“War!” called the Tatar ambassador from some distance down the table, as if he thought mention of the word might be sufficient to create the situation he most desired. “War strengthens the strong nation. Albion should not be afraid of war!”
But I fear war and all that attends it…. Violence simplifies and distorts the Truth and brings the Brute to Eminence….
Gloriana had a clear image of the Brute in her brain. He was not unlike the father she had known as a little child. The threatening, weeping, malevolent creature of unchecked power, who could resolve too complicated issues quickly, by means of the axe and the rack, and justify any decision by a mixture of self-pity and suspicion that his, and therefore his country’s security was threatened. She recalled the madness and the sorrow….
“Certain nobles of Virginia are declared republicans.” It was the Lord of Kansas, splendid in sombre reds and dark yellows, with the wide, high collar that was fashionable in his own land. He smiled at his listeners, glad of the effect he had made, and took some wine.
“And yet I thought Virginia the loyalest nation in Albion!” Sir Amadis’s wife (the eldest of the Perrott sisters) turned rounded, pretty eyes on Lord Kansas.
“So we are, ma’am. The Queen is worshipped there almost as a goddess. No question.”
“And yet…?”
“They’re republicans, not anti-monarchists. Poland’s their example. A hundred years ago the twelfth Casimir (known as the Level-Headed) gave Parliament all power and became the representative rather than the ruler of the State.”
“And should war threaten Poland-serious war-” cried Oubacha Khan, “she’ll be finished-a thousand decisions will be made where only one should exist!” He turned enthusiastic eyes to the Lady Yashi Akuya, whose approval he could always depend upon. “While commoners babble-a King acts. Ancient Athens is your example there!”
There were not a few who agreed with him. Even Count Korzeniowski, a trifle deaf as well as a trifle short-sighted, nodded in assent.
“A republican is a traitor to the State,” said Lord Ingleborough, who was propped in his chair and wearing a fur robe over his ceremonial clothes. He had come late, a mild heart attack delaying him. He coughed. “That must be logical. Traitors should be-well…” He became confused, glanced at his Queen, looked away. “Exiled,” he said.
He means killed. Executed, chopped, strangled, sliced, torn apart…There must be no more blood. Too many died…too many…. I will not kill in Albion’s name….
“A traitor, Lord Ingleborough,” rumbled the fair-minded Rhoone from where he sat picking methodically at the bones of his bird, his black beard stained with its juices, “is one who would actively plot against the Queen’s person or the security of the State. If the holding of republican views, or Stoical views, or theological views, or, truly, any views at all, does not directly threaten us, then those who hold them cannot be called traitor. A well-run Court contains a composition of opinion and belief, for it must be representative of the Nation and, if possible, the world. A monarch is required to sit at the head of this Court, to be advised by sage, knowledgeable fellows, like yourselves, my Lords Councillors, and by any others whose wisdom is of usefulness, as to facts and understandings-then the monarch can reach a thoughtful decision.”
Oh, trusting, faithful Rhoone. How ordered and unmalleable is your perfect universe! How strongly your faith enchains me. That sense of Liberty we share-it makes slaves of us….
Lord Shahryar, the Caliph’s envoy, set aside a plate almost untouched, saying: “Agreed, Lord Rhoone. Would you also agree with me that a nation’s stability is maintained by means of a royal line, trained from birth in the responsibilities of government?” With bland calculation he raised a ghost, then hastened on; “I speak in abstract, Your Majesty.”
Gloriana nodded, only half-hearing him, understanding from his tone what the familiar sentiments must be. She took more wine.
Lord Gorius Ransley, the Queen’s High Steward, seated next to the Saracen, turned a head full of artificial curls so that he could look upon the speaker. He pushed lace back from both wrists and picked up a piece of fowl upon his knife. “In Poland, you’ll recall, the King’s elected.”
“From those directly in line to the throne,” Lord Shahryar pointed out. He refused to notice the glaring looks he received from more than the Queen’s Councillors. “But old King Hern,” he continued, “so successfully destroyed his rivals, that there are none in Albion who could ascend-”
“Sir!” Mild Sir Vivien Rich sucked at his plump cheeks. “This is not mannerly intercourse!”
“I am sure I say nothing that has not already been a sober subject of discussion amongst those holding Albion dear,” said Lord Shahryar in apparent humility. “I apologise if I have been naive.”
Doctor John Dee was not the only gentleman who felt acutely for the Queen, though the Queen herself appeared to overlook what had been said, with splendid insouciance. “You have been that, at least, sir.” He attempted to dispel the growing atmosphere. “Besides, all this is speculative. It suggests our Queen is mortal! And all know she is immortal!” He raised his glass. The Queen smiled kindly and Dee interpreted this as approval for his words. “The whole of Albion is certain that the plague will never descend upon them!”
“The plague?” Oubacha Khan became nervous. “There is plague in Albion?”
“There is no plague in Albion,” Sir Vivien explained, “because the Queen lives. Have you not heard the common folk’s greeting-’Pray the plague will never come upon us’? You’ve heard ’em, eh? There’s the legend that when Pericles died plague came to Athens.”
“But all fear plague. What, Sir Vivien, is the significance?”
Sir Amadis Cornfield grinned, lending his own energies to changing the dangerous mood of the table. “They do not fear the plague-that’s the point.” His wife reached under his leaning body to take a piece of cheese. “The greeting indirectly refers to the Queen’s health.”
“My health?” Gloriana spoke as one waking from sleep. “My health?”
“The plague, Your Majesty,” said Lord Montfallcon. “You know-the belief of the common people that if you should die a great plague would immediately fall upon Albion.”
Gloriana drew up her shoulders and was valiant. “Aha! Then let ’em all believe so and I’ll have no enemies in Albion. It could preserve my life forever.” She drained her glass. Some laughed with her.
But such false words from that sad mouth served to make the guests nearest her aware of her mood.
“Aye, ma’am,” bravely answered old Lord Ingleborough. “Pray that those republicans who would destroy Tradition and therefore the cornerstone of our State take heed of the prophecy ever so profoundly!” And thus he added his own limp to that lame gait, that heartless measure.
Again Sir Amadis rallied himself and stood upon his feet, raising his golden goblet. “I would give all a toast. To the next half-century of our Gloriana’s reign!”
Then all must stand and drink, save Gloriana.
Gods, would that I were old now, and my body suffering the simpler sensations of senility…. Why cannot I be reconciled? Because to be reconciled is to let the Spirit die. Yet this is flesh that speaks to me, drives me, torments me…Flesh, not Spirit. Oh, they are one, as Gloriana and Albion are one…. Am I doomed to my Quest, as Chivalry’s knights were doomed to seek Bran’s Cup and never find it, because they were not pure enough? Have I ruined myself through dissipation, have I lost the secret which I might have found in virgin innocence? Oh, Father, that knowledge you demanded and which I did not deny, because I feared you so, honoured you so, and, Father, loved you so…If you had only granted me and yourself a little more ignorance….
“Gloriana! Gloriana!”
They were drinking.
Then, conscientiously, up she stood, and she raised her own glass. “To all my honourable gentlemen and their ladies, to all the envoys of the foreign courts, I wish you health!”