Michael Moorcock - Gloriana

He awaited the condemnation.

“Aye.”

“You must replace Montfallcon truly now. You must be my adviser. My Chancellor. I cannot make another decision. I will not.”

Quire opened his mouth, then he shut it again. He bit his lower lip. He was entirely surprised. He said: “I am honoured, madam.” He had dreamed of this but never expected it, least of all now. At once the whole of Albion was his.

He helped her to her feet. She said, leaning on him: “Can you stop the war, Quire? Is there any way?”

He hesitated.

“Quire?”

He controlled himself and said: “There may be one way. I have already spoken of it. It would involve a great sacrifice on both our parts.”

“I’ll make the sacrifice,” she said. “I must make it.”

“Later,” he said.

He was mystified by this success. He felt defeated. In the morning Lord Shahryar could be informed. The Grand Caliph would come sailing up the Thames, to rescue Gloriana and Albion; to crush the Perrotts. And his only emotion was one of disappointment, even fear, and again he could not explain the source of this unusual emotion. As he got her back to the bedchamber he said in a low, puzzled voice: “Why should you trust me now? I have been proven a liar and a traitor.”

And she replied, very coldly: “I trust you for Montfallcon’s work. Who else is there?”

Which caused Captain Quire to shiver and go, at length, to find another place to sleep.

The next morning she held formal Court for the second time. More ambassadors were interviewed, more intelligence gathered, while Quire stood, in his faded black, beside the throne, in conference whenever they were alone. Slowly, but with little relish for what he did, he manipulated her towards a decision, though he did not mention outright the solution he had already hinted at. Doctor Dee was called for, but sent word that he was ill and could not come just then. And neither Oubacha Khan nor Sir Orlando Hawes could be found.

“Well,” she said, when everyone had been seen; when Master Palfreyman had counselled fierce and absolute war against all enemies at once; when nobles had begged her to send word to the Perrotts that their father’s killers had been found; when all voices and all opinions had been heard; “what must I do, Chancellor Quire?”

He hesitated, though not for drama’s sake. He found that he had difficulty in speaking for other, more mysterious, reasons. At length: “There is only one decision which will save the world and Albion from war.” His voice was thick. He licked his long lips.

“Quickly,” she said.

He looked into her eyes. She stared above his head. “I’ll not be tormented. I can tell your advice is already formed, Chancellor.”

“You must marry Hassan al-Gaifar.”

“It will be popular with the nobles.”

“And the commons.”

Her huge face grew momentarily sad. Another, smaller face looked out of it, for a second, at Quire, and it was pleading with him. He turned away. Then she was stern. “Lord Shahryar must be sent for.”

“I shall summon him myself,” said Quire. He began to feel relief, at least for the moment, that it was all done. He was free of obligation to Shahryar. He had done all that he had promised he would do. And he felt only weariness, inexplicable misery. Very heavily he began to walk towards the doors of the Audience Chamber.

Even as he signed for the footmen to open them he knew there was some kind of disturbance on the other side of the doors. He paused, listening. Then he smiled. Gradually he became possessed of a peculiar sense of elation. He recognised at least one of the voices. They were demanding to be admitted.

“Why do you hesitate?” she called across the empty room.

He walked backwards in the direction of the throne.

She cried to him: “Quire! What is it?”

He began to laugh. “You’re free of me, I think.” Calmly he stared into her astonished eyes. Why was he glad of this? “And there’s no excuse for war. I should have killed the old man. But my reasoning’s too devious. I saved him up. I am again betrayed by my own brain’s convolutions!”

“No riddles!” she commanded. “Who is out there?”

The doors were pushed open from the other side, slowly. They revealed a group: Oubacha Khan, in Tatar war-armour, handing his sheathed scimitar to one of the Queen’s Gentlemen Pensioners; Sir Orlando Hawes, dusty and grim, in breastplate and helm; Alys Finch, holding a small black-and-white cat, grinning her triumph at Quire; the Countess of Scaith, in male attire, filthy and haggard; and Sir Thomas Perrott, ragged, unkempt, dirty, red-eyed, in a sacking smock.

“Una!”

They all looked at Quire, none at the Queen, though she cried her friend’s name.

Quire smiled back at the girl who had rescued these prisoners, both of whom she had originally betrayed to him. “Your lust for treachery is even better developed than I thought, young Alys. So does the pupil seek to excel the teacher.”

“One hunts the largest game, Captain.” Alys Finch laughed cheerfully into his face. Neither showed malice.

Behind him the Queen was rising. “Una!”

Quire was almost merry. “Albion is saved! Albion is saved! And Arabia’s vile plans are all confused!” He continued to dance backwards, seeking escape.

They moved into the Audience Chamber, to threaten him.

“Una!”

The Countess of Scaith hesitated, then curtseyed to the Queen. “Your Majesty. Alys Finch is here to testify against her master.”

“You’ll believe the word of this minx, will you?” cried Quire satirically, throwing back his cloak to free his sword. He still wore the red sash, his concession to passion. “What proof have either of you?” The sword flew out. “Have you ever seen me?”

He knew that they had not. He had been careful to remain hooded. But he knew, just the same, that he was doomed.

“Sir Thomas!” The Queen was jubilant, recognising the elder Perrott at last. She turned to Sir Orlando. “A messenger, immediately, to Kent. And another to Portsmouth.”

“It is done, Your Majesty,” said Hawes. He moved towards Quire, who was at the door which would lead him to his offices, Montfallcon’s rooms. “We’re saved from war. But now we must save ourselves from Quire. Once and for all.”

“Hurrah!” yelled Quire, drawing his sombrero from his belt, shaking out the feathers and donning the hat. “Virtue triumphs and poor Quire is denounced, disgraced, dismissed.”

The kiss he blew to baffled Gloriana seemed sincere. He went behind the drapery. The door slammed. Sir Orlando Hawes and Oubacha Khan ran to it, calling for more assistance. Quire had locked it.

When they entered the apartments at last, there was nothing to be seen but a small fire burning in a grate, some dust moving in the autumn light, as if Quire, like a malicious ghost, had been exorcised entirely.

I feel no guilt,” said Gloriana bleakly, “and think that I should not. But then feeling-strong feeling-has gone from me. The seraglio was becoming a museum of failed hopes. My children…” She sighed. “I was never fully conscious, Una.”

The Countess of Scaith, in voluminous travelling costume, took her friend’s hand. They were alone in the Withdrawing Room. Gloriana wore dark colours to match the shades of late autumn. Light rain fell outside.

Gloriana responded to her friend. “But you are recovered, eh, Una?”

“In truth,” she said, “I share something of your dilemma, for I know that I should have felt more terror. But there was something comforting about my incarceration. It removed all responsibility from me. And Sir Thomas Perrott, once he understood that I was a friend, proved a kindly companion. We talked a great deal. We were buried so deeply and escape was so impossible that we were able to choose a variety of topics. It was, in many respects, a holiday. For one of a fatalistic disposition, at any rate.”