by Robin Jarvis
“No more!” Arvel protested. “You interfere too much.”
“She has been exposed to the infection,” Bosco-Uttwar said simply. “You had best garner the Lady Sidney before I put the remedy upon her.”
Infuriated by his assistant’s irresponsible behaviour, Arvel pressed the glass instrument to Lady Mary’s brow. But the woman groaned and turned her head away. Again he tried, but she squirmed and pushed the device from her.
“I cannot continue,” Arvel declared. “She will awaken if I persist.”
With a third small disc ready in his hand, Bosco-Uttwar came forward.
“No time for that,” Arvel warned, irritably knocking the cure from his assistant’s fingers and snatching the packet away. “She is reviving too soon. We must be gone. Don your outer garments – quickly.”
Returning everything to the apothecary box, he swept up his rain-sodden cloak and hat. Unhappily his assistant did the same and presently their outlandish features were concealed once more.
Pulling on his gloves, Arvel glanced back at the bedchamber and moved towards the door. In the grand room beyond, the councillors were bickering in hushed voices. The babble ceased, however, as soon the physicians emerged, wisps of purple smoke still clinging to the folds of their cloaks. Immediately, Robert Dudley dashed across to push by them, but they would not let him enter.
“An hour must pass before the chamber may be disturbed,” came Arvel’s insistent whisper. “The purgative we have set to smoulder must do its work without interruption. Mistress Ashley and Lady Mary are now versed in what should be done.”
Dudley relented. “There is hope then?” he asked.
“As much as we may give,” came the cryptic response. “Now we must depart.”
“You cannot leave,” another voice objected, as Lord Sussex came swaggering forward. “Not whilst there can be any doubt.”
From the deep shade his hat afforded, Arvel eyed the man warily. Sussex trusted no one and he searched for ways of placating him. All that mattered now was for Bosco-Uttwar and himself to escape this place with their great harvest.
“There are medicines we must bring before daybreak,” he said quickly.
“Does it require the pair of you to fetch them?” asked the suspicious Sussex.
“Indeed it does,” Arvel insisted. “There is a great deal of preparation involved. Four hands may barely have sufficient time.”
Sussex fingered his neat little beard. His instincts told him that something was amiss but, before he could speak again, Sir William Cecil came to the physicians’ defence.
“Let the gentlemen be,” the Queen’s adviser demanded. “You seek for conspiracy and treason in every corner.”
Scowling, Lord Sussex backed away and Cecil escorted the cloaked strangers towards the long gallery which led to the main staircase.
“Till before the dawn then,” he said. “Let us hope the new day will bring us glad and hopeful news.”
The physicians bowed, but in that instant there came a terrified scream from the Queen’s bedchamber.
“Mary!” Lord Robert cried. Forgetting Arvel’s false warning, he flung the door open. “God’s blood! What is this?”
Rousing from the effects of the incense, Lady Mary Sidney was staggering around the room, shaken and afraid.
Leaping into the chamber, Dudley rushed to the bedside where the Queen appeared as pale and as near to death as ever. With a glance at Mistress Ashley who was still lying upon the floor, Lord Robert flew out of the room, tearing his sword from its sheath. “Hold those men!” he yelled.
Arvel and Bosco-Uttwar were already running down the long gallery, fleeing for their lives. Their cloaks flapping about them and their large, booted feet scattering the rushes, they charged past astonished courtiers, desperate to reach the stairs.
“Assassins!” Lord Robert roared, haring after them, while Sussex and the other nobles fell in behind. “Stop them! Guards! Seize them!”
Battling through the gallery, Arvel thrust blustering officials and shrieking ladies-in-waiting aside, and his assistant did the same. The stairs were not far now, but even if they managed to elude capture long enough to get outside, their lives were surely forfeit.
“It’s no use, Arvel!” Bosco-Uttwar cried. “We’ll never escape this place. There are too many – they will hunt us down.”
His superior said nothing. A stout, florid-faced man suddenly stepped into their path and threw his arms wide to catch them. Not checking his pace, Arvel lashed out and grabbed the front of the man’s doublet.
Exhibiting incredible strength, the physician lifted the wailing obstacle off the ground and hurled him high over his head. Up into the ceiling the flailing man went rocketing, cracking the moulded plaster when he struck it with a crash. Then down he fell. Accompanied by a shower of white dust, he went spinning to the floor, just in time for Lord Robert to hurdle over him.
The way to the stairs was clear now and the cloaked strangers went bounding down them, jumping three at a time. Soon they would be out into the grounds, where the dark, drenching night might hide them. With only ten more steps to freedom, their hope was shattered when a company of guards came bursting into the hall. Swords and spears raised, they swarmed up to meet them.
Clutching hold of the banister, Arvel and Bosco-Uttwar slithered to a halt.
“Back!” Arvel shouted, retracing their galloping strides. “Back, up – up!”
Hard on his heels, his assistant was panicking. He had never known such fear before. He understood too well what kind of barbaric punishments these creatures meted out to those they considered their enemies. He had witnessed countless executions and afterwards seen the spikes of London Bridge adorned with the victims’ heads and limbs.
Lunging on to the topmost step he whirled wildly around. They were trapped. Dudley and the others were already streaming from the gallery to the right, and the stairs seethed with armed guards.
“Where now?” he gasped.
But Arvel was already hastening down a narrow corridor away to the left. “After me!” he called back. “There may yet be a chance, if we can only reach it!”
Bosco-Uttwar did not wait to be told a second time. Up from the stairs the palace guards came surging to join forces with Lord Robert and, as one fearsome column, they rushed after the terrified physicians.
The corridor was dimly lit by solitary candles, their thin flames wavering in the chill draughts. By this poor illumination Bosco-Uttwar saw several doors lining the passage, but Arvel ignored each of them and hurried on.
Ferocious shouts were trumpeting behind him and, to his horror, the assistant saw that the corridor led nowhere. They were running headlong into a blank wall. It was a dead end and they were cornered by a savage mob. There would be no time to explain, these creatures were too ignorant to believe or comprehend them anyway. He knew that they would both see only the gleam of metal and feel thirsty steel plunging into their flesh. In a frenzy of primitive hate, they would be torn to pieces.
“We have them!” Lord Robert’s furious voice bellowed.
Even as the words echoed through the corridor, Arvel threw himself into a doorway which his assistant had not seen. Before Bosco-Uttwar knew what was happening, a gloved hand came reaching out and he was dragged in after.
“Secure the entrance!” Arvel barked, slamming the door and staring frantically around.
The room beyond was small and lit by a single rush light. In that paltry glow he could see a long, low table standing against one wall and he ran to it at once. In a moment the table had been flipped on its end and rammed up against the door.
“There’s no way out of here,” his assistant blurted. “No window and no other exit. We’re trapped!”
The table juddered violently as their pursuers began to kick and heave. “Come out of there! Craven filth!” Lord Sussex demanded.
Holding the table in place, Bosco-Uttwar shook his head in misery. Arvel was still pulling every stick of furniture he c
ould find to fortify the barricade, but it was all in vain.
“Just like one of their rat creatures caught in a hole,” the assistant snivelled as the pounding blows increased.
“A musical hole,” Arvel noted, for he had discovered a number of instruments in the far corner. But there was no time for him to admire their quality.
Discordant jangling interrupted Bosco-Uttwar’s despair as Arvel began dragging a clavichord across the room to prop against the upturned table. From then on, every hammering blow inflicted upon the door was accompanied by a clangorous riot of notes.
The din was unbearable but Arvel merely laughed and ran to pick up the rush light. Bearing the petty flame aloft, he dashed to the fireplace.
“Did I not tell you that it pays to be thorough?” he cried. “For twenty-nine years this has been here, waiting for such an emergency. Behold, Bosco-Uttwar, here is our escape route.”
The relief which flooded over his assistant was overwhelming. Beneath the high collar of his cloak, a wide smile spread across his long face when he gazed gladly upon the mirror which hung above the mantel.
In the passageway, Sussex and Dudley had stepped aside to allow the burliest of the guards to throw their weight against the door.
“Break it down!” Lord Robert bawled.
There was a tremendous crash as the table went toppling to the floor in the room beyond, and the clavichord exploded beneath its crushing weight with a jarring finale of twanging scales. A powerful kick sent the door ripping from its hinges, but no one went charging inside. Every vengeful voice was quelled and many crossed themselves in the manner of the old religion.
From that windowless room, brilliant colours were pouring and, for one instant, that dark corner of the palace was ablaze with light. A kaleidoscope of burning images radiated from the splintered entrance like dazzling sunshine streaming through a cathedral window – casting vibrant, fragmented shapes on to the corridor wall.
The vivid glare flashed across Lord Robert’s face. Squinting, he saw within that room innumerable visions of the villainous physicians. Over every surface their fractured likenesses flared, but even as he marvelled, the wonder vanished and all was dark once more.
Bewildered, Dudley and Sussex stepped through the doorway. But the chamber was empty. The strangers were nowhere to be found.
“Where are they?” snapped Sir William, pushing his way through the abashed guards.
Staring into the shadows, Lord Robert could only shake his head. “I know not,” he said softly. “It seemed to me I viewed them as if through the heart of a great faceted jewel, and then they were gone.”
“Witches and devils!” Lord Sussex growled.
Sir William threw them a disbelieving glance then turned to elbow past the guards once again. “Well,” he declared, “if they have flown up the chimney, then there is naught we can do. I’ll waste no more time on them this foul night.”
“Where are you going?” Lord Sussex asked, hastening after him.
“To summon back that German doctor!” came the stern reply. “If he doesn’t save the Queen, then I’ll stick a knife in him myself.”
Alone in the room, Robert Dudley sheathed his sword and dismissed the gaping guards. In all the years that were left to him he never spoke of that night again, not even to his precious Elizabeth.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Adam o’the Cogs
Out in the deep darkness, in the one hundred and seventy-eighth year of Elizabeth Tudor’s prodigious reign, the beatified, uplifted realm of Britain was reaching the close of another long summer evening. It was the fifth of June in the Gloriana Kalendar and in the smallest of the twelve floating lands which made up the county of Suffolk, the shadows grew deep and rich about the red-bricked manor of Wutton Old Place.
Malmes-Wutton was not the wealthiest of estates. From the furthest pasture, through the humble village and across to the outlying wood, the greatest measured distance was scarcely a mile.
The manor had once been a splendid residence. Less than a century before, the Queen had progressed there to admire the quality of the horses, for it was widely believed that there were none in Englandia to match them. During those bygone, shimmering days, the manor’s mullion windows blazed with light and a near constant music flowed out over the rose garden.
But the intervening years had changed many things. The fortunes of Wutton Old Place had shifted dramatically. Lord Richard Wutton had fallen from Her Majesty’s favour and the monopolies she granted to him had been revoked. Gone was the grandeur which the manor formerly boasted; the large building now looked shabby and was choked with ivy. Every horse had been sold to pay mounting debts and the neighbouring fields barely provided enough to feed those who tilled them. No one of rank ventured near, for who would be seen to frequent such a dilapidated estate?
Yet someone was making the journey to this remote and isolated region. Beyond the boundaries of Malmes-Wutton, out in the perpetual void, a night barge was approaching.
Sleek and black, it was an elegant craft but, although gilded scrollwork decorated the prow, it bore no other device or marking. Through the great silence the night barge sailed stealthily, blotting out the unnamed stars as it drew closer. A sable canopy sealed the deck from the airless cold and, beneath that midnight shelter, an austere figure gowned in the darkest Puritan style was staring out across the unending emptiness.
There were few in this new world who wielded such power as Sir Francis Walsingham. This was his private vessel. With his large, impassive eyes, the solemn-faced man gazed intently at the isle of Malmes-Wutton which now filled and dominated his vision.
The impoverished estate was enclosed by a protective firmament. Outside the window of the night barge it scrolled by at a ponderous pace. The opaque colours painted within the curved, leaded panes were beginning to turn transparent and the acres of Wutton Old Place were plainly visible far below.
“Did you ever look upon so sad and squalid a spectacle?” a grave voice asked abruptly.
Not bothering to turn around as a second man emerged from the gloom behind him, Walsingham gave the slightest of shrugs. “Does our business still disquiet you, Doctor?” he asked in his usual arch tone. “I thought you were agreed on this course.”
Standing beside him, the white-haired man, cloaked in robes of the deepest red velvet and wearing a black skull cap upon his balding head, stared at the few sheep dotting the pasture now visible through the firmament.
“I understand the necessity,” he answered, curling his long beard in his fingers. “It is the method I find not to my liking.”
The night barge continued to descend, dipping smoothly below the top of the outlying trees so that the view was obscured.
“I had not imagined the sorry depths to which Richard Wutton had fallen. Did you mark the fields? They were almost deserted; is he really reduced to a handful of sheep?”
Walsingham gave an indifferent sniff and recounted a memorised list. “Nine sheep to be precise; four cattle, a large sow with two piglets, a particularly ferocious boar that no one dares hunt, various poultry, a dog and three pheasants he couldn’t give away. The deer, of course, went the route of the horses a long time ago.”
The older man regarded him uneasily. “You merit your reputation, My Lord,” he admitted. “No wonder so many fear you. Truly, your eyes and ears are everywhere.”
“I fear they are not as keen as your own,” Walsingham admitted. “Yet they will be the sharper once this affair is concluded.”
His voice lowered to a whisper and he added, “I am determined to prove our suspicions, whatever the cost, and where better than out here – away from public notice?”
With that, the night barge dropped beneath the Malmes-Wutton horizon and the great expanse of cragged rock upon which the estate was founded now stretched in front of them.
“Has my secretary prepared everything?” Walsingham asked. “I wish to disembark at the first moment.”
; The white-haired man gave a slight bow and left the deck to attend to it. Alone, Sir Francis watched the immense, barren rockscape swing slowly by and, with his subtle mind contemplating the coming events, a rare smile crept across his face.
A huge, unlit cavern, roughly hewn to form a tremendous arch, reared up beside the night barge and the craft executed a graceful turn to enter it, disappearing into the absolute blackness within.
“You stupid fat pig!” the young apprentice called, beginning to lose his temper. “Come out of there this instant!”
A bass grunt of protest came wheezing from the sty’s low brick entrance and the boy scrunched up his face in irritation.
“Adam!” a voice yelled suddenly from the stables. “Stop idling out there and fetch it in at once!”
Throwing a quick, anxious glance back across the yard, Adam o’the Cogs, or Cog Adam as he was generally known, decided there was only one thing for it. He glowered at the pigsty; that evening there was no time to indulge the old sow’s stubborn nature.
“Obstinate old sulker,” he grumbled, vaulting over the piggery fence. “You’ve done it now. If you won’t come out, I’m coming in.”
Crouching, he barged into the straw-scented darkness and immediately there came an outraged bellowing.
Old Temperance, the great sow of Wutton Old Place, sent up a snorting uproar as the boy tried to catch her. The two piglets, Suet and Flitch, scudded around her, squealing shrilly.
“Keep still!” Adam cried as she thundered to and fro in the sty, knocking him off balance. “Stay put, you moody old porker.”
Tumbling to the ground, he gave the sow a hefty kick and the ensuing baritone bellow almost deafened him in that confined place.
“Adam!” the impatient command came calling from the stables once more.
The boy scrambled to his feet. “I told you there weren’t no time for mucking about,” he warned. “If you’re going to be so block-headed about it, then there’s only one thing I can do.”
