by Robin Jarvis
On reaching the yard, Jack whistled through his teeth. The area in front of the stables was crowded with many large crates and iron-bound chests.
“A consignment’s arrived,” he said in an irked tone. “Ain’t one due for another few days yet.”
Suddenly, from the workshop, a loud raspberry came blasting, followed by Henry’s unmistakable hooting. Pushing the doors wide, the Wattle boy came staggering out, laughing helplessly. “Listen!” he gasped when he saw that the others had returned. “It sounds just like a great big buttock buster! Ah – there it goes again!”
Another trumpeting raspberry ripped through the air and Henry fell to his knees, clutching his aching stomach.
“Can’t wait to see Widow Dritchly’s face when she hears that!” he honked. “Let’s not repair it, not for weeks and weeks – ’tis such a glorious marvel. I love each glisty spindle and every costly spring.”
Adam and Jack stared at him until a third ripe report blistered from the stables and they went to investigate. Inside the workshop they discovered even more crates and boxes and there, strutting disdainfully among these deliveries, was a beautiful, gilded peacock.
It was a magnificent and expensive mechanical, an extravagant, exquisite creation. Set upon a tapering, snake-like neck was a small regal head which jerked about to glare at them, while the tiny golden bells fixed within its crown tinkled sweetly.
Shuffling into the stables, Suet gave a snort of astonishment and hid behind his master. The peacock trained a glittering, haughty eye upon the piglet and lifted one of its elegant feet off the ground as if in disgust. Then it spread its ravishing plumage in a wide fan, which swept tools and instruments from the surrounding benches, and opened its prim and disapproving beak.
Yet, instead of the expected imperious cry, a ridiculous fruity parping gusted from the bird. Jack gave a curt nod of understanding. “Sound pipe’s perished,” he said, reaching out to hit the creature’s crest.
At once the bird became still and Jack examined the design with interest. “From the manor at Dunwich,” he said with surprise. “What they sending their faulties to us for? This sort of fancy work usually goes all the way to London.”
“There’s more like that in them boxes over there,” Henry interrupted, his voice still quivering with abating mirth as he came sloping in. “Been busier here this afternoon than I’ve ever known it. Hardly got a scrap of mine own work done. Three night barges there were, laden with repairs.”
“We must have most of the broken mechanicals in the whole of Suffolk here!” Adam exclaimed. “Why?”
Jack’s eyes gleamed beneath his curtaining fringe. “The visitor,” he guessed. “Rumour’s got around already. Folk want to see him and these repairs are just an excuse to come to Malmes-Wutton.”
“That’s just how it is,” Henry declared. “Them crates arrived with a steward who went to see Lord Richard. Went to the sickroom he did, only Widow Dritchly wouldn’t let him in. So did another who brung a chest of twenty goldfish what only need a good polishing. Came to steal a glimpse at our ‘heavenly messenger’, that’s what they really journeyed here for.”
Jack flicked the hair from his face. “Is that what they’re calling him in the neighbouring isles?” he muttered in irritation. “I don’t like that, and nor will Lord Richard.”
“Why not?” Henry asked.
The older boy fixed him with a reproachful stare. “Because them at court will get to hear of it,” he said. “How long do you reckon it’ll take the Queen’s ministers to get back here, when they find out?”
It was an unpleasant prospect and Henry fell silent. Adam looked around at the cluttered workshop and knew that Jack was right. He could not imagine how many nobles would descend upon Wutton Old Place this time. Yet, even as he despised the notion, he could not help thinking that it would be agreeable to see Doctor Dee and Lantern once more.
The softly snorting strains of O Mistress Mine came floating up from the piglet at his feet and they were all sharply reminded just how perilous a visit from the Queen’s ministers could be.
“We’ll say nothing to anyone outside Malmes-Wutton,” Jack decided. “When the owners of these mechanicals return to collect them, and whoever else brings more, we don’t so much as mention the stranger to them.”
The others agreed. “Won’t do no good though,” Henry mumbled. “They can see that whopping great thing stuck in our sky plain enough.”
At that moment they heard the sound of heavy footsteps running across the yard and Anne Sowerby, the idle kitchen maid, came lumbering into the workshop.
“Jack!” she cried, her eyes bulging as she leaned heavily against the wall and panted for breath. “Lord Richard tells you – oh my, I weren’t made for dashing about – I feels awful ill and gaspy and my foot’s a-throbbin’.”
Jack Flye hurried to the entrance. “What’s happened?” he demanded.
Still wheezing, Anne looked at him blankly. At fifteen years of age, she was a shiftless girl who sought and found as many reasons to shirk and delay her chores as often as she could. Lately her favourite excuse was that of a black-headed wart which festered on her foot and which she called an abscess. When she remembered, she even contrived to limp. With a ruddy complexion scarred by a bout of meezles, and dull green eyes which showed no flicker of shame when she lied, Anne was one of the main pokers which stoked the flames of Mistress Dritchly’s anger.
Recently she had taken a shine to Master Flye and, looking at him now, pushed a broad smile across her face, revealing her small, gappy teeth. “How you caught the sun on your neck today,” she cooed admiringly. “Like a real gypsy with your dark hair and burned skin.”
Ignorant of her secret yearning, Jack thought the girl was being more stupid than usual. “What of the message from Lord Richard?” he snapped.
“Oh that!” Anne shrugged with indifference. “He calls for you to go to the sickroom as he might have need of you there. Without delay, he said, but they always say that, don’t they? Makes no matter when a task’s done so long as you gets around to it in the end, that’s what I says.”
But she was speaking to herself for Jack had sprinted towards the manor house and she pouted sulkily.
“What’s he wanted there for?” Henry asked.
Fiddling with her lank brown hair, the girl answered with a disinterested moan. “That Spaniard feller they’re nursin’,” she drawled. “Seems like he’s wakin’ up at last.”
Within the sickroom, Richard Wutton and Mistress Dritchly stared at the figure in the bed, excited and anxious. Every opening in that unnatural face was trembling – quivering and dilating like the tiny mouths of stranded fish. “Merciful Lord in Heaven,” Mistress Dritchly whispered as, suddenly, the many nostrils flared and took a deep, savouring breath.
“There can be no doubt,” Lord Richard murmured. “The swoon is lifting.”
Even as he spoke, Jack came leaping up the stairs and bolted along the landing to the bedchamber. Lord Richard beckoned him into the room but signalled for quiet. “I sent for you as a precaution only,” he said softly. “Our guest may not prove as friendly as we could wish and we might require your strength, Master Flye.”
Jack nodded and tensed himself as a plaintive groan issued from the creature’s thin lips. Mistress Dritchly clasped her round face in her hands.
“He wakes,” she murmured.
A curving slice of bright yellow appeared beneath the bandaged brow as the patient stirred from unconsciousness and, very slowly, the eyelid eased open. Mistress Dritchly had seen the remarkable horseshoe-shaped iris before but the others had not, and they muttered under their breath in astonishment.
An instant later, a rapid clumping up the stairs announced the arrival of Adam and Henry. They were determined not to miss the excitement and they stumbled over one another in the doorway, gaping and amazed.
“Bum boils!” Henry hissed. “Just look at that!”
Mistress Dritchly’s practised hand flashed out
to deliver an admonishing smack to his head, yet she was far too absorbed in her charge’s awakening to bundle the intruding boys out of the chamber. Every attention was glued upon the stirring figure and the atmosphere within the sickroom crackled with fearful anticipation.
Adam held his breath as he gazed into the emerald crescent of the stranger’s yellow eye. He could not begin to imagine what would happen next – what if the rumours and hopeful suspicions were true? Could this long-limbed creature really be a messenger of the Almighty? Were they about to hear an angel’s voice? Mistress Dritchly obviously thought as much, judging by the rapture written clear across her doughy face.
Slowly, the livid eye began to roam about the chamber, starting with the plaster ceiling then dropping to take in the panelled walls. At last it flicked between each of those persons present. This time there was no fear, only a wary curiosity, combined with the wincing awareness of the pain from his wounds.
With his nostrils tasting the air, the patient registered the faces of those who had cared for him and, with a clearing mind, was finally able to link sight and scent. Close by was the pink and careworn form of Mistress Dritchly, the one whose floury presence he had perceived before. He was vaguely aware that she had been almost constantly by his side, the stale echoes of her company lingered in every corner of the room and the knowledge comforted him.
Another familiar scent was that of Lord Richard. Here was the owner of that pleasant fermenting fragrance, which had seeped into the oblivion of his long sleep and brought with it remote visions of ripening grain and spoiling fruit.
Jack Flye’s appearance struck only a distant note of recognition, but the day’s exertions had clothed the youth in loud degrees of grime, sweat and sunburned skin. Adam was similarly wrapped, but Henry was different; no hard toil clung to his form. The sharpness of filed metal covered his fingers, but olive-coloured vapours swirled about the seat of his breeches.
When he had drunk in each of the onlookers, the stranger’s thin lips parted and he struggled to speak.
Mistress Dritchly clasped her round face in her hands but Lord Richard bowed courteously and said, “Good evening, Sirrah. It eases our hearts to see you awake at last.”
The flame-pigmented skin around the bright lemon eye crinkled as the creature frowned.
“He don’t understand English,” Jack murmured.
“I could try him with a little Latin,” Lord Richard suggested. “Although I doubt if even then …”
Before he could begin, the patient raised his head off the pillows, cringing at the pain caused by the movement. Then he opened his mouth, and suddenly the bedchamber rang to one of the most beautiful sounds any of them had ever heard.
It was a language which had never before been uttered in that uplifted world. More like a song than mere words, yet nearer to music than singing, and the very atmosphere of the bedchamber seemed to lighten. “Heavenly,” Mistress Dritchly declared, enchanted.
“Old John Dee’s Enochian researches,” Lord Richard marvelled. “Those angelic voices of his …”
Compared to the sublime sound of their visitor, their own speech was harsh and brutal, but Adam’s mouth fell open in wonder when he heard them.
“Then … then it’s true!” he stammered. “This fellow really is … is a messenger of the Almighty!”
“Pope’s armpits!” blurted Henry.
The captivating music came to a halt and Richard Wutton hastily tried to retract what he had let slip.
“Dear me, no,” he cried. “I was only pondering foolhardy thoughts aloud. Don’t you go repeating my rash words in the village – there’s rumour enough already.”
“They won’t,” Jack promised. “We spoke of this afore.”
Upon the bed, the stranger was gingerly touching his bandaged eye, then viewed the burns which marred the back of his hand. He shuddered. The entrancing music began once more and he fumbled at his throat as though searching for something.
“Don’t excite yourself,” Mistress Dritchly told him. “’Tis food you’ll be wanting after all these days. I’ll get Anne to heat up a bit of broth for you.” She paused then tutted to herself. “No, I’ll see to it myself or ’twould be suppertime before that snail-child puts a pot to heat.”
Beaming with pride at the successful outcome of her nursing, and eager to feed her charge, she fled the room and pounded down the stairs.
Adam and Henry had rushed so swiftly into the manor that Suet had been left in the stables, but the little mechanical had followed them and was even now attempting to negotiate the stairway.
Mistress Dritchly’s voluminous bulk went sailing by and the piglet scooted close to the banister for safety from her whirling skirts. Then he resumed his clambering journey. It was not easy, for his trotters were short and each step demanded much concentration and effort. Puffing out his snout, Suet doggedly scaled the stairs.
In the sickroom, Lord Richard scratched his head in frustration. It was maddening not being able to make himself understood, and there were so many questions he longed to ask.
His singular guest was similarly confounded. A crooked smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he regarded them.
“We’re as much a mystery to him as he is to us,” Adam said.
“I don’t think there is much in any of the beatified isles with which he would be familiar,” Richard Wutton agreed, observing the stranger stare in perplexity at the lighted candles. “It appears that even the simplest and most commonplace items are new and beyond his experience.”
“P’raps he’s used to better,” Henry suggested.
Lord Richard sank into a chair and began to chuckle with amusement. “I think young Wattle has the measure of him,” he said. “I truly believe that our injured friend here believes he is amongst barbarians. Who are we to gainsay him, even if we spoke the same tongue? Hello, what’s this?”
A dainty clattering sounded unexpectedly upon the landing, accompanied by a triumphant snort. Suet came gambolling into the bedchamber, capering joyfully through the rushes and leaping up against his master’s legs, highly pleased with his achievement.
“Cog Adam!” Lord Richard said sternly. “A pig has no business in a sickroom – remove it before Mistress Dritchly returns.”
Reluctantly lifting the mechanical off the ground and tucking it under his arm, the boy turned to leave.
“Wait!” Lord Richard cried. “Behold our guest!”
The moment Suet had entered, the stranger had leaned forward in the bed and his injured face was a picture of disbelief as he stared at the wooden piglet. Signalling Adam to draw closer, his melodic voice babbled forth and he ran his bandaged hand over Suet’s wooden sides, trying to peer between the joins at the internals.
The piglet grunted happily at being the centre of attention and Lord Richard nodded to himself as he viewed the stranger’s astonishment.
“’Twould appear that we are not as primitive as he first thought,” he said wryly.
Musical sighs of wonder issued from the patient’s lips as he examined Suet and it was plain that there was much he wished to ask. Growing agitated, he glanced about the room then tugged at the nightshirt that Mistress Dritchly had provided for him.
“He’s asking for his own attire!” Adam declared. “There must be something he wants from it.”
Lord Richard opened the chest which stood at the end of the bed and hauled out the stranger’s torn and scorched costume. At once the clothing was snatched from his hands but, whatever the mysterious visitor needed, it was not there and a moment later the apparel was flung across the room.
“He’s tapping his throat again,” Henry said. “Maybe he’s swallowed a moth.”
Lord Richard’s face rumpled with thought. “Something which he wears about his neck,” he pondered. “A chain of office perhaps? A miniature portrait? A costly jewel?”
The stranger was staring at him intently, as though willing him to comprehend, but Lord Richard shook his head and his guest slump
ed back against the pillows.
“Here’s a lovely bit of broth, my angel,” Mistress Dritchly called as she bustled back into the room with a steaming bowl. “Oh, Cog Adam! Get away with that foul pig – be off with the pair of you. You also, Henry Wattle – get gone. You’ve both seen enough this night, so be thankful and depart.”
Henry grumbled mutinously. There was no love lost between himself and Edwin Dritchly’s widow and he was forever seeking new ways to bring little rain clouds of annoyance into her life. There was no arguing with her, however, and both boys were briskly herded from the bedchamber. “Just wait till my new project’s ready,” he vowed at the door which closed in his face. “If it don’t make her shriek her kitchen down then I’ll kiss Anne Sowerby’s abscess. What say you to that, Coggy?”
But Adam was not listening. All expression had drained from his face and he gazed at Henry with glittering eyes.
“I know what the stranger wants,” he breathed. “I’ve seen it.”
Normally Henry would have scoffed at his friend, but Adam was so sure and the lights which danced in his eyes disconcerted him.
“I’m going to go fetch it now,” Adam cried, taking the stairs two at a time. “Come on!”
Haring after him, Henry asked, “But where is it?”
“Out there,” Adam called back. “In the dark – in the wood.”
“But Old Scratch is there!” Henry yelled. “Adam, come back – Adam!”
CHAPTER 2
A Shiny Blue Acorn
“This is madness!” Henry protested. He had caught up with Adam in the stables where the boy was arming himself with a strong stick and a hammer.
“Stay behind if you’re afraid,” Adam told him, deliberately nettling the other apprentice’s pride. “Suet and me will go on our own.”
