We were still in considerable danger. Duval and I picked up the rope while Porthos held the boat steady for the other musketeers. I wanted poor Nevison to go first but he refused. He was on his feet again. He held back with Duval, shaking his head. Then, carefully, while we held the boat as hard as we dared against the edge of the ice, the musketeers got in. Porthos and D’Artagnan held their hands out to help us jump aboard. I signed to Duval, but he was looking back at Nevison. I knew he would not leave without his friend.
‘I see them!’ Voices bellowing in the distance.
Nevison collapsed suddenly onto the ice. I turned to look past him. Was he hit again? Duval tried to help the giant up. Who pursued us this time? Lanterns winked and blazed. Three figures in silhouette. And there they were: Captain Marvell and his grinning henchmen, Colonel Clitch and Corporal Love, marching relentlessly, leading a troop of infantry towards us. They had us cut off surely. Meanwhile, along a riverbank slowly being exposed as the tide went out, there rode a party of Parliamentary cavalry.
‘There’s no more time!’ That Yorkshire accent from the ship. No doubt Captain Sprye. ‘Make haste, gentlemen! We’ve the wind with us. We’ll just make the tide if we don’t run aground!’
At our urging the musketeers settled into the boat. I could not go with them. Somehow I had to try to get back to my children or die in the attempt. I raised my hand in farewell to brave friends. Claude Duval got his arms under Nevison who gasped in long breaths, holding a neck cloth to his wound.
Duval helped Nevison up. ‘You must go with them, Nick. They’ll hang thee for sure. There’ll be a doctor aboard the brig. Those Jews are famous healers.’
Pale, Nevison grinned his disdain for what he considered kind-hearted nonsense. ‘I’m a Londoner, Captain. And not able to swim.’ He spread his hand, wincing. ‘I’ve had a good life and enjoyed all the many pleasures of the senses, sir. So this could be the reckoning, eh? And if it’s the price I pay for my misspent life, why then, by Heaven, I’ll take two and a bargain it shall be.’ He laughed over his pain. ‘I’ve had a mighty good run with rumpads gay, full of fun and high adventure. Free tobymen my friends have been! Free of censure and free of fear.
‘With Jemmy gone and General Cromwell ruling over us, banishing Christmas and all that ever made our England merry, sir—with the old king dead and pinch-lipped clerks in power, someone has to stay and, however briefly, sing His Grace’s praises.’ With that, he found his befeathered hat, straightened slowly, bowed low, winced again, got the hat settled on his head, gathered himself and straightened his spine like a soldier. Then, either to drown or prosper, Nick Nevison disappeared in the direction of the dark Surrey bank.
‘Oh, Nick,’ cried Duval after him. ‘Well said, my dear! Then it’s me back to France with Prince Rupert. I’ll swear there’s precious little could kill a man like you, Nick. So, sweet friend, it’s hi-ho for Calais and a crown!’ And blowing a kiss to his friend, he was into the skiff with a bound. He threw me the rest of the rope, anticipating my joining him.
But, while they called for me to come aboard, I let the rope unwind slowly. Behind me I heard the Puritans advancing. I knew this was not the time for me to abandon my children, my responsibilities and all I cared for. I hadn’t any temptation to run away to France. Maybe, if I failed to get home, I would find Nevison and join him. I didn’t much like the idea of remaining there alone.
Once Barry Bayley had wondered whether those wordless voices in my head would only be stilled when I put a huge barrier of some sort between myself and them. What I now called the Whispering Swarm had to be strong enough to capture all my attention if it were to defeat me. But so far I had resisted it. As I was determined to resist anything threatening to drive a wedge between myself and my children.
I have thought a lot how my hatred of the Swarm helped me sustain my resolve. Whatever the cause or the reason, I still have it. I have loved the Alsacia since that first time I rode beside Moll Midnight, with black silk masks and flintlock pistols, to rob the Hackney Flyer. I still love it. Of course I do not love those voices calling me back. Sometimes I think the Swarm still forms words, telling me its secret. Sometimes I think they call urgently; sometimes they admonish me. And sometimes I hear the sadness in them. A terrible sadness. Sometimes they almost break my heart.
I will not forget that night: I hear rough voices behind me. I hear the brig’s anchor rattling even before the last of my friends leaves the longboat. Sailors hurriedly haul the skiff bodily up the side. Straining like a wounded whale, the ship lifts herself out with the tide, almost an act of will. The wind rises, blustering. A fresh crack of lightning.
And there it is again in glinting black and gold, the name of the ship: REMEMBER. Amsterdam. I wish them Godspeed then turn to face my enemies. I still have my pistols and my sword. I have never deliberately harmed another person, yet I am determined to kill Clitch and Love before they can take me. No matter what else transpires.
And there they are, a couple of strutting, seedy alley cocks. They see me and their chests swell. They sniff blood. They think they have me. They swagger a few paces ahead of their master Marvell. The two barroom dandies almost prance in their glee at this opportunity. I draw my pistols from my sash and point them. ‘No further!’
‘And who would you murder today, Master Moorcock? An honest soldier? Or two honest soldiers? Two, I fear, may be your limit. No doubt you’ll be glad to do the deed before witnesses!’ Clitch spreads his gauntleted hand to indicate their own redcoat soldiers. Any one of them seems ready to roast me on his long pike.
‘First the two of you and then it’s the river for me,’ I say. I hardly know where the words are coming from. I have the strangest sense of writing a Meg Midnight script. I have no intention of putting myself at further risk.
The storm mumbles and spatters its way to the west. Lightning spits again, showing silver snow still falling. Snow drifts slowly into the distance. As if it deserts me. The two unsavoury thieftakers lift large horse pistols from their sashes and then also draw their swords.
I wondered why I didn’t fear death more at that point. The ice moved suddenly underfoot. I barely managed to right myself. Something in me said I deserved it. But so did they. If I died, then those ruffians would die too.
I could almost feel the cold steel sliding into my heart. I was ready for death. I knew such intense regret. ‘Cowards,’ I said. ‘You have my promise to kill you both. You’ll be glad of the company in Hell.’
‘Come, come, come, gentlemen!’ With a rather mysterious expression of disapproval, Captain Marvell held up one hand to make his men stop. Another hand indicated this exchange of ours should also halt. ‘This business has us behaving like characters in Master Webster’s plays.’ And he placed himself squarely between us. ‘Let’s see some sense here before all lie dead beneath this yielding ice!
‘You, my good comrades, Messrs Clitch and Love, dutiful in fulfilling your duties as always, have captured this young innocent. For reasons of his own, he let himself be persuaded by false companions to help Charles Stuart escape justice. But he did not conspire to murder, nor attempt to seduce anyone, nor to carry them off into Catholic slavery. Master Moorcock, I know you for an honest fool. You would doubtless have helped Cromwell’s cause, had I drawn you into our company first.’
‘And become a spy like yourself, Captain Marvell?’ I did not lower my pistols.
He smiled, addressing his men again. ‘This lad’s a hothead but he’s neither villain nor traitor. I’ll give my word to it. I’ve heard him talk. He does support our Lord Protector and all our principles.’
Not something I could easily argue against.
Shrugging, the regular redcoats were cheerfully satisfied with that. They immediately lowered their weapons. At this time in England all were weary of conflict. Too many had died or been ruined. People yearned for reconciliation. Only Clitch and Love frowned and grumbled. Those two had neither a sense of chivalry nor of honest compromise. They req
uired either reward or revenge. For a moment it looked as if they planned to rebel on the spot and take a shot at me. But, setting his back to them, Captain Marvell crossed to where I stood and linked his arm in mine.
I made to pull free but he murmured urgently. ‘Don’t be foolish, lad, if you’d see your offspring again.’
I took a long breath. ‘Perhaps I’d rather die than stroll across the ice with a wretched spy!’
He chuckled at this. ‘You have a friend in me, though you’ll not allow it, young Moorcock.’
And so, for Sally and Kitty, I let Andrew Marvell keep my arm. Then, for all the world like one old friend taking a stroll with another, Marvell slowly walked with me across the ice towards the dying lights of the Frost Fair. Over on the South Bank the storm still flashed and cracked.
What was Marvell’s plan? The lights of the fair distant and the storm passed, we walked in silence through the darkness as the ice grew firmer underfoot. For a while it appeared Marvell and I were alone out there. The Whispering Swarm was mute, murmuring in the back of my skull. Almost as if he knew what went on in my head he reached up a hand to hold my shoulder. I felt at once under arrest, reassured and rescued from danger.
We took a long time crossing the ice. For most of that walk, with the Frost Fair still merry in the distance and the thunder grumbling amongst the flashing lightning, we said little. By the time we reached that wall of chilling fog surrounding Whitefriars Old Stairs I felt almost calm. Here we paused, looking back at the distant bridge.
‘Well,’ he said philosophically, ‘if the wind holds and they manage to get downriver to open sea, your comrades will all escape justice.’ I thought of the ship and her passengers. I wanted to ask Marvell about High India, the Black Aether, the silver moonbeam roads, ‘Ketchup Cove’. He seemed aware of a great deal that was going on at the abbey, for instance. Could he explain any of these mysteries? How did the notion of worlds in parallel resonate with everything else I had experienced? Why did Marvell, who was no zealot, work so diligently for the Parliamentary cause? How had he first discovered the routes to other worlds? I supposed the answer lay in his poetry. Yet to ask Marvell such questions would not force him into answering, if he knew, and would have him thinking me mad, if he didn’t. Why did it matter? Obscurely, I wanted Marvell to think well of me. Or at least sympathetically. He shook hands at the stairs. ‘Godspeed, lad. You are wise to be wary of the Alsacia. It is not your children’s friend.’
Without a further word, Andrew Marvell walked into the shivering night.
Only later did I wonder how he knew about my children.
Once again I went through the complicated ritual in which I followed so-called moonbeam paths. This was becoming second nature. I recalled the tarot, the numbers, the images, the shivering silver threads. I kept the images, the numbers and rhythms in my head as I stepped through that unnatural fog and this time it seemed easier to tread the silver road as I followed the Green Knight, the same Saracen warrior I had seen at prayer in the chapel of the abbey, and suddenly found myself climbing those slimed, treacherous steps back up to the cobbled quayside pulling my damp cloak around me, seeking an impossible warmth.
As usual, as soon as I was in the Alsacia, the Swarm at once fell silent. The walk up that first steep cold street, with houses that never saw light or fire, was a long one. Then at last I was again in the glow of the Alsacia, with its friendly people wrapped against the tiring chill, with cheerful oil lamps or candelabra guttering in every window and fires blazing in every grate. It warmed like home.
I got back to the square, walking a little more slowly as I recalled the first time I was there. My spirits had lifted considerably when I reached the top of the little lane. I recalled being fascinated by the girl with the tousled hair, highwayman’s topcoat and tricorne who had ridden into the innyard calling for an ostler. I had fallen in love at that moment. My fascination had brought me back and kept me there.
But now I’d had enough. It was all over. Molly was no more than a fiction and the story had ended. I didn’t acknowledge her even when I saw her standing, beautiful and vulnerable, outside The Swan With Two Necks. Even when she came to walk beside me, murmuring: ‘We found each other. You said it, Mike. We’re soul mates. I love you with all my heart and soul. Please, let me look after you.’
I still thought it was a rather unlikely ambition for a talented adventuress. I didn’t say anything to her but just kept walking. I walked into the abbey, crossed the yew lawn and found my way to the chapel. The abbey seemed completely deserted. The last thing I had seen of the abbot and the monks was when they went to meet the attacking redcoats. Had they been wiped out? On the chapel’s altar I saw not the Fish Chalice but a pile of well-used swords and pistols. Had they been left there by the monks?
I was no longer curious. I went to my cell and changed back into my ordinary clothes. I took everything I had brought and packed it in my bag. I left the weapons. Then I walked out.
Carrying my bag, I made my way steadily in the direction of the Carmelite Inn gate. It was shut. A few bits and pieces of weapons and armour were scattered about nearby. Signs of a skirmish. As usual, no bodies. No blood. Perhaps their owners were waiting on the other side.
Molly stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of the gates. I looked directly into her eyes. She hesitated, shrugged and stepped aside. I pulled open one of the gates. In Carmelite Inn Chambers a lifting fog softened the square. I stepped through the gate and stood for a moment letting my tension fall away. My eyes were full of tears. I took a deep breath and stepped into the square as the Swarm began its terrifying whispering again. Meaningless yet charged with meaning. For a second, just to escape that cruel sound, I thought of returning to the Alsacia.
Then I walked away. My future was restored. I headed for Fleet Street and the Number 15 bus. I was going home to Sally and Kitty, to whatever responsibilities waited for me. I was certain I would never see the Alsacia again.
And I didn’t mind a bit.
TOR BOOKS BY MICHAEL MOORCOCK
Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull
Hawkmoon: The Mad God’s Amulet
Hawkmoon: The Sword of the Dawn
Hawkmoon: The Runestaff
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Moorcock is the prolific author of more than eighty works of fiction and nonfiction, and the creator of such memorable characters as Elric, Dorian Hawkmoon, Jerry Cornelius, and Colonel Pyat. In 1956, at the age of sixteen, he became the editor of Tarzan Adventures and later edited The Sexton Blade Library and the controversial science fiction magazine New Worlds.
He has won numerous awards, including the Guardian Fiction Prize for The Condition of Muzak, and his novel Mother London was short-listed for the Whitbread Prize. He has won the Prix Utopiales for Lifetime Achievement, the Grandmaster Award from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award. In 2008, Michael Moorcock was named one of the “fifty greatest British writers since 1945” by The Times (London).
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE WHISPERING SWARM: BOOK ONE OF THE SANCTUARY OF THE WHITE FRIARS
Copyright © 2014 by Michael Moorcock
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Ross MacDonald
Edited by Moshe Feder
A Tor Book
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ISBN 978-0-7653-2477-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-8642-7 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429986427
First Edition: January 2015
Michael Moorcock, The Whispering Swarm
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