by Robin Jarvis
“I’ll go fetch Lord Richard out,” Henry spoke over him.
An impatient, disdainful sniff was the only reply. Then another of the riders said in a conciliatory voice, “Look, Sir Francis, he is here!”
The large oak door of Wutton Old Place was creaking open and a wedge of yellow candlelight flooded the yard. Adam and Henry backed away, for at last they saw just how forbidding and important the strangers appeared. Framed in the entrance, Lord Richard Wutton looked on the grave countenances of the horsemen and the ready smile failed on his lips.
Richard Wutton was a jovial man, much respected by his few tenants. Their remaining with him throughout his years of banishment from court was a testament to the loyalty he inspired. His exile and the subsequent loss of fortunes had, however, grizzled and greyed his temples and he was more fond of the bottle than he ought to have been.
Standing there upon the threshold of his run-down manor, he stared at the faces of his guests and wished he had quaffed a cup of wine before meeting them.
There, upon that splendid horse, was Sir Francis Walsingham, stiff and intractable in his stark black garments, his mirthless face ringed by the white circle of his ruff. Lord Richard’s heart quailed inside his ribs. What could that calculating old spider want here?
Hurriedly he glanced at the others. He did not recognise two of them but guessed that the one closest to Sir Francis was undoubtedly his personal secretary while the other, a sullen-faced man dressed in russets and already dismounting, was his groom. The fourth man Lord Richard knew very well and his mind began to race as it sought for the reason which had brought the old, white-bearded scholar back to Malmes-Wutton after all these years.
“Welcome, My Lord Walsingham,” he called, leaving the doorway and walking towards them. “I am deeply honoured by this visit.”
Like a huge raven unfurling its wings, Sir Francis threw back his black riding cloak and jumped from the saddle. His dark eyes glinted at Lord Richard but he said nothing and his host fidgeted uneasily under their glare.
“I’m afraid the message I received made no mention of whom I was to expect,” the man mumbled to cover the silence.
“That is because I did not want you to know,” came the bleak and disconcerting answer.
“I trust you’ll find the meal and entertainment adequate …” Lord Richard said, his voice falling to a wretched whisper as Sir Francis Walsingham strode rudely away and entered the manor house.
“A most tiring journey,” the secretary broke in. “You must pardon My Lord’s abrupt manner. What a pleasant isle this is; quite the smallest I have seen, but such plaudits I have heard concerning the work that is done here. Most interesting, all your merry apprentices tinkering away with broken cattle.”
Lord Richard was hardly paying attention. Walsingham frightened him and he turned to the other man he had recognised.
“And you, Doctor?” he began. “Why are you here? Have you ceased casting horoscopes and conversing with angels?”
Doctor John Dee met his questioning glance for an instant, then had the grace to look away. “I should have called upon you earlier, Richard,” he said regretfully. “I am most sorry for that. Fourteen years is too long.”
There was an awkward pause and, watching from nearby, Adam saw that the embers of an old argument lay between these two men.
“Come!” the secretary cried, clapping his hands together. “Let us not tarry without when light and merriment awaits us. Let all quarrels be put aside this night.”
Lord Richard remembered his duties as host and, clearing his very dry throat, guided the men to the doorway, leaving the groom behind.
Adam o’the Cogs watched them enter the manor but, on the topmost step, the white-bearded man known as Doctor Dee paused and stared back at him. The boy shuddered under the intense scrutiny, before the elderly stranger followed Lord Richard inside.
“I wouldn’t sleep easy this night if I were you, boy!” the groom chuckled unpleasantly. “Don’t you know who that were?”
Adam shook his head. The name “Doctor Dee” had meant nothing to him.
Holding the reins of all five horses, the groom gave him a leering smile. “Astrologer to the Queen, that’s who,” he said, affecting a hollow, sepulchral voice. “Invented the new Kalendar, he did, and more besides if rumours be true. Decent folk are scared of him, more so than they are of my master.”
“Why?” Henry demanded.
The groom’s eyes slid quickly from side to side as if afraid of the surrounding shadows. “They say he digs up corpses,” he hissed. “Grubs up the churchyard dirt and, by his wicked arts, speaks with the dead bodies.”
Henry snapped his fingers in disbelief. “Donkey warts!” he said.
“Is it?” the man murmured. “Jenks here thinks not. An imp from Hell does his bidding, that’s no lie – there’s plenty enough who’ve seen it. A crafty, clever man is Doctor Dee, but also a mighty dangerous one. You’d best watch out, lad, if he takes notice of you – no knowing what might come for you in the night to cart you off.”
Adopting Henry’s sceptical stance, Adam managed a feeble laugh but he did not like the look of the groom. The man had a suspicious face and, when he saw that his attempts to frighten them had failed, his mouth twisted into an arrogant sneer.
“Now then,” he began, his sly glance darting around the yard, “where are my master’s steeds to be housed?”
Adam returned the hostile stare. “There’s the barn yonder,” he answered with an impudent tone which set the man’s lip curling again. “Over there, behind the piggery.”
“The barn!” came the insulted response. “Do you know how costly these beasts are? Have you no proper stable?”
The boys shook their heads. “We don’t have horses here no more,” Henry said. “But when we did, I reckon they’d have been even better than your fancy one with the bronze shoes. Even Old Dritchly could cobble up something like that if he had a mind to.”
Strolling forward for a better view of the creature, he asked, “What are the innards like? How many pendulums do it have and how big are the cordial vessels?”
“Don’t you even think of coming no closer,” the groom growled. “That’s far enough. These ain’t none of your peasanty clankers, specially not Belladonna here. If anyone touches these fine beasts, Jenks’ll cut their throats for them, you understand?”
Leaving the threat hanging in the air, he led the mechanical horses over to the barn and the boys stared after him, mouthing insults to his back.
“Who wants to see the workings of your old nags anyway?” Henry grumbled.
“What do you think the extra horse was for?” Adam asked.
“To carry the baggage,” Henry suggested. “Had a dirty great chest strapped to it.”
Adam was not so certain. “No,” he said, “there’s something weird and secret happening here. Lord Richard didn’t like it and nor do I.”
As he spoke he tapped the mouthpiece of the recorder against his lips until he suddenly realised what he was doing and gave a horrified yelp.
“The instruments!” he cried. “We should have took them inside ages ago.”
And so the two apprentices raced into the manor house and the tragic events that were to occur that fateful evening were set in motion.
CHAPTER 2
O Mistress Mine
Within the banqueting hall, Sir Francis Walsingham brusquely appropriated the place of honour at the table. Anxiously, Lord Richard sat beside him. The secretary and Doctor Dee assumed their seats and their host eyed the food spread before them with considerable relief. At least here there was nothing to be ashamed of or which might cause offence. Mistress Dritchly had worked miracles in the kitchen and the board was covered with a respectable variety of dishes. There was fine white manchet bread, miniature pastries filled with spiced chicken, generous cuts of boiled mutton, a large onion tart, a sallat and a cheese pie with herbs. It might not have equalled feasts at court but few of the country gent
ry in the neighbouring isles dined upon grander fare than this.
The best plates had all been sold, so the guests were obliged to eat off wooden trenchers and drink from earthenware cups. There were only two jugs of wine, but it was the best Lord Richard’s depleted cellar could provide and when that ran out there was always the strong October ale.
“Pray commence and help yourselves,” he encouraged. “Mistress Dritchly is a fine cook, as you are about to learn.”
Leaning forward to take some slices of mutton, the secretary, who had readily introduced himself as Arnold Tewkes, smiled ingratiatingly. “I am always eager to partake of such lessons,” he said. “A more willing student would be difficult to find.”
As he was a small, thin-boned man whose head jerked about like a bird with faulty neck springs, that statement was rather difficult to believe, but he attacked the food with surprising zeal.
Doctor Dee busied himself with one of the pastries and a slice of cheese pie, but Lord Richard observed that Walsingham partook of nothing and wore such a stony expression that his own appetite withered within him.
Several difficult minutes passed during which not a word was uttered by anyone and Lord Richard swigged his first cup of the evening.
The banqueting hall of Wutton Old Place was panelled with oak and the ceiling mouldings were painted bright colours. Four large iron candlesticks, each bearing ten candles, gave a warm illumination to the room and at the far end, upon a little stage, Master Edwin and Jack Flye were busily placing the mechanical musicians in position.
Sitting stiffly in his chair, Walsingham regarded the activity with significantly more interest than he bestowed upon the food.
“A little entertainment for later,” Lord Richard explained, “to accompany the compotes and marchpane. I find music aids the digestion.”
Sir Francis made no reply and continued to stare in that unsettling way. Like a hawk viewing some remote and unsuspecting morsel, Lord Richard thought unhappily.
“Most excellent onion tart,” Master Tewkes declared, trying to soothe the tension. “It would appear that I am graduating the Dritchly College with honours. The mutton also was very flavoursome and cunningly done. You are very lucky in your cook, My Lord.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Richard Wutton answered. “My Lady Fortune has been noticeably absent from these estates of late. I thought she had abandoned me.”
Brushing pie crumbs from his beard, Doctor Dee commented, “If a man slams the door in the face of sound advice and refuses to listen to all good sense, then what else is she to do but depart?”
His host opened his mouth to respond, then caught sight of Walsingham still sitting like a forbidding gargoyle and thought better of it, settling for another draught of wine instead. Old arguments and resentments could wait but, try as he might, Lord Richard could not guess the errand that had brought these important visitors here. He grew more and more concerned as wild suspicions frothed up in his mind.
“If Your Lordship wishes,” he began again, desperate to glean anything at all from Her Majesty’s spymaster, “on the morrow you could go hunting in the outlying woods. There is a wild boar which is in dire need of a-catching. A real terror it is.”
“Sounds a most fearsome beast,” Master Tewkes clucked in between mouthfuls. “What a thrill that would be.”
Walsingham stirred and diverted his gaze from the far end of the hall. “I think not,” he said in a voice of ice, with a purposeful glitter in his eyes as his features hardened all the more. “My quarry never has more than two legs.”
A faint, strangled noise gurgled in Lord Richard’s throat and he drowned it hastily in yet more wine.
Just then, Adam and Henry came running in with the instruments and they hurried over to where Master Edwin was waiting.
“Tell me,” Master Tewkes began, leafing through the sallat as though it were a set of disarranged accounts, “what has been the most outlandish creature to pass through your workshops? Has the new fashion for imaginary animals penetrated this corner of Englandia yet? I’ve seen such fanciful constructions of late – why, there was a cockatrice in particular which I admired at Nonsuch …”
“I know a place,” Lord Richard mumbled guardedly. “A place where such fabulous beasts were in abundance. Dragons and gryphons, basilisks and lake monsters – all were there and might be still, for all I know.”
“And where is that?” asked the secretary, unaware that the ashes of the old argument were being disturbed and stoked once more.
Without warning, Sir Francis rapped the table sharply. “Go no further with this!” he snapped. “Do not even think to mention that forbidden isle or that traitor’s name! Not even in your own house. Will you never learn, Lord Richard? Look around you, see where that misguided loyalty has brought you. Be thankful you lost only your revenues and not your head – that could still be arranged, if you persist.”
Richard Wutton returned his attention to the cup which was trembling in his hand. Finally he said, “Tell me. Why are you here? Have I done something new to offend Her Majesty? Does she suspect me of another crime?”
“Are your musicians never to play us anything?” Walsingham asked blithely, ignoring him.
Baffled at this interest in his mechanicals, Lord Richard signalled to Edwin Dritchly at the end of the hall. The raspberry-faced man bowed in return and whispered quickly to his apprentices. “This is it, lads,” he said. “Hum hum – you ready, Jack?”
The eldest youth nodded; the recorder and the lute had been thrust into the mannequins’ gloved hands. Now they would see if their efforts had been in vain.
Master Edwin’s podgy fingers ran over the lutanist’s velvet-covered shoulder until he found the raised carving of the Wutton crest beneath. “Now,” he told Jack as he pressed firmly.
The crest gave a click and immediately the figure jerked into life. Within its brass head the ichors began to bubble, and a pendulum suspended in its chest swung steadily to and fro.
A disharmony of notes sailed up to the painted ceiling as the mechanical’s fingers strummed the long neglected lute and it paused for a moment to pluck the empty air where the missing string should have been. The blank brass face turned to Master Dritchly, tilting to one side as if in puzzlement.
“You’ll have to make do,” the man instructed.
The musician shook its head slowly in mock disgust, and Master Dritchly was glad that it was not able to talk.
Meanwhile, Jack had pushed down the Wutton crest of the recorder player, but that figure was finding its newly repaired arm intensely fascinating. Flexing and fluttering the chicken-claw fingers, it waved and waggled the hand, then tried to remove the glove for a better inspection.
“Leave it,” Jack ordered. “Just play your rotten recorder!”
The mannequin turned its polished face to him and blew two blasts of air through the opening of its mouth which sounded vaguely insulting. Then it lifted the recorder and assumed the correct pose.
By now the lutanist had tuned the remaining strings and it too was waiting to begin. They had not been used for so long that Master Dritchly had forgotten they needed to be told which melodies to play and he said the first one that came into his head.
“O Mistress Mine,” he whispered. It was also his favourite.
The lute strings played and a bellows-blown breath blew the opening notes on the recorder. The hall of Wutton Old Place rang with music once more.
“A fine pair of musicians,” Walsingham declared. “They keep the refrain well.”
Lord Richard was still perplexed. Sir Francis was too sour and serious a man to indulge in such trivial frivolities. There was obviously something more behind his interest, but he could not comprehend what that might be.
“Indeed,” he replied uncertainly. “Edwin Dritchly is exceeding proficient in matters mechanical. He is the most able and adept craftsman in all of the Suffolk islands.”
Walsingham’s eyebrows knitted into a single dark line. “H
ow gratifying to hear that,” he commented. Then, resting his elbows upon the table and pressing his fingertips together, he finally related the purpose of his visit. “You may rest easy. I am not here to accuse you of anything.”
Lord Richard breathed his thanks but knew enough about the Queen’s counsellor not to relax completely.
“Fourteen years is a long period to be absent from court,” Walsingham continued. “Here, at the extreme rim of society, you are no doubt ignorant of current policy and state affairs.”
“I know only what the winds of rumour bring,” Lord Richard admitted.
Swallowing a morsel of bread with a gulp, Master Tewkes eagerly brought him up to date.
“Never have diplomatic relations with the Catholic powers been so strained,” he rattled. “France and Spain – alas it’s become quite impossible. The Queen refuses to grant an audience with either ambassador and will not even permit them at court. A crisis is approaching. Those despicable Spaniards are plotting some vile outrage. Is that not so, Doctor?”
Doctor Dee nodded. “You enquired earlier about my angelic messages, Richard,” he said. “Those Enochian studies have confirmed to me that a terrible conflict lies ahead. There is much in the future which bodes ill for Englandia. The new stars tell me so.”
“Our fears are not based solely upon horoscopes,” Walsingham was quick to point out. “My spies in Europe report the same. France and Spain are preparing for war. Even now they are mustering their forces; it would be a fatal mistake if we were found lacking.”
Master Tewkes banged a bony fist upon the table, making his knife and trencher jump and clatter. “Those whey-faced idolaters!” he cried passionately. “May they all burn on a pyre of their own incense!”
Lord Richard pushed his half empty cup away. “Assuredly,” he began, “this is a most frightening intelligence, and yet why does it bring you to Malmes-Wutton?”
The dangerous light gleamed in Walsingham’s eyes once more, and he looked across the hall to where the musicians were playing.
