perish, without you to force silence. Tell me, my lord.”

  Ingleborough whimpered from the back of his throat. His mouth went wide, wide, as if a rope strangled him. His tongue came forth. The eyes popped.

  Quire called out with great concern in his voice:

  “Footmen! Quickly! Your master’s ill!”

  The young servants were slow in arriving, for they had been playing cards, several rooms distant.

  They found Quire trying to put brandy into their master’s mouth. It was Crozier who removed the jug from Quire’s hand, saying sadly: “It is too late, sir. He is dead. I think he died happily. You cheered him mightily, sir. But perhaps the stimulation was too much.”

  “I fear that you are right,” agreed Quire.

  THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

  In Which the Queen Receives Several Courtiers and Reaches a Decision

  HER COSTUME, worn in answer to the day’s great heat as well as to advertise her mood, was of Oriental influence—glowing silks and cotton veils, many strands of pearls and ornaments of baroque Saracen gold. Quire remained, in black, at her side, upon a couch placed next to her chair by the open window of her Withdrawing Room. She had retired here, disdaining the Audience Chamber: it reminded her too much of the petitioners still occupying the Presence Chambers to which, in hope, they had come after Accession Day. She was languorous; an Egyptian Empress. And her manner was satirical, as if she mocked her own appearance, yet she was gentle, smiling on everyone; a little sad, still, at the loss of Ingleborough. “Yet it was inevitable and I am glad he did not die alone,” she had said to her lover that morning, after he had soothed her to her current, and novel, tranquillity; then she had discovered and satisfied his desire. She lived to please him. She had never known one who accepted love so gracefully. His hard, handsome little body inspired her to creative achievement as a fine musical instrument might inspire a composer. A touch would reveal to her such fresh, sweet notes which could content her wonderfully; now she could with ease utterly forget her own flesh, for he made no effort to arouse her, and she was so grateful; it proved his understanding and his love.

  Her ladies, dressed to match her, sharing her mood, had become almost the giggling waiting women of some Indian harem, and found Quire very curious. He received a great deal of their attention. As John Dee, in robes of white and gold, joined them, the ladies fell back into an ante-chamber. The doctor was pale and discomforted, but his nod to Quire was not merely friendly and he bowed very low before the Queen with much more of a courtier’s flourish than had once been usual in him. “Your Majesty. I have obeyed my Lord Montfallcon, as you desired me to do. And there were physicians attending, also, for he is, as you know, suspicious of me. The corpse was opened and its contents sniffed. Save for brandy it was clean. No food had been consumed at all in the past twenty-four hours. Not a hint of poison, in colour, smell or condition.”

  She moved a fan as if to wave away the image he conjured. “Thank you, Doctor Dee.”

  “In my opinion, madam, Lord Montfallcon has become plot-hungry He craves traitors the way a dog craves rats; he lives only to hunt them.”

  “My Lord Montfallcon protects the Realm. He performs his duty, Doctor Dee, as he sees it.” The Queen made only a languid defence.

  John Dee clawed his snowy beard and snorted. “The wheels of Montfallcon’s mind spin like those of a clock without a pendulum.”

  “Lord Ingleborough was his oldest friend. He grieves. And, grieving, he seeks a villain to personify the fate which befalls us all.” The Queen became more sympathetic. “His attention therefore comes upon the most suspicious, in his eyes—the stranger to the Court. The newcomer. Captain Quire.”

  “He wished to find Ingleborough poisoned, and now he is dismayed.” Dee looked fondly at Quire. “He is jealous of you, Captain, and would believe you guilty of every crime in the land.”

  Quire shrugged and moved his mouth in a wistful smile. “He thinks he knows me. He told me so.”

  “He could not,” said Dee gravely, “know you, sir, for it is only a few months since you came to our sphere, in Master Tolcharde’s chariot.”

  Quire stretched himself along the couch. “So you insist, Doctor Dee.” For Dee, in this matter, he feigned amnesia. Yet it suited him, as it suited the Queen, that he should possess no past in Albion.

  The rose-carved doors of the Withdrawing Room were opened and a footman stood there. “Your Majesty. Sir Thomasin Ffynne awaits your pleasure.”

  “He is expected.” Gloriana closed her fan and extended her hand as Tom Ffynne hobbled in to kiss it. A grunt at Dee, a smile at Quire, and he lowered himself, in answer to the Queen’s sign, to a white silk chair. “Good morrow, Your Majesty. Gentlemen, Perion Montfallcon’s finished his gruesome work, then?”

  “I have just come from there.” Doctor Dee shared a look. “Aye.”

  “And no poison?”

  “None.”

  Tom Ffynne was satisfied. “His little page ran off, you know. Patch? Ran off, doubtless, when he heard the news, or saw his master dead. He can’t be found.”

  “He’ll reappear in time, I’m sure,” said Captain Quire.

  “It would be grief. Patch was very fond of Lisuarte. But the poor fellow was in too much pain. That body was best dead. Though he lives in here.” Ffynne tapped his forehead. “The finest of all of us. The noblest of Hern’s old men. What’s to become of his estates, there being no direct heir?”

  “A nephew in the Dale Country,” Gloriana told him, “who has for many years acted as his steward.”

  “A true nephew or…?”

  “There are papers sufficient to prove blood ties.” Queen Gloriana smiled. “In such matters, so long as there are no contesters, birth can be adjusted according to certain diplomatic requirements. His nephew is the new lord.”

  “And where’s Perion now?” Tom Ffynne asked Doctor Dee.

  Meanwhile Gloriana and Captain Quire exch
anged glances, exclusive and knowing, not hearing what he said.

  “Returned, I suppose, to his offices.” Dee shifted his gold cap upon his white head. “I am not in Montfallcon’s confidence, Sir Thomasin.”

  “Aye. He’s a difficult old fellow now. I remember when he was younger, and his family alive, he was somewhat softer in his emotions. But gradually, in the cause of Albion, his spirit has grown as inflexible as poor Lisuarte’s limbs—and, I’d suspect, gives him as much pain. You must not think too badly of him, Doctor Dee.”

  “I do not, Sir Thomasin. It is Lord Montfallcon thinks ill of me. He sees me as a sorcerer who puts a glamour on the Queen.”

  “There, there,” Sir Tom smiled. “You are not the adventurer you once were, in his eyes. There are greater threats now. Captain Quire, for instance.” The shrewd eyes looked across at Quire.

  Quire laughed carelessly. “What does he say of me, Sir Thomasin?”

  “Oh, many things. You are the cause of all strife in Albion.”

  “So I have been learning. Is he exact?”

  Sir Thomasin grinned. He knew that Quire must be aware of Montfallcon’s confidence in him. He knew that Quire dared him to reveal what even Montfallcon dared not reveal to the Queen. He shook his head and was admiring. “He says he marks you for a murderer, a spy, an abductor, a rapist, a thief. The list is almost endless.”

  The Queen laughed. “How can he have so much intelligence of you, Quire? Are you a lover who has rejected him? Now, now—we must dismiss this topic. My Lord Montfallcon is the loyalest noble in the Realm and serves us well. I’ll not have him mocked.”

  “I do not think we mock him, madam,” said Sir Thomasin. “He is my friend. We discuss him because we fear for his sanity. He should be sent to one of his houses—somewhere in the country—to rest.”

  “He would deem himself exiled.”

  “I know. You must concede to him as much as is tolerable to you, Your Majesty.” Tom Ffynne was serious. “I would not have him follow Lisuarte at once.”

  “There’s little danger of that, surely?” Captain Quire spoke diffidently as one not well informed of matters on which others discourse.

  “He weakens himself with these wild-goose chases.” Ffynne scratched at his weather-stained forehead. “And summer’s ever the season for strange fancies. The sun draws forth hidden humours as it draws forth sweat.”

  “You think the autumn will find him cooler?” the Queen asked.

  “If he’s handled kindly.”

  “I have conceded to him a great deal in my life, Sir Tom.”

  “Indeed, madam. In turn, he’s devoted his entire soul to your well-being.”

  “For the sake of the Realm.”

  “And from affection, Your Majesty.”

  “Yet he calls any other who befriends me ’traitor.’ The Countess of Scaith. Doctor Dee. Captain Quire. He is jealous of them all. Lady Mary Perrott was not held by him in any high esteem. Should I fear for the lives of every person I love, Sir Tom?”

  Ffynne was horrified. “You do not think, madam, that he would take such guilt upon himself. To play executioner…”

  “He seems content to place the guilt on me,” murmured Gloriana. “Guilt inherited is one thing. I have borne it through my childhood, through my reign. I am resentful of new guilts, sir. Your friend, our Chancellor, accuses me by accusing my friends. Is this the loyalty you would have me show to him?”

  “He has many burdens, madam, he cannot share. He lightens your load in a number of ways.”

  “What? Tell me how.”

  Tom Ffynne became confused. “I do not know, Your Majesty. I refer to the business of statecraft in general.”

  “He has statecraft at the root of his nature. He enjoys his schemes.”

  The Admiral could not deny this. One glance at Quire, nearly beseeching him to speak, and Quire was rising, to walk around the couch and peer through the window into the floral extravagance, the thousand eyes of the peacocks’ rustling displays, the green blandness of lawns on which heavy iguanas lazed. Quire pretended the stranger’s embarrassment. Tom Ffynne knew a flash of resentment, then was reconciled: Why should Quire involve himself? He was already much victimised by Montfallcon, who, in Ffynne’s opinion, was angry at the loss of a servant now threatening to become his effective master.

  Doctor Dee was conscious that his own remark might be taken for hypocrisy, but he made it, for practicality’s sake. “A sedative. If Lord Montfallcon were to sleep…I have a philtre I can prepare.”

  “Lord Montfallcon accept a draught from your hands, my innocent sage?” Queen Gloriana laughed and showed him a mild eye. “Oh, I think not!”

  “Lord Montfallcon…” began Quire before the door opened and the footman spoke.

  “Lord Montfallcon, Your Majesty.”

  Gloriana was reluctant. She looked imploringly to Tom Ffynne, who was helpless. She was conquered by her old loyalty, her good heart, by convention. “Admit him.”

  Lord Montfallcon, in his dignified black, with his gold chain, his iron head of a paler cast than usual, strode into the room and stood before them, like Death himself come calling. He stared suspiciously from face to face, then bowed before the Queen, still keeping his distance.

  “Ingleborough’s demise, it seems, was natural,” he said.

  “Aye, my lord.” The Queen inclined her head towards John Dee. “So we have heard.”

  “In these days it is wise to be sure.” Tom Ffynne rallied a little weakly to his friend.

  “In these days, very true.” Montfallcon stared hard at Quire, to the Queen’s resentment. She rose up.

  “My lord?” she said impatiently. “My lord?”

  “I intrude upon some private conference.” Montfallcon made no attempt to advance into the room. He saw no allies, save Ffynne, and Ffynne was apparently an uncertain one. “But my business is urgent, Your Majesty.”

  “Then do, my good lord, tell us what it is.” She looked at Quire as she spoke. The Captain looked back.

  “It concerns your public duties, Your Majesty. I must make arrangements. Since the Countess of Scaith no longer acts as your Secretary, I must suppose I fill the role. Unless your—unless this Captain Quire—”

  “Captain Quire has no official function, my lord.”

  “Then? Your Majesty?”

  “What are the duties, in specific, Lord Montfallcon?”

  “There are many who would speak with you. Ambassadors and so forth. In these days, when war is threatened, it would be wise to insist, in your person, upon our power.”

  “Let them know some mystery, my lord. It could be argued it makes us more powerful, if we are not seen.”

  “There is also the Progress, Your Majesty. Through the Realm your most loyal nobles await your coming. They must be informed when they may expect you. They prepare entertainments, as is usual, from south to north, west to east, in all the great houses of the Realm. With the Perrotts presently mollified a degree or two, it is of importance that you spend time with these families, who will support you, should the Perrotts begin again to speak of secret enterprises and look for allies amongst fellow nobles.”

  The Queen had hardly been listening. Her voice was casual when she replied, “We have decided against a Progress this year, my lord. We feel that the Summer Tilt was sufficient to advertise our friends of our favour and health and our enemies of our strength and support.”

  “It was a gain, madam, certainly. But it must be ratified. The Progress will be crucial, this year of all years. The Court can go about the land, reinforcing the buttresses of the Realm’s structure.”

  “They need no reinforcing, surely?” Captain Quire seemed to regret his outburst. “I only meant to say that Albion has never seemed stronger.”

  Montfallcon glared at him. “A structure’s as strong as its proprietor’s vigilance. Lice and vermin and rot can occupy its walls, destroying its beams and its foundations, so that it seems by its outer signs the best-made house in all the wo
rld—until one day it falls, all of a sudden.”

  “I have heard of merchants who fear so much for the safety of their buildings that they will saw through perfectly healthy beams in a search for worms, dig up the best-laid foundations in a quest for suspected pests, and thus bring their houses down upon their own heads.” Captain Quire fell silent at the Queen’s warning glance. “But I know nothing of such matters, my lord. Forgive me for speaking on them.”

  “You seem thoroughly conversant, ‘Sir Palmerin,’ “Lord Montfallcon let weary contempt infect his tone, “in all matters concerning the control of vermin. Have you perhaps suffered the attentions of some terrier in your own time? Or been a terrier yourself?”

  “You become obscure, my lord,” answered Quire mildly, but he was able to show to the Queen that his feelings had been hurt, and she became engaged.

  “My Lord Montfallcon. You overreach!”

  “For what, madam?” Bleakly.

  “Show courtesy to our guest! What harm has he done to you that you should display such disaffection?”

  “Harm?” Montfallcon frowned. He opened his mouth. He said lamely: “He—I know his like.”

  “What like is that, my lord?” Quire seemed to tremble with self-control as he spoke.

  “Enough!” The Queen was fierce. “You are distraught, my lord, for reasons that we all do know. If you would rest, and return this afternoon, we should be pleased to speak more on the matter. Explain our reasons fully, if you so desire.”

  “Excuse yourself from Duty, madam? Is that what you mean? You must make your Progress!”

  “Perion!” cried Tom Ffynne, springing up and limping forward. “Wait a few hours—”

  “You must make your Progress, madam!” He used his quiet, furious voice. “The Realm depends upon it.”

  “The Realm is secure.”

  “The Realm has never been more threatened.”

  “How so?”

  “Believe me that it is so, madam.”

  “Show me proof, Lord Montfallcon.”

  “The proof will manifest itself soon enough.”

  “Very well, my lord, then we shall wait to see it.”