Deathscent

by Robin Jarvis

  “One hundred and seventy-five years,” he said. “That is how long we have been in this uplifted realm, out here in the deep darkness. During that time there have been no major wars – who then can say what manner of contest such strife would be? I cannot. This is a new world, filled with marvels undreamed of. If we are to win through, then we must be ready.”

  As he spoke, the music ceased. The tune had ended but the lutanist played no more for there came a creak of metal from within and, with a judder, the mechanical stopped moving. Master Dritchly attended to it at once. In the mean time the other musician was waiting for a new melody. When no fresh instruction came, it recommenced O Mistress Mine.

  “There appears to be some problem,” Walsingham observed.

  “Edwin Dritchly can remedy it,” Lord Richard assured him.

  “Her Majesty has need of such skilled men,” came the ominous reply. “In the approaching battle their talents will be in great demand. For many months, under cover of secrecy, I have been recruiting masters of motive science to create engines of destruction fit for the impending war.”

  Lord Richard’s heart sank as he perceived where this was leading.

  “Seventeen men I gathered from all across the realm,” Walsingham continued. “Yet it has been proven that agents of foreign powers are at work in this land, for nearly all of those learned masters have met with accidents and misfortunes whilst making the journey to London.”

  “Waylaid and murdered!” the secretary interjected. “The finest talents of sweet Englandia, butchered by Philip of Spain’s heinous envoys.”

  Walsingham raised a hand for silence and Master Tewkes reluctantly drew a great breath to stifle his fizzing outrage.

  “Henceforth,” Sir Francis continued, “I shall ensure the safety of such craftsmen by escorting them personally to the isle of London.”

  Lord Richard had listened to this discourse in mounting dismay. “You are going to take Edwin Dritchly away from Malmes-Wutton?” he murmured.

  “It is by Royal decree,” Walsingham answered with a cold finality in his voice. “We shall depart at first light.”

  “If you had the slightest notion of the approaching conflict,” Doctor Dee put in, “you would not demur.”

  Richard Wutton looked to the stage where Master Edwin was still making adjustments to the lutanist. Without his expertise the sole income of Malmes-Wutton would disappear, but that was not the impoverished Lord’s first thought.

  “What of his wife?” he asked. “Will she be permitted to accompany him?”

  “If he wishes.”

  Lord Richard drained his cup. “Edwin was never one for the city,” he said. “Nor is Mistress Dritchly, but if it is commanded then there is naught I can do to halt their going.”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” Walsingham stated.

  “Forgive me,” Master Tewkes broke in with a blank expression upon his sharp features. “But is this not the fourth time we have heard O Mistress Mine? Can your minstrels play no other music?”

  Unaware that his future was being discussed at the table, Master Dritchly had completed his repairs to the lutanist and urged Jack Flye to still the recorder player. The seventeen-year-old obeyed and the ensuing silence was a welcome relief to everyone.

  “I hate that stinky tune,” Henry muttered to Adam.

  “Hum hum,” Master Dritchly puffed, mopping his face with his hat. “Let us start them both up again.”

  The crests of both musicians were pressed and the mechanicals lifted their brass heads to await instruction.

  “The Honiesuckle,” Master Dritchly commanded.

  The two mannequins began to play. The sound, however, was horrible to hear, for although the lutanist was performing the desired melody, the recorder player had launched into O Mistress Mine for the fifth time.

  “Stop it!” Master Dritchly growled, but the mechanicals ignored him and the ear-jarring discord continued.

  Jack reached up to press the Wutton crest on the recorder player’s shoulder, but the device was jammed and would not budge beneath his fingers. The terrible noise persisted and Master Dritchly threw a worried glance at the table. A distressing grimness was etched into every face, even on that of his own Lord, and his blotches deepened to a rich plum colour.

  To extinguish this awful din, he gave the lutanist a sound slap and the instrument fell from the abruptly frozen fingers as the mannequin became like a statue. With a reverberating bump, the lute dropped to the floor but there was no time to attend to that. Jumping on to the stage, Master Edwin raised his fat fist and brought it down on the other musician’s shoulder.

  O Mistress Mine piped on regardless.

  “Be still!” Master Edwin ordered, hammering blow after blow upon the immovable crest. “I insist.”

  Watching from the side, Henry Wattle bit into his lip as he tried to keep from laughing, while Adam stared across to Lord Richard and his guests. “That Walsingham’s got a face to curdle cream,” he told the other apprentice.

  A sixth rendition of O Mistress Mine started and Richard Wutton refilled his cup. “Most unfortunate,” he announced, although secretly he was almost enjoying the embarrassing situation. If the ridiculous scene continued, Sir Francis might have second thoughts about removing Edwin Dritchly to London.

  “Can this foolery be all a part of the entertainment?” Master Tewkes suggested brightly. “Most novel of you, Lord Richard.”

  “Assuredly not,” his host informed him. “I really cannot think what Master Dritchly imagines he is doing.”

  Suddenly the music stopped for, in desperation, Master Edwin wrenched the recorder away, leaving the mechanical to blow only upon its twitching fingers. “Let that learn you!” the man hissed.

  The brass head turned to him and, to his astonishment, emitted a low “Moo”. Master Dritchly blinked in bewilderment and the musician snatched the recorder back from him. The all too familiar tune piped up again, louder and more shrill this time.

  Catching sight of Walsingham’s thunderous expression, Lord Richard feigned disappointment. “Perhaps his reputation is a trifle exaggerated,” he ventured.

  By this time Master Dritchly had lost all composure. “Be quiet!” he bawled at the obstinate mannequin. Then, discarding the final shreds of his dignity, he grabbed it by the throat and dragged the minstrel from the stage. The velvet-clad arms flailed wildly and the raucous notes squealed to a stop when the instrument was jolted from its grasp by Edwin’s violent shaking.

  “Back to the workshops!” he cried.

  Adam had never seen Master Dritchly look so furious, but the sight was too much for Henry. Clutching his stomach, the boy leaned against the wall, sobbing with laughter.

  The mechanical’s brass head was swinging from side to side in protest, but Master Dritchly had been pushed too far. “It’s the hammer for you,” he swore.

  Unfortunately, the man had forgotten that directly behind him the lute was still lying on the floor. Striding backwards, holding the recorder player aloft, his boot came crashing down through the wooden instrument. It slid along the ground and Edwin went tumbling through the air, with the musician crashing on top of him.

  Henry Wattle’s shriek of exploding glee could be heard throughout the manor house.

  “Get it off!” Master Dritchly yelled, wrestling with the thrashing mechanical. “It’s completely deranged.”

  Jack and Adam dashed forward to help, but the musician was stronger than all of them. Pounding its gloved fists against Edwin’s chest in revenge for its earlier rough handling, it shoved the apprentices away and began bleating like a sheep.

  Leaping to the stage, Jack Flye picked up the empty chair and smashed it against the mannequin’s side. The figure toppled from Master Dritchly’s stomach and Jack stamped on its back before it could recover.

  At once Adam sprang in, sitting on the shuddering shoulders as the musician attempted to rise. The determined mechanical was so powerful that Jack was pitched off balance, but Adam clun
g on and, taking hold of the brass head, unfastened the clasp.

  There was a dainty clang as half of the face fell to the ground and, before the chicken-claw fingers could come reaching for him, the boy delved inside and removed the ichors. With a droning moan, the figure slumped down – inert and motionless.

  “Good … good work, Cog Adam,” Master Dritchly huffed breathlessly while rubbing his bruised chest. “Hum hum … help Jack take it to the stables, and give young Wattle a kick to halt his hooting.”

  In disgusted silence, Walsingham watched the musicians being carried from the hall. Master Dritchly gave the table a shame-faced glance, then he too departed.

  “A highly unusual diversion,” Master Tewkes offered, not knowing what else to say.

  Doctor Dee turned to Sir Francis. “I propose we take the boy with us instead,” he stated wryly. “At least the lad knew how to put a stop to that absurd spectacle.”

  “I agree!” Lord Richard said quickly. “Adam could be a great help, I’m certain. Why, he’s called Adam o’the Cogs because that’s all he’s interested in. Always got his nose buried in some faulty clanker. Born to it, he was.”

  “The learned Doctor was speaking in jest,” Master Tewkes told him.

  Walsingham rose from his chair. “I have witnessed enough disgraceful nonsense this night,” he declared. “See that Edwin Dritchly knows of our plan. We leave at dawn.”

  His secretary followed him from the hall but, before Doctor Dee accompanied them, he looked long at Lord Richard. “Can you forgive me?” he asked.

  Richard Wutton turned to stare at the empty stage. “For this final privation?” he said. “I daresay the apprentices will struggle through. Jack Flye is quite proficient and the two youngsters are capable in their own fashion. Somehow we will manage.”

  “I did not mean what happened this evening,” the astrologer murmured. “This is all Walsingham’s doing, I wanted no part of it.”

  An embittered smile appeared on Lord Richard’s face. “And you had not the courage to gainsay him,” he said. “How familiar that sounds to me. No, John, go back to the horoscopes and mathematical formulae you cherish more than your fellow man. I do not forgive you and never shall.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Doctor Dee wrapped his robe about him and swept from the hall.

  Alone, Richard Wutton contemplated the task ahead. Telling Edwin that he was to leave for London the next morning was not going to be pleasant. Slowly he emptied his guests’ unfinished wine into his own cup and drank.

  An hour later the deed was done. Master Dritchly had received the news unhappily but without objection. He knew it would be futile to refuse but he was certain that his wife would not be so calm.

  She was not.

  A great deal of wailing and cursing had come from the kitchens but eventually the commotion had subsided and now the couple were discussing what was to be done. Mistress Dritchly loved her husband dearly but she could not bear to think of leaving Lord Richard’s service at such short notice. Between them it was decided that she would remain at the manor until a replacement could be found, then she would follow her husband to London.

  After speaking with his wife, Master Dritchly had gone to tell his apprentices. The boys sat at their benches in stunned disbelief and dejected silence pervaded the stables.

  Half-heartedly they started to dismantle the musicians to see what had gone wrong, but they were too preoccupied to concentrate on the task. After a while they climbed up to the loft where they threw themselves on to their beds.

  “S’pose you’ll be boss of us now,” Henry said to Jack.

  The older boy was chewing a piece of straw and merely grunted in response.

  “Reckon you can do it?” Henry persisted. “Can you tackle the tricky bits of work what come in?”

  Jack spat the straw from his mouth. “I can tackle you and that’s all you need bother about,” he said.

  “Eyes is always difficult,” Henry went on. “Old Dritchly might be a sweaty pink slug but he were clever with them eyes. Lining them up’s awkward; when I’ve had a go the lousy mechanicals end up with a squint and can’t walk in a straight line.”

  “Hush up, can’t you?” Jack groaned from the darkness. “We got to see the old boy off at dawn.”

  The hay loft fell quiet. It was a warm, airless night. Outside a morose snorting came drifting across the yard and Henry turned over restlessly. “Can’t sleep with that filthy row,” he grumbled.

  Adam had been lying on his back, staring up into the blackness which crammed the rafters. He could not sleep either but it was nothing to do with Old Temperance. The boy disliked change and he could not imagine what the workshop would be like without Master Dritchly to guide them along.

  Out in the piggery the great sow’s snuffling continued.

  “Foul, rumbling swine!” Henry seethed.

  “She’s missing the piglet,” Adam said softly. “Funny how they get attached to one another. I’ll go give him back to her.”

  Down the ladder he clambered. Then, taking up a lantern, he unhooked Suet and set about refilling a small glass phial with amber ichor taken from the recorder player. Fastening the two halves of the wooden creature together, Adam strolled out into the yard.

  Old Temperance’s large shadowy bulk was pressed against the piggery fence. The moment the sow saw him, the snorting grew louder and the glass lenses of her eyes glimmered in the dark.

  “Here you are,” Adam said, lifting Suet over the railing and pressing the Wutton crest on its back.

  Immediately the piglet jiggled into life, squirming in the boy’s grasp until he placed it upon the ground.

  “Glad to see someone happy,” Adam observed as Suet went scuttling for cover beneath its ‘mother’s’ barrel of a stomach.

  The mechanicals greeted one another with almost genuine affection and when Flitch, the other piglet, came scooting from the sty, the three of them went tearing about the piggery, squealing and squeaking as loud as their internals would permit.

  “Shut up or I’ll come down there and hack you all into kindling!” Henry’s voice shrieked from inside the stables.

  Adam managed a faint grin and, leaning on the fence, looked across to the manor. Several windows were still aglow with candlelight. In the topmost room, Mistress Dritchly was busily helping her husband to pack, and two of the guest bedchambers were similarly illuminated. A light downstairs showed that Lord Richard had not yet gone to bed. Adam guessed correctly that he had started on the October ale.

  “We’re going to have to work mighty hard once Master Edwin’s gone,” he told himself.

  Behind him, the wooden pigs had calmed themselves and Adam turned towards the stables.

  Hearing the boy leave, Suet came trotting to the fence where it rested its chin on the lowest rail and pushed out its snuffling nose. Then, very softly, it began to grunt and the sound brought Adam to a standstill. Slowly he turned around and gazed at the piglet in amazement. The little wooden mechanical was grunting to the tune of O Mistress Mine.

  “Suet?” he breathed. “How on …?”

  Before he could say any more, a frantic yell suddenly erupted from the barn and Jenks, Walsingham’s groom, came lunging out.

  “Fetch Dritchly!” the man called, running up to Adam and seizing him by the shoulders. “The horse! Belladonna! There’s something wrong! Quick, boy – quick!”

  All traces of the groom’s former sneering arrogance were gone and, glancing past him to the barn, Adam could see why. Through the wide, open doors he saw the magnificent steed of Sir Francis Walsingham staggering backwards and forwards, juddering alarmingly.

  “Shaking sickness!” Adam gasped.

  Jenks pushed him aside. “It cannot be!” he snapped fiercely. “No beast in my charge has ever succumbed to that. Go fetch your master!”

  Adam nodded and raced to the manor house. He understood why the groom had denied the suggestion with such vehemence. Shaking sickness was a rare, unexplaine
d condition which affected very few mechanicals. Yet once they fell victim to it, there was absolutely no hope of redemption. Every piece of internal working had to be completely scrapped and melted down. Even the ichors were ruined and had to be destroyed in case they infected another creation. If Walsingham’s grand horse did have the shaking sickness, then it was now only a four-legged lump of worthless metal.

  Hurrying into the manor house, Adam called for Master Dritchly. The groom dashed back to the barn and stared in horror at the plight of one of the most expensive horses in Englandia.

  The beast was shuddering all over. Each segment of black steel was scraping and grinding against the next and horrible screeches issued from the delicately crafted mechanisms. The proud head shook furiously and the obsidian eyes rolled in their sockets. Bronze hooves bruised the air and the silken tail cracked like a whip as the great hind legs kicked out at the barn walls.

  Fearfully, the groom held up his hands. “Belladonna!” he cried, trying to get within striking distance of the horse’s neck, where Walsingham’s crest was emblazoned. “Be at peace. Let me help you.”

  But the creature shied away. A grotesque, screeching neigh shrieked from its trembling mouth and Jenks saw threads of dark smoke escaping from the quivering joints.

  Roused by the clamour, Jack and Henry came racing across the yard. They stared at the scene, afraid and stupefied. “Where’s that other boy with Dritchly?” Jenks shouted in desperation.

  At that moment Adam came running from the manor, with Master Edwin huffing along behind, dressed in a nightshirt and pulling on his boots.

  Within the barn Belladonna lurched to one side, crashing into one of the other horses, denting it severely. Then back it came, its mighty legs shivering and stumbling beneath it. Throwing back the fabulous head, it gave a ghastly scream and the apprentices knew there was nothing anyone could do.

  “Heavens pickle and keep us!” Edwin Dritchly exclaimed, pushing past the gawping boys. “Hum hum, never in all my—”

  Before he could finish, Jenks whirled around and dragged him through the barn doors.

  “Save her!” he demanded. “Dritchly, you must!”