Michael Moorcock - Gloriana

The Queen smiled. “There’s a light, merry atmosphere in the chamber this morning. Am I to take it that the holiday continues?”

Montfallcon climbed to portentous feet. “In most matters, Your Majesty. The world is quiet. As the grave, today. But Sir Thomasin Ffynne brings news…”

“I know. I intend to see him when this conference is done.”

“Then Your Majesty’s aware of what he has to say?” A significant grunt.

“Not yet, Lord Montfallcon.”

“Come, come, my Lord Chancellor!” Doctor Dee was his old rival. “You hint so ominously one might suspect the world ends, at last! Are you dissatisfied because there is no threat current upon Albion? Would you like an omen? Shall I consult the Talmud? Shall I conjure you a disaster? Release a few devils from bottles, find a dark future in the stars, frighten us all with talk of the possible plagues one might catch if this warning isn’t heeded or that one ignored?” Being virtually without timbre, his voice always made some think he spoke, as now, sardonically; by others he was almost always taken literally. Thus he surrounded himself with more ambiguity than he could ever understand and was often, in turn, greatly baffled by his fellows, simply because, unknowingly, unreasonably (he could not help his voice), he had baffled them.

Perion Montfallcon was by no means baffled, for he was used to Dee’s raillery. Neither loved the other even a little. Lord Montfallcon made a display of patience, giving his attention wholly to the Queen. “Your Majesty, it is a small matter, but it could be the nut from which would grow an exceedingly tangled root.”

Anxious to avoid a full-fledged drama between these two seasoned players, Queen Gloriana raised both hands. “Then shall we have Tom Ffynne before us now, to explain?”

“Well…” Lord Montfallcon shrugged. “It can do no harm. He is without, in the First Presence Chamber.”

“Then have him fetched, my lord.”

Lord Montfallcon turned from his chair and moved slowly for the little door behind him which led to the anteroom between the Privy Chamber and his own offices. He opened the door, gave a word to a footman; a pause, then in stumped Ffynne. Sir Tom had trimmed his beard a little for the occasion and there were five purple ostrich feathers in his hat, a short, pleated bottle-green cape on his left shoulder, a white, starched ruff, emerald-green doublet, belted at his corseted middle, wide gallyslop hose tied below the knee with ribbons, white stockings and gold-buckled black shoes. He had donned his best. His little twinkling eyes widened a trifle as he saw the Queen and he doffed his hat, bowing low, clip-clumping forward on his carved foot which had been so designed that the stump of his ankle could be pinned perfectly into it. “Your Majesty.”

“Good day to you, Sir Thomasin. We expected you earlier. Were there storms?”

“Many, Your Majesty. Every league of the way. We were badly damaged. All rigging gone but a couple of stays, most yards down by the time we sighted the coast of Iberia. We limped through the Narrow Sea and put into The Havre to make minor repairs before coming on. That was four days ago.”

“Your news is of France, then?”

“No, Your Majesty. It was got from France. While we were in the harbour, further delayed by the incompetents sent us as joiners and sailmakers, there came to port a large, old-fashioned galleon, of some forty oars. She flew the Polish flag and I became curious, for she was evidently a ceremonial craft, with a great deal of gilt and gold braid on ropes and rails. She wallowed in and dropped anchor quite close to us. Being interested, I sent my compliments to the master, who consequently invited me aboard. He was a civil old gentleman. A noble, too. And glad to meet me, for he was full of Queen Gloriana and Albion and eager for any happy intelligence concerning both. He praised our land and its Queen and flattered me, when he learned my name, with remembrances of my own adventurings.”

“So that’s your news, eh, Sir Thomasin,” said Doctor Dee, entirely to spite Lord Montfallcon. “We are loved by Poland.”

“Doctor Dee!” The Queen flashed an eye and the Doctor subsided.

“Certainly,” continued Ffynne, “for this ship is even now awaiting Poland’s King, who comes overland, by coach, to board her-and from The Havre he intends to sail for London.”

“For what purpose?” Sir Amadis Cornfield drew reluctant eyes from the windows. “The King himself? Without a fleet? With no retinue?”

“He comes as a suitor,” said Tom Ffynne quietly. “Nay, almost a bridegroom. He seems, according to my noble Pole, convinced that Your Majesty will accept him in marriage.”

“Ah.” Gloriana’s sideways look to Lord Montfallcon was embarrassed.

“Madam?” The Lord Chancellor lifted his head.

“An oversight, my lord. I had meant to inform you. I sent letters to the King of Poland.”

“Consenting to marriage?”

“Of course not. It was while you were suffering the fever, in November last. There came a message from Poland. Formal enough. Suggesting a visit-a private visit from the King-perhaps a secret visit, now I think on it-but a visit incognito, at any rate. I agreed. Two swiftly penned letters, one assuring him of our affection for his nation, the other suggesting an early date in the New Year. No reply received. Perhaps it went astray. He is reckoned a kindly man and I was curious to meet him.”

“And from this he deduces-doubtless because he interprets Your Majesty’s gesture in terms of some custom in his own country-that you are ready to hear his proposals of marriage.” Lord Montfallcon cleared his throat and pressed a palm flat against his chest. “And if you refuse him, madam?”

“He must be informed that he has misinterpreted our letters.”

“And will suspect a plot. Poland is a good friend. Her Empire’s a powerful one, stretching from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, with forty vassal states. Between us we hold off Tatary-”

“We are familiar with the political geography of Europe, Lord Montfallcon.” Doctor Dee drew a long nail down the side of his jaw. “You suggest that if Poland believes himself a rejected suitor-a jilted lover, even-he will revenge himself with war upon us?”

“Not war,” Lord Montfallcon spoke as if he answered his own voice, “probably not war, but strained relations we cannot afford. Tatary’s ever ready. And Arabia’s ambitious, too.”

“Then perhaps I should marry Poland.” Queen Gloriana was for a moment a wild young girl. “Eh? Would that save us, my lord?”

“The Grand Caliph of Arabia comes soon upon a State Visit,” Lord Montfallcon mused. “There is every hint he, too, intends a proposal. Then, next month, there’s the Theocrat of Iberia-but he knows his cause to be hopeless, since there could not possibly be issue. Yet Arabia, Arabia…” He became decisive: “There’s nothing else for it! They must appear together!”

“But Poland’s imminent,” pointed out Tom Ffynne. “Any day he arrives in The Havre. One more day or so, and he’s docking in London!”

“When was he due to arrive?” Montfallcon paced back and forth alongside the table while his fellow Councillors tried to follow both his reasoning and his movement.

“Forty-eight hours, I think, behind me. And I left on the morning tide, yesterday.”

“So we have perhaps three days.”

“At most.”

“I am deeply sorry, Lord Montfallcon, for forgetting to inform you…” Gloriana’s voice was small.

Suddenly Lord Montfallcon straightened, ceased his musing, shrugged. “No matter, madam. It will be an embarrassment, nothing more. We must pray Poland’s delayed a little longer and coincides with Arabia.”