Gloriana

by Michael Moorcock

  “There was another involved, however—the one who actually performed the deed—whom you spoke for, as I hear it, my lord.”

  “There was another accused, aye. I spoke for him because in truth he was on my business and could not have become involved in the brawl, even if he was the kind of knave who would.”

  “So you are completely certain of your servant’s innocence?” Lord Shahryar looked hard at Lord Montfallcon. “This black-clad swordsman, this spy of yours—”

  “Quire? A spy? A courier for the Queen, no more.”

  “Quire’s the name.” Lord Shahryar nodded. “I’d forgotten it. This Quire is known for his duelling skills. He lured my nephew into a fight in order to rob him, do you think?”

  “I know Quire well. He would never waste his time in such a scheme. He is too proud.”

  “You give your word then, my lord, that your Captain Quire could not possibly have killed my nephew.”

  “I give my word, Lord Shahryar.” Lord Montfallcon stared unblinkingly into the Arabian’s eyes.

  “Can I, perhaps, interview him—-just to satisfy myself that he has not deceived you?” continued Lord Shahryar softly.

  “He is on another mission for me. He is not in London.”

  “Where?”

  “He helps in this business concerning the King of Poland. If you listen to rumours, my lord, you’ll have heard that one, eh?”

  “That Casimir was taken by brigands, for ransom? Yes. Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “A ransom note was received by the Polish merchants. The villains think they have nothing more than an ordinary aristocrat in their hands.”

  “Well, I trust he fares better with your justice and its keeping than did my nephew.” The Saracen rose in his chair. “Albion fast becomes a lawless land, it seems, with brigands and murderers allowed to range wherever they will, slaying nobles, capturing kings…”

  “There are no murderers in your own land, my lord?”

  “Some, of course.”

  “There were many more before Albion protected you and brought her Law to you.”

  “When King Hern sat on this nation’s throne, that’s true,” said Lord Shahryar pointedly. “If the land is to be properly ruled, then there must be a man—”

  “The Queen is the greatest sovereign Albion has ever known. The world envies us our monarch.”

  “As a mother she is sometimes just a little too fond of her children. Thus she cannot see either their faults or the faults of those who, pretending friendship, threaten them. With a good, stern husband at her side—”

  “She has the help of men such as myself.” Lord Montfall-con inspected a dish of dried figs, selected one and placed it on the plate before him. “Are we not experienced—and stern?”

  “But you are not her equal, my lord.”

  “Her equal, my lord, does not exist.”

  “I’d hoped to convince you of our sincerity, of my master’s admiration for your mistress, of the need to unify our two lands completely in the traditional manner of kings. The Grand Caliph is young, virile and handsome. If you have heard any rumours concerning him, I assure you that they are without foundation.”

  “The Queen allows no suitors, my lord. That way she favours no one. Your master could be old, diseased, a follower of the habits of Sodom, he would stand as excellent a chance as any other.”

  “So you will not speak for us? I’d hoped you would. Yet I thought the King of Poland came incognito for one reason only.”

  “If so, he was misled. He was not encouraged.”

  “No love letters from the Queen?”

  “None, sir.”

  “So that is why he’s captured?” Lord Shahryar grinned to himself.

  “You are too devious, my lord. I have ceased to follow you.”

  “I suspect that my nephew was slain because he tried to spy on Her Majesty. I suspect that King Casimir was taken because he hoped to woo the Queen in secret.”

  Lord Montfallcon began to laugh. “We are not savages, Lord Shahryar, in Albion! Our diplomacy is entirely of a subtler sort!”

  The Moorish lord pushed back his chair. He was glowering, but attempted to disguise or dismiss the expression. “I must apologise, my lord.”

  “My good lord, I accept your apology. There is much more amusement in your suggestion than there could possibly be insult!”

  Lord Montfallcon stood up and embraced the Saracen, who made an effort to smile. “I must assure you of our greatest friendship. We admire Arabia over all other nations of the world.”

  “As we admire Albion. When the Grand Caliph arrives tomorrow—”

  “Our partnership requires no traditional union to ensure it shall survive a thousand years.”

  “Our concern is for the Queen, as well as Albion.”

  “They are the same.”

  The mad woman above crept away crawling on hands and knees through the dust, to her next vantage point, where, through a small window which could scarcely be detected from the floor, she observed Master Ernest Wheldrake, naked and draped in gold chains, kneeling before his mistress, the amiable Lady Lyst, as she sipped from the goblet in her hand, the mock crown askew over one eye, swiping a leisurely whip as he grovelled ecstatically and moaned some name which the mad woman could not catch. The scene was altogether too familiar and she crawled on, seeking something fresher for her entertainment. Another ten minutes and she was able to take up her usual place at the mousehole looking into Lord Ingleborough’s bedroom, but the old lord was not in evidence. She caught sight, briefly, of his catamite, Patch, playing with some wooden soldiers, but he did not return. She wriggled on, to see how Sir Tancred and Lady Mary Perrott fared in their relationship. She was greatly jealous of this relationship, largely because it seemed so perfect. She envied it the more because she herself required a diet of Romance and intrigue rather than mere Sensation, which as often as not saddened her. She had never known the love Sir Tancred gave to Lady Mary, though she dreamed of possessing it one day.

  But it was to be a dull tour for the mad woman. Neither Sir Tancred nor Lady Mary was present. Lord Rhoone snored in his formal uniform, at his desk, black beard pushed against his lips by his green ruff, speckled with cream. Sir Amadis Cornfield was also behind his desk, bent over his accounts and receipts, his fingers dark with ink. Una, Countess of Scaith, was disrobing, removing the complicated dress she had had to wear while entertaining the Saracen ambassador on the Queen’s behalf. There would be nobody in Lord Montfallcon’s study, so the mad woman decided not to descend the chute which would take her there. She considered a visit to the seraglio, but this, too, depressed her. She spent a little while watching the mummers rehearsing the mime they were to perform for the Twelfth Night festivities tomorrow, but she did not have much interest in symbolic drama. She was returning to her crypt, passing on the other side of the dusty and web-festooned glass of the forgotten organery when she observed a shadow, making its way towards Lord Montfallcon’s secret entrance, and she paused, hidden in gloom, to see who visited the Chancellor.

  It was Tinkler. He was jaunty.

  The mad woman drew her tall body back in case Tinkler should glimpse it. Doubtless this valet was in Montfallcon’s employ and had come to receive his instructions. The King of Poland would be rescued by morning. She had overheard the scheme discussed. She chuckled to herself, shaking her head in admiration of her two heroes—Montfallcon, whom she dreamed of as a father, and Quire, whom she yearned for as a lover. The scheme appeared to be working exactly as they had planned.

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  In Which the Queen and Her Courtiers Celebrate the Twelfth and Final Night of the Yuletide Festival

  UNA OF SCAITH drew deeply on the stem of the tobacco pipe and stretched herself at ease over her tapestry couch. She lay upon woodland scenes (the Hunt, Nymphs and Fauns, Diana and her Maidens) before a magnificent fire, her farthingale askew, like a badly hung bell, her bodice loosened, gauze-wired collar on one side of
her pearl-stranded head, as she enjoyed the few minutes before the festivities and ceremonies which, as the Queen’s friend, she must attend. She stroked the orange back of a large cat which lay asleep against the couch, and she gave herself up to the tobacco while in the next room her maids prepared the rest of her ensemble.

  The Countess hated almost all public events, particularly those where she was expected to perform some function—tonight the Queen had asked her to announce the programme at the beginning of every section, which meant she would have to be present through the entire celebration of the Twelfth, from Bounty Giving to the Final Feast, which was certain to last into the early hours. Worse, the whole of the first half of the evening was to be spent on the ice at West Minster, where the river had frozen so thickly it had been possible to light bonfires and roast a pig (last night an enterprising Venetian innkeeper had done this to his considerable profit), and she would be chilled to her bones as, of course, would everyone else; and, like everyone else, would resort too much to the mulled claret which would be the main beverage and chief source of heat. And later, in elaborate costumes, would come the Masque in the Great Hall, and, with it, further discomfort, for she was bound to roast as Urd the Norn. Others would be equally suffering here, as well—there would be a Thor, an Odin, a Hela and the rest, and Gloriana would be Fryja, Queen of the Gods, in Master Wheldrake’s subject entitled The Eve of Ragnarok from the Northern mythologies, in honour of Greater Poland, which ruled both sides of the Baltic Sea. Una, whose own estates and homeland lay on the large island of Ynys Scaith, far to Albion’s north, and who was overfamiliar with these Gods, found them a thoroughly boring pantheon and hated the current fashion at Court for novelty, which put her own favourite Classical subjects out of vogue.

  Una’s pipe burned down and with a sigh she rose to adjust her clothes, to have her maids draw her together, covering her with a cloak of red velvet trimmed with green lake moiré fur, the large hood shading her face. The maids escorted her to the outer door of her apartments (really an entire house built, like many others, into the main structure of the palace and facing out upon a broad yard in whose centre was an ornamental lake containing a good-sized artificial island). The Queen’s coach-cabined sleigh waited for her and footmen, in exaggerated coquard bonnets, short brocaded tabards and slashed canions of yellow and blue, attended her as she climbed aboard and plunged into darkness and soft cushions. A shout, a crack, and the vehicle lurched on its springs, to make the little journey around the path to the rather more elaborate façade of the private gateway of the Queen’s gardens and a gathering of guards forming ranks at the command of Lord Rhoone, whose breath billowed with every staccato utterance, reminding Una how cold it was. She kept her hands in the muff beneath her cape and stared miserably through the far window at the darkening ornamental garden on which more snow was beginning to fall. It seemed that winter drew deeper and might never end, unless it was with the ending of the world—and she was reminded, with a shiver, of the Fimbul Winter, and wondered, with morbid relish, if perhaps it really was the Eve of Ragnarok and that they brought in Chaos and Old Night to engulf them, once and for all. She yawned. If the Lords of Entropy were to manifest themselves on Earth again as they had in the legendary past she felt she might welcome them as a relief, at least, to her boredom. Not, of course, that she believed in those terrible prehistoric fables, though sometimes she could not help wishing that they had really existed and that she had lived in them, for they must surely have been more colourful and stimulating than this present age, where dull Reason drove bright Romance away: granite scattering mercury.

  It was with these thoughts in mind that she welcomed the platinum-crowned Queen as she stepped up into the carriage. “By Arioch! You’re marvellous gaudy, tonight!” She smiled.

  Gloriana returned the smile, relieved by Una’s deliberate vulgarity (it was considered poor taste to exhort the names of the Old Gods). She was dressed in ermine, white silk, pearls and silver, for she must represent the Polar Monarch tonight, the Snow Queen; and all were expected to reflect this motif if they attended her Court. Una’s own dress beneath the cape was pale blue, her collarette a slightly deeper blue, her petticoat white and decorated with small blue bows, a modification of the previous spring’s Shepherdess.

  Meanwhile, around them, the guard mounted white horses, drew silvery capes over their traditional uniforms, placed white beaver caps with white owl feathers on their heads and readied themselves. Lord Rhoone rode up, his black beard almost astonishing in all this paleness, and bent to show an enquiring eye.

  Gloriana’s lace glove waved, Lord Rhoone cried out his loud “At the trot, gentlemen!” and sleigh and escort were moving, with a screech of runners and a muffled drumming of hooves, off to West Minster and the river.

  “Good news,” Gloriana told her companion. “You heard it? Poland’s rescued.”

  “He’s well?”

  “A trifle frostbitten, I gather, but not harmed. Montfallcon told me this afternoon. He was found this morning at a mill. The villains who’d taken him had quarrelled and run off, leaving him in his bonds, killing one of their number in their argument. Perhaps they’d intended to return—but Montfallcon’s men found Poland first and brought him to London. So all’s well and we’ll be plagued no longer by Count Korzeniowski’s anxieties for his master.”

  “When shall you receive this unlucky monarch?”

  “Tonight. In an hour or so. When I receive all the guests.”

  “But the Grand Caliph—this proposes a difficult diplomacy.”

  Gloriana pulled back the curtains for a view of the city’s lights. “Montfallcon has solved it. Both shall be presented together, with Poland announced first, since he’s Emperor.”

  Una bit an amused lip. “I thought they both hoped to pay more than formal respects to Your Majesty. Do they not come to Court to"—she was almost ashamed—"to court?”

  “Poland, apparently, swears he’ll marry none but me. And Arabia’s protests are only a degree less fulsome, which, considering his notoriety, must reveal as great a passion, eh?” Gloriana was sardonic. “Which would you prefer, Una?”

  “Poland for companionship, Arabia for pleasure,” said Una at once.

  “Arabia would admire your figure more, I think. It’s boyish enough for his taste.”

  “Then pray he’ll accept me as a substitute and make me Queen of All Arabia.” Una cocked her head. “The notion’s excellent. But I suspect his ardour’s politically kindled and Ynys Scaith’s not a large enough dowry.”

  Gloriana enjoyed this. “True! He wants Albion and all her Empire, nothing less. Perhaps he can have them, if he’ll give me what I cannot have.” The sleigh lurched a fraction as it rounded a corner, and Gloriana sang the chorus of a favourite song:

  “Oh, could I be what I am not,

  Then I could have what I have not,

  If I had, I would not…”

  And Una, hearing that merry lament, became silent for a moment, causing Gloriana to regret her lapse and lean to kiss her friend. “Master Gallimari promises us many splendid diversions this evening.”

  The Countess of Scaith recovered herself. “Aye—diversions! They’re what’s needed, eh? Are all the foreign embassies invited?”

  “Of course. And London’s officers. And every noble from the country who will come. And every courtier. Mithras!” She put a satirical hand to her mouth. “Will the ice hold ‘em, d’you think, Una? Shall we all dance to watery doom, tonight? And half the globe’s security float out, so many icebergs, on the dawn tide?”

  Una shook her head. “If I know my lord Montfallcon he’s seen that girders support the ice from bank to bank. Why, I suspect he’s had the ice replaced with obsidian and painted, he fears so for any possible harm which might befall you.”

  “He’s a tigress and I the cub, in that respect,” agreed Gloriana. “But look!” She pointed through the gauze. “The ice is real!”

  They were on a hill from which could be observe
d the curve of the great Thames, glinting with frost and snow, broad, shining black between the deeper black of the buildings which lay on both sides, like a massive forest hung with so many yellow lanterns. As they watched, more and more lights appeared and slowly the scene was transformed from black to glowing grey, and white, and hazy amber, and the river became pale glass in which moved small figures, seemingly reflections from an invisible source, and then the road had dropped so steeply it was no longer possible to see anything but the snowy hills and, ahead, the two battlemented towers of London’s North Gate, the Bull’s Gate, where the Queen’s carriage must be greeted and she must be welcomed and formalities exchanged between Lord Rhoone (on behalf of the Queen) and the glowing, half-tipsy Lord Mayor.

  All this over, the sleigh continued, bumping mightily now, for the snow was not so thick on the cobbles, between lines of waving, torch-bearing, cap-flourishing, cheering citizens to whom the Queen smiled, bowed, blessed with nodding hands, until the gates of the Little City of West Minster were approached and these passed and shut, so that for a few moments the sleigh slithered in comparative silence, along the broad avenue, past the great Colleges and Temples of Contemplation, the Ministries, the Barracks, to the wide embankment upon the quays where, in better weather, the ships of visiting monarchs would dock. On this embankment awnings were already arranged and Una could see carriages disappearing, having delivered their illustrious cargoes. Foor-boys and footmen sped from position to position, ostlers stood ready, a choir of trumpets was prepared, at the tall Graecian columns flanking the steps down to the quay. These steps were covered by awnings, also, and carpeted. Braziers burned, like warning fires, along the length of the embankment walls, to provide both light and heat, and above them waved ranks of banners in a glory of multi-coloured silk reflecting flames and surrounding snow. And over these flags stood a rich ebony sky, in which no stars glowed. It was like a larger canopy, covering the whole of the city: a canopy through which a few flakes of snow dropped, to heap themselves where they could, or die spluttering in the fires.