The Whispering Swarm (50 page)

I was too late, of course. Claude Duval was already buying the shants. Duval's close friend, the ‘giant' Nick Nevison, a little shorter than myself, leaned on the bar and told some protracted tale of the open road. He was an untidy, good-humoured man with long, wild hair and an air of jovial patience. Frequently involved with Duval on various exploits riding the High Toby, his shorter partner, Jemmy Hind, was not with him. The majority of his listeners were Cavalier tobymen, sworn to rob the nouveaux riches so the vieux riches could be restored to the throne! A tale of sword and snobbery.

While I shared few of their ideals, I think I liked Duval and the rest because they remained contemptuous of people who gave up inconvenient ideals. In the solid reality of that bar I found it impossible to think as mature men and women were supposed to think. Gallant rogues representing justice against authority appealed to our common frustrations. Idealism and its goals had to be nurtured and celebrated. Justice was generally established in increments by one person at a time, one tear at a time, until drop by drop, cup by cup, bucket by bucket, river by river we had enough to make a lake and then an ocean. That was the optimism at the core of my existential understanding of the universe. I understood now that Molly had come to consider my ideals futile. She had turned into Helena. She probably thought I was na
ï
ve. I was never sure what brought on that cynicism. Perhaps she wanted to emulate her mother, having no ties to any individual? The fact was she wasn't there and I couldn't bring myself to ask after her.

Sitting at the head of a long trestle table, Prince Rupert told his audience of his adventures in what they called High India and what I suspected was actually East Africa. The prince talked of the fabled Prester Johannes who in two mighty battles defeated the Five Great Kings of Congo. He spoke of adventures in the
Sa'Ha'Ra,
the desert land which possessed so much hidden history and wealth, of the tribes and creatures who lived there. These included the great Sun Eagle, Ta'a, which was captured by the Paladins of Chad and kept in a cage made of silver water.

As Prince Rupert finished his story the door opened and Captain St Claire stood there, a little hesitant. I was very glad to see him. He saluted me and sauntered in.

Welcoming Captain St Claire, Prince Rupert ordered him a shant of dark porter and called upon him to speak of his travels. The truth was the northerner did not take the same pleasure in telling as he did in listening. He stumbled and blushed his way through a tale of eating roasted rats in the West Indies but was relieved when he could finish and accept his shant. For a Parliament's man, St Claire was no thin-lipp'd finger-wagger. Everyone enjoyed his company as much as I did. Later, I stood next to him near the back of the bar and asked him why he trusted me to keep his secret.

His answering smile was almost sweet. ‘I trust you for more than that, Master Moorcock.'

I took this as a well-intentioned compliment and changed the subject. I wondered if he had ever visited the American mainland. He had. He knew Maracaibo, New York and Boston pretty well. He had unusual views on the subject of the West Indies, he said. But, in spite of my laughing insistence, he refused to elaborate.

Typically, the evening continued with everyone in splendid spirits. For a while I kept remembering Molly there but the shants helped me forget. These roisterers behaved like disciplined men familiar with death and warfare and took their leisure seriously. They told incredibly funny tales and for a short while I felt some of the old happiness come back, but soon my spirits began to sink. I didn't want to return to the abbey so, feeling as if I intruded. I sat in the shadows near the stairs.

At length, Prince Rupert came up to me and, looking away as if he spoke to himself, began a quiet soliloquy. ‘Believe me, Master Michael, I've soldiered and explored all over the world, and I've loved. People and animals, the animate and inanimate, all have taught me a great deal. And I've learned best to recognise when I've become not merely a sharer of dreams but a dream in my own right. In short, I know when I have become a young woman's fantasy, and I have to say I was frightened by your Molly's greed for experiences we almost shared some years before. Of course, we have both changed. I know when I am just a good lover or when I am a cherished and idealised memory. I had little doubt I was a wonderful memory and must soon become a disappointing reality. I chose not to exploit that. Your finding us that night had the effect of slowing the inevitable, that was all. But I have to admit here a selfish reason which allowed her to stay. You know the plan we have discussed in the past concerning the king?'

I said that I did.

‘She's important to that plan. We need a woman with us. One who can shoot and fence as well as flirt. Though let's hope none of us will be forced to draw a weapon.'

So that was it. One need was paramount. The king must be saved! Even if I were not completely convinced by the prince's reasoning it was a comfort to believe him. By now I was glad of the respite. For all that I still loved her, I wanted Molly out of the picture so I could think clearly and act according to my conscience rather than compromise with her needs.

It emerged that neither of us had seen Molly since that particular evening. I told him how her mother had called on my wife. He frowned a little, understanding the implications. ‘Mrs Melody believes all reality's a mere dream,' he said. ‘A familiar notion. We brood upon it when we're young. Even more so in the Orient. And what matters it? So it is a dream, in a way. God's perhaps? Or is that blaspheming? I'll ask the bishop when I see him!' He put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Some think they'll find adventure here. Some'—he paused—‘hope to rekindle romance. Some seek sanctuary when that other world feels dull or too complicated or too dangerous. Here we can make the wildest plans. Reality is of a different order. Here we are safe from our enemies. And here we can plot impossible dreams and find distraction, adventure, even success of sorts.' He lowered his head and smiled. ‘But there's more vexing you than a doxy who knows not her own mind.'

‘Do you remember our fight at the Inn?' I asked. ‘When Nixer almost defeated us?'

‘I do. We showed 'em our mettle! In the end they scampered off like rats from a terrier!'

‘Do you recall, sir, another occasion when you were less successful?'

He frowned. Then laughed. ‘Only in my nightmares!' He became a touch uneasy. ‘Why?'

‘I'm curious, that's all.' As I'd suspected, he did not remember clearly all that happened there. I said, ‘I've made up my mind. I'm prepared to come in with you.'

He gasped involuntarily. He had not expected that! He put out his hand and gripped mine. ‘And I thought we had lost you,' he said. ‘We were unsure how to continue since Nixer and his men damaged parts of my great Cosmolabe which will take months to remake. As a result we conceived other plans. It involves courage, deception, effrontery, skill and manly self-possession. Only one who steps forward to volunteer those qualities in a wild and impossible cause need ask to be considered'. And he offered me a sudden boyish grin.

‘How would I be of use to such a plan?' I had not expected to feel so elated. I had missed his friendship.

‘You are tall, like myself, Porthos and Nick, and another tall man is needed. Also, you have the means to lead us home should we lose control.'

‘So the abbot says, though I don't understand and can scarce believe it.'

‘Think seriously on it, Master Moorcock. We cannot dare fail in our ambition. Would you let the king be killed?'

‘Of course not!' That was an easy one. I was against all capital punishment. ‘But I still don't understand…'

‘Come with us. We can get there without your help. But we might not return unless you're there. It's dangerous. You know that? But if you're with us, we're
all
safer. You have skills—the abbot must have told you.'

‘I'll come with you. I give you my word. But I really have no particular skills. There are a score here at least who would be of more use to you than I!'

‘Oh, to be sure!' Prince Rupert laughed spontaneously. Rising, he slapped me on the back. ‘Thank you, lad. Our venture promises success. Your nation will bless you.'

‘My wife and children might not.'

And then we were done with it, in the fashion of his day, and even of my own in certain circles. Everything had been said. The subject was over.

 

39

KNOWING

Minutes later the doors of the bar opened and in strode Duval's friend Jemmy Hind. He was greeted with a cheer by the others as he stepped up to the counter. Inevitably his comrades wanted to know how he had fared.

From the capacious pockets of his greatcoat Jemmy brought out a hefty soft leather bag and tossed it on the bar. ‘That'll pay for our ale tonight if it's the king's health we're drinking. And the rest's to pay for his health, if that's what's necessary to free him!'

Another cheer at this. Then Jemmy became the object of his friends' attention as he told a story of how he'd come by the private steamer on Hounslow Heath carrying two plump churchmen on their way to Southwark to give tithe to Cromwell. There it was. Gold, all of it. He joked of the run he'd given his pursuers. Jemmy was London born and bred and had lost them at Cheapside before doubling round and making his way here, where they dared not follow.

I began to feel overwhelmed. I had done what I intended and so got up, moving towards the door. I begged Captain St Claire's company back to the abbey. I did not expect too many answers to my other questions just yet, but I hoped he might be less cautious than Prince Rupert and his men. Not knowing what I was about to ask him, St Claire readily agreed. Once we walked towards the abbey, I asked: ‘Can you tell me what lies beyond the Sanctuary's gates? You have come to my rescue there twice, so I thought you might have some idea.
Limbo?
Is that what it's called?'

St Claire had begun to chuckle. His large brown eyes sparkled. ‘You wanted my company so you might put questions to me, eh?'

‘I'm baffled, that's all. I'm mixed up in matters I really don't understand, Captain.'

‘And if it
were
Limbo, what was its nature? An
absence,
maybe, of matter and time?' His expression was almost challenging.

‘Entropy? Is that what we're talking about?' This was an obsession of my day with the ongoing debate over the Big Bang theory. I hated the notion of entropy. All existence dissipating. Did the Alsacia actually lie at the heart of nothingness? I knew I had created my fictional ‘multiverse' partly out of a distinct discomfort at the notion of empty space-time. I preferred a heavily populated cosmos. Even what the monks called dark clouds—perhaps the traces of unseen worlds—was actually matter, or possibly antimatter, though I had never heard of it outside the Alsacia. But Captain St Claire replied with studied charm. A charm which made me slightly uncomfortable.

‘I'm a simple scholar and, perforce, a soldier,' he said. ‘These are matters best discussed with clerks. And'—he paused at the abbey gates—‘here's the place to do it.' He grinned, saluted and was away before I could reply.

I got back to my cell, cleaned up and opened my notebook, jotting down what I remembered from that evening with the prince.

Then I heard a soft, almost hesitant knock. I opened the door. Brother Isidore stood there smiling his meek, uncertain smile. Supper was about to be served. If I wished to eat he would be glad to escort me to the dining hall. Surprisingly hungry, I let him lead me through the beautiful old building to the hall.

I was, as usual, impressed by the contrast between the monks and their surroundings. They were obviously poor and yet had an extraordinarily rich environment. I mentioned this as we filed through the chapel on our way to the dining hall. Friar Isidore told me I had as much right to ask the question as anyone, but he did not really answer.

Evidently the builders of the abbey had spent lavishly. There were almost no buildings like it left in the City. Few of our churches had survived the Blitz so well. Even St Paul's had emerged with some damage. Many of the older churches had been burned to the ground. The abbey, of course, was much earlier than St Paul's and had been built during the first flowering of the Gothic period. The style had fallen out of favour in the late Renaissance when many buildings, even churches, had been torn down and rebuilt in whatever the current fashion of the day was.

Brother Isidore called the style ‘Frankish' but there was no doubting its origins. It was pure Gothic. The hammer-beam ceilings were elaborately painted and gilded, with the heavens a deep blue. The stars, in familiar constellations, were picked out in gold. The beams themselves were painted green and brown, suggesting the heavens held up by sheltering trees. The beautiful windows were of the finest stained glass, with rich emerald greens, deep vermilion reds, pulsing yellows and glowing indigo blues, either in complex abstract designs or illustrating a scene from the New Testament, most of which I recognised. The green marble in the frames was similar to that used on the altar, while others were gilded or painted in a lustrous colour.

In my early career I had done a series on the cathedrals of England for
Bible Story Weekly
. Much of my education came from researching a subject before I could write it up. All the abbey's features had evidently been endowed by a wealthy person at some stage in its history. Friar Isidore confirmed that Henry III and the Earl of Morn were their main benefactors. Often, too, money had been left them by men of science, including Francis Bacon. Doctor Dee, it was said, had once worked closely with members of their order.

The order had renewed vows of poverty in the early seventeenth century. At that time James I, who for some reason favoured the ‘Flete friars', had given the Alsacia its charter in perpetuity. Some said King James needed to show his piety and his support for the Church of England, particularly to members who made no claims on his tightly clasped purse. Others thought he had baser motives, including secretly paying for a house in ‘Whitefriers' for a favourite associated with the stage. Few people believed that. James was not known for spending lavishly. No further money was settled on the abbey. The Carmelite vow of poverty meant they lived off local charity. They received some money in rents. They had briefly published a magazine, in hopes of paying for necessary repairs. Friar Isidore sighed with pleasure when he spoke of that, for the magazine had been the cause of our acquaintance. Ultimately failing to meet its costs,
The White Friar
had been discontinued.