Michael Moorcock - Gloriana

“A little slower, my lord. I have not been well.”

“Lord Montfallcon is anxious to see you. Perhaps he’d question you further concerning the Saracen. You’re lucky Lord Montfallcon spoke for you, saying you were on his business in Notting village that night and that the man mistaken for you was a scoundrel similarly dressed.” Casting his eye over patched motley, Lord Rhoone relished the telling of what he strongly suspected was a compendium of lies. “Still, I’ve no fondness for Saracens. Or murderers,” he added piously, “whatever their reasons. The Queen has made her views plain.”

“I agree entirely, my lord.” Quire panted and clutched at his side. “A stitch, I fear.”

Lord Rhoone’s thick lips flapped like the lips of an overheated stallion. “We’ll soon be there, man.” They reached a large hall, the Third Presence Chamber, wide enough to be a good-sized market square, in which courtiers conversed in clusters, taking a passing interest in the hurrying pair. Lord Rhoone greeted some, here and there. “Sir Amadis. Good morrow, Master Wheldrake. Lady Lyst.”

Captain Quire, on the other hand, was careful not to recognise his few acquaintances, though with his hooded head he drew more attention than Lord Rhoone. They took the central passage, turning aside before they reached the doors of the Throne Room, stepping before a door whose handle only could be seen, for the rest was hidden by a tapestry. Lord Rhoone rapped. They were admitted.

Lord Montfallcon stood beside his fire, his back to them, his warrior’s shoulders hunched. “Rhoone?”

“My Lord Chancellor. He’s here.”

“I thank you.”

Lord Rhoone flicked at Quire’s shoulders once more, then, smiling to himself, he departed, bearing the Toledo sword away. Quire looked after it once, furiously, then composed himself. He did not want to waste time, however, on feigning humility. He scanned the room. It held nothing unfamiliar. He scratched his ear. He removed his sombrero from beneath his borrowed cloak. He tugged his hood free to disclose his dark little self.

“Captain Quire, sir. I did your bidding and here I am.”

Lord Montfallcon nodded, pulling a coat of silk and beaver about his chest as he began to turn. “You are lucky, Quire, aren’t you?”

“As ever, my lord.”

“Not even on the night of New Year’s Eve. You were clumsy, overreaching, and you were seen.”

“I was not clumsy, my lord.” Quire threatened to flare.

Lord Montfallcon sighed and revealed a frozen, angry eye. “Tinkler brought me your note. The intelligence concerning Arabia was useful. But Lord Ibram was well-connected. Indeed, we had assured his uncle he would be safe in London. If it were not for a reputation for wildness in him, which went a way to explaining what happened, we should be mightily embarrassed, Quire. Perhaps I should have let you suffer the full consequences. An unlucky Quire is no use to me.”

Quire warmed his hands. He did not posture, but spoke with reasonable pride. “Slay me? Aye, in the cause of Knowledge, perhaps-for an I die, then the foot I keep on Pandora’s lid shall lift and out shall pour all those secrets best left bottled. Or perhaps you’d disagree, sir, with such cautious philosophy, and play Doctor Fauste with the Queen’s darker mysteries?”

Montfallcon listened, not from interest in the subject, but because he believed he gained insight to Quire’s soul.

Quire continued. “However, sir, I know this cannot be your thinking. You’ve already seen the point of preserving Captain Quire’s life. At all costs, sir, eh? At any cost, what? For I am guardian Cerberus turned to keep the devils and the damned from ‘scaping Hades. I am the protector of your security, Lord Montfallcon. You do not honour me sufficiently.”

Thinking Quire had gone too far, and thus betrayed himself, Lord Montfallcon became more relaxed. “Ah, it’s a misunderstood dog, is it?”

“A badly treated dog, my lord. Sir Christopher’s constables handled me ill and I was given the worst cell in the Marshalsea. I expected better, for agreeing to your schemes. Also, my identity was not completely concealed.”

“My reward to you, Quire, is your freedom. I saved it.”

“I risked it, sir-and did not flee. I’m the best man you have in London-in all Albion-in the Empire. For I am an artist, as you know. And I am not vulnerable.”

“That makes you a doubtful servant in some ways, Captain Quire. You are too intelligent for this work. You spring from excellent yeoman stock, you were educated at John’s in Cambridge, where you might have become a much admired theologian, but you refused all respectable opportunities.”

“Creative inclinations of a stronger sort sent me to exploring my senses, my lord, and the geography of the world. I have no talent, save for what’s called evil, and in your service, sir, I am enabled to pursue my studies further. I’ve considered many callings, but all seem worthless. I like not the examples of the various professions I have encountered and I believe my own occupation, at your service, my lord, and therefore the Queen’s, to be as good as, if not better than, any. At least, you’ll agree, I’m able to judge the exact degree of evil I perform-if evil it be. These others, these scholars, lawyers, courtiers, merchants, soldiers, statesmen, who are pillars of our Realm, they throw stones over their shoulders, anxious in case they should see what or whom they strike. But I look in the eyes of those I strike, my lord. I tell them what I am doing, as I tell myself.”

Lord Montfallcon had become calmer. He was not offended by Quire’s speech, as Quire had known he would not be. Quire was given to such speeches, defining his work as a poet might define his calling. If Quire had sought to apologise, had been placatory, Montfallcon would have become suspicious of him. He employed Quire for his impertinent creativity, his courage as well as his cunning. The old Chancellor seated himself behind his desk. Quire remained by the fire. “Well, you have inconvenienced me badly, Quire. At a time when I needed no more complications. Still, it’s done.”

“Aye, my lord. King’s to emigrate for a murder he did, after all, help at, even if he didn’t initiate the deed.”

“Few believe that. Sir Christopher does not. I doubt if the Saracens will for long, when they receive their own reports of the affair. You’d best be wary, Quire. They can be a vengeful race.”

“I’m always wary, my lord. What’s my new commission?”

“You must go to the coast. You’re to play wrecker to a galleon due on tomorrow’s early tide. If possible I want no one killed, but she must come onto the sands at the mouth of the river at Rye. Already I’ve sent a skiff to intercept the pilot and place one of our own people on board. He’ll redirect the ship to Rye-claiming the frozen Thames as excuse.”

“A fair one. No ship could move into or out of London at present, without threat to her timbers. But what’s my function? This pilot can perform the task without my aid.”

“Not easily. You’ll give the plan a twist and make sure it all goes smoothly. Then the sequel’s entirely yours. I leave its details to your imagination.”

“I’m glad you continue to trust me, my lord.”

“In such matters, Quire, you’re always the most inventive. The King of Poland’s ship, the Mikolaj Kopernik, must run aground, the King must be captured as if by common wreckers, as a noble held to ransom. Here’s a rough likeness I had drawn for you. If he speaks our tongue, he must be led to believe that he’s been mistaken for nothing more than a foreign dignitary. Use your knowledge of the High Tongue only if you must. He must then be held for a time-I’ll tell you when and by what method he’ll be released.”