by Robin Jarvis
“Mistress!” Jack Flye objected, appalled to hear her utter such sedition.
“Tush!” she retorted. “You were too young to know the truth of it, so think not to silence me.”
Glaring at the road which Thomas Herrick had taken, the widow of Edwin Dritchly peeled away the years in her mind.
“Before the Beatification,” she began, half closing her small grey eyes to remember how it was before the sky was scored with strips of lead and arched buttresses of chiselled masonry, “Lord Richard was a great friend of Robert Dudley, the Queen’s favourite. There, I’ve said the name aloud at last. Oh, never has a man been as close to Her as he. They were children together and, in the time of Catholic Mary, were both confined in the Old Tower that was. When Elizabeth became Queen they were a scandal spoken across Europe. They were inseparable, always riding and dancing with no time for any other.”
Mistress Dritchly lowered her gaze as the confining firmament impressed itself upon her once more.
“After the Uplifting,” she continued, “they became even closer. She made him Earl of Leicester and they played at lovers – there were some who gossiped that they did more than play. It could not continue. Lord Richard foresaw it and privily warned Robert Dudley, but he would heed no counsel. He believed that the Queen and he would marry – vain fool.”
There was a pause as she sucked the air through her teeth and folded her arms, doubting if she should proceed. The memories were more painful than she had anticipated.
“What happened?” Adam goaded. “How did this bring about Lord Richard’s banishment? Did he say something wrong to the Queen?”
Mistress Dritchly bristled in defence of her master. “Him? Do aught incorrect? You do not know him if you think that, Cog Adam!” she said hotly. “To be steadfast and true, that’s why he was punished.”
“How?”
“Between Her Majesty and Robert Dudley some quarrel occurred – I know not what, but the Earl of Leicester fell from favour more swiftly than a stone. There had been stormy upsets before but none to match this and all at court were petrified to intervene. To the Tower She sent him, that place more feared than its namesake in the old world. His property and wealth were seized, and the isle of Kenilworth, in which he built a castle for the Queen’s delight, was locked and is still a place forbidden.”
“An entire island locked?” Adam breathed in amazement.
“Bless me, yes! Barred and sealed and the linking chains severed. The Queen had never been in such a foul, blue-faced temper before. So terrible was Her anger that Robert Dudley’s name was not even to be mentioned and no one dared defy Her or support him.”
Turning her head, the woman looked with pride at the manor house. “None except a single brave soul, Dudley’s loyal friend – Sir Richard Wutton. He was the only one who spoke out and was bold enough to defend him to Her face, appealing on his behalf. But it was too late. None ever return from the Tower and Her heart was hardened. Dudley was never seen again and Malmes-Wutton was stripped of its incomes.”
Hearing this, Adam and Jack finally understood why their master had no love for the court or those who made their life there. Respect and devotion swelled in their hearts and they longed to make him proud of them.
A sharp blast ricocheted across the yard. Anne Sowerby had been listening to all that had been said and, overcome by the tale, was blowing her nose on her sleeve.
Brindle stared at the girl, aghast at the uncouth action, but it reminded Mistress Dritchly that there were pressing matters which had to be dealt with.
“I must attend to Lord Richard’s wardrobe,” she declared. “I would not have him appear shabby before the Queen and you, my angel – you must have fitting garments also. I shall see what I can amend of Edwin’s. I’ll not have Her looking down Her nose at either of you.”
Sweeping the snivelling Anne Sowerby before her, Mistress Dritchly sailed into the manor and launched herself into an afternoon of frenzied activity.
Brindle hung back, feeling awkward and, in spite of what she had said, very much to blame.
“I have no desire to meet with your Sovereign,” he murmured. “Look at the misery this summons has caused.”
Jack shrugged. “I think Lord Richard reckoned this would happen,” he said. “He’s been dreading this from the moment you came amongst us.”
“What shall I do?”
“Whatever you can to restore him to favour, if that be a thing at all possible. Succeed – and I’ll really believe you’re an angel.” Laughing, the seventeen-year-old turned to his apprentice. “Come on, Cog Adam,” he said. “Let’s see how Henry has fared with them faulties.”
Adam gave Brindle a grin then trailed after Jack, and Suet in his turn waddled after him. Alone in the yard, the Iribian was filled with doubt. Stranded among this strange people, who did not belong in this desolate region any more than he did himself and who did not understand the superior science which surrounded them, he felt wretched and vulnerable.
Grinding the gravel under his heel, he spun around and wearily headed for the rose garden.
Henry Wattle had slaved all morning on the wooden ponies. When Jack and Adam entered the workshop, they found that the remaining two were finished and the boy hard at work on the stallion.
“Enough,” Jack said warmly. “You have laboured long. I shall complete the repairs.”
A relieved Henry thanked him, then fired a volley of questions at both of them.
“What was the night boat like inside?” he demanded. “Who was on that horse that rode by before? What’s happening?” The boy was so anxious for news and so bereft of his usual irreverent cheerfulness that Adam forgave him his jibes of the previous night. Between him and Jack they told Master Wattle everything that had passed in the Iribian’s vessel and all about Thomas Herrick.
“Going to London!” Henry cried as soon as he heard. “Bum boils! Who else is Lord Richard taking?”
This was something neither of them had considered and Jack’s face lit up at the prospect. “I’d like to look on that great isle,” he confessed. “To view the splendour of that big city and its river – just the once.”
Henry sighed dreamily. “Only the grandly rich dwell there,” he pined. “I’d dearly wish to live in a palace with golden roofs and have the finest mechanicals attend me.”
Jack scoffed at the notion and busied himself with mending the horse’s head.
“You’re sure to be picked,” Henry muttered jealously. “If I begged Lord Richard do you suppose …?”
Jack’s laughter obliterated the question and Henry slumped on to his stool, sullen and miserable.
“Well I wouldn’t like to go,” Adam said. “Sounds a frightening place, that isle does – brimming with villainy and every vice, so Mistress Dritchly says. Look what happened when the nobles came here. Nay, I’ll adhere to Malmes-Wutton and be content.”
“You’re plain stupid,” Henry commented.
A short while later, Jack Flye was discreetly gumming the usual ‘A Wutton Restoration’ label inside the horse’s head and reattaching it to the truncated neck.
It appeared to be a serviceable beast – nothing elaborate or unduly expensive – and he was curious to see how the repair would hold. The esquire who brought it had told him that the mechanical had formed a habit of tossing its head at an awkward angle and that was how it jammed. Jack thought it prudent to check whether this tendency had been tamed in the mending and pressed the crest set into the stallion’s shoulder.
At once the creature flicked its braided tail, and the shudder which denoted many of the lesser automata shook it into life. Bronze hooves stamped upon the workshop floor and the glass orbs of its eyes rolled in the polished metal head. Throwing a saddle over its back, Jack secured the fastenings then led the stallion into the yard, listening to the whirrs and clicks that accompanied its movement.
“Bring the ponies,” he told the others. “Let us ride these uncomely beasts and see how well we have corre
cted their flaws.”
Three more crests were pushed and a moment later the wooden ponies came plodding from the stables.
“I don’t think I can ride,” Henry grumbled, ruefully rubbing the seat of his breeches. “My dad’s got heavy hands and I’m still tingling.”
Fetching another saddle from the workshop, Jack thrust it into the boy’s hands. “It’ll take your mind off it,” he said.
“Not my mind I’m worried about,” Henry replied.
As the apprentices began buckling the saddles to two of the wooden mounts, Lord Richard emerged from the manor, his face still troubled. He called Jack over to him.
“Master Flye!” he began. “I have decided that you will accompany friend Brindle and myself on this unpleasant journey. I trust you will lay objection aside and consent.”
Somehow Jack managed to hide the smile which threatened to leap upon his face and nodded solemnly. “Oh yes, My Lord,” he uttered. “If you will it so.”
“My thanks,” Richard Wutton said, his breath betraying the mug of ale he had downed to settle his shaken nerves. “There is one more place to be filled. Mistress Dritchly must remain in charge here, so perhaps a fellow from the village? I was thinking Josiah Panyard. What say you?”
Jack sucked the inside of his cheek. “A mite too fond of harking to his own counsel with little regard to that of others,” he finally answered.
“Like as not,” Lord Richard agreed reluctantly. “And friend Brindle will need to be at ease for his encounter with the Queen. Who am I to choose?”
Brushing the hair from his face, Jack looked across at the two boys standing by the ponies. “What of Cog Adam?” he ventured. “The stranger likes him well enough.”
“No, no,” Lord Richard said hastily. “Not him, but what of the other – the Wattle lad?”
“Henry?” Jack spluttered.
“Aye. He might prove a match for Her Majesty’s sharp tongue. A pity his tin vermin are not captured – I should have dearly liked to set them capering about the royal palaces. So be it, I have decided. Henry Wattle it is. Tell him the news and both make ready for departing on the morrow.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Jack went to inform Henry of his unwarranted good fortune but was instantly called back by Lord Richard.
“You are readying those steeds to be ridden?” he asked as if noticing the mechanicals for the first time.
“Yes, My Lord.”
Richard Wutton rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Send one of the lads to bring Brindle here,” he said. “The Queen’s passion is Her horses. It would stand him in good stead if he could learn something of the art before we leave.”
And so, as Henry’s whooping shrieks of delight rang beneath the firmament, Adam was dispatched to fetch the Iribian, with Suet scampering in his shadow. The boy knew precisely where to find him and walked briskly to the rear of the manor house, much to the piglet’s greedy glee.
There in the garden, Brindle was sitting cross-legged before the roses, his head dropped to his chest, fast asleep in their cleansing scent.
Adam did not like to wake him but could not disobey his master’s commands. Gently he nudged the Iribian’s shoulder and Brindle stirred, the blue stone of the torc pronouncing the words he mumbled drowsily.
They were the names of his children and Adam felt like an intruder, breaking in upon his dreams. Guiltily, the apprentice stood back as Mistress Dritchly’s angel came blinking from sleep, refreshed and willing to participate in this unusual practice of riding a four-legged device.
As soon as they had retrieved Suet from the vegetable plot once more, they strode back to the yard and Brindle was assigned the stallion as it was the only mount capable of accommodating his height. Sitting tall in the saddle, the Iribian appeared uncomfortable, uncertain what to do with the reins and stirrups. Lord Richard tried to explain, then decided that experience was the best tutor and set the horse pacing about the yard.
Confounded by the jolting movements of the beast beneath him, Brindle almost leaped clear but was quickly assured that it was perfectly safe.
Seated upon the ponies, Jack and the apprentices drew alongside to prove that there was nothing to fear. The three of them had ridden many times before; there were always horses passing through the workshop to be repaired and it had become second nature to them. Almost immediately, however, Adam was forced to dismount because Suet kept running between the pony’s hooves and the boy was worried that he might accidentally be trampled.
“You stay in here for now,” Adam instructed, lifting the piglet over the piggery fence and setting him down by Old Temperance and Flitch. “Don’t whine like that – it’s for your own good.”
Pushing his snout between the rails, Suet glumly watched Adam climb back on to the pony, then sat on the ground – dejected.
“That’s better,” Lord Richard commented, noting Brindle’s growing confidence. “You’re beginning to handle it less like a timid goose. There, you learn swiftly.”
Round and around the yard Brindle walked the steel horse and, to his own astonishment, actually started to enjoy the sensation. A kick of his heels against the sensitive plates upon either flank spurred the mechanical to a trot and his scarred face creased with smiles.
“An amusing pastime!” he called to Lord Richard. “There is naught like this upon Iribia.”
Jack and the others impelled their ponies to keep up with him and the wooden creatures went rattling and clunking over the gravel, shaking their riders and bringing a pained expression to Henry’s face.
Everyone was surprised at how quickly Brindle overcame his awkwardness. In no time he had the measure and mastery of the steel charger and it was clear to Lord Richard that he was no longer content to circle the yard.
“How swift may these devices travel?” Brindle called.
“’Tis for you to discover!” his host answered.
Brindle flashed a grin at him then gave the plates an urgent kick. Throwing back its head, the metal horse let out a shrill whinny then bolted off across the lawn. Standing in the stirrups, the Iribian yelled with exultation, steering the beast on to the road which led through the village.
“Well don’t let him leave you like statues,” Lord Richard cried in mock outrage. “Go race him.”
With one shout, Jack and the apprentices went clattering from the yard and the master of the estate almost forgot the heaviness that lay on his spirit.
Through the small village Brindle galloped his horse, his yellowish grey face bent over the steed’s steel neck and his long hair streaming out behind. The warm air carried a hundred scents and they mingled with the excitement of this new experience, making him light-headed, and he laughed loudly.
Startled faces appeared at the small windows of the cottages and people in the street leaped out of his way. Past the church and over the green he sped, where the calm surface of the pond erupted with fleeing brass ducks.
When the three ponies came cantering after, their riders saw that he had already reached the fork in the track where the left-hand path led to the jetty beneath the ground.
“It’s incredible how fast he picked it up,” Jack remarked. “He’s a better horseman now than any I’ve seen.”
“He’s returning,” Adam said. “Just watch him fly over the grass. I couldn’t get such motion from that steed.”
Henry raised himself off the saddle and delicately rearranged the folds in his breeches. “Suck a custard!” he scorned. “Of course he’s rode before. What dupes you are. Anyone can tell he was play-acting at not being able. I tell you, Coggy, there’s more to your flower seller than he lets on.”
There was no chance to argue for Brindle was almost upon them. Skirting around the church, he drove his horse splashing through the edge of the pond and raised a hand in greeting. “First back to the manor!” he challenged.
Jack and the others needed no further incitement and wheeled their wooden ponies about, tearing back through the village.
&
nbsp; The cloud of dust which filled the street from the three sets of hooves was doubled moments later by Brindle’s stallion as he shot between the cottages, provoking angry but admiring cries from the inhabitants. The clamour of the race thundered beneath the firmament and, leaning against the piggery fence, Lord Richard watched the last stretch.
Jack was leading, followed by Adam and Henry who were level with each other, yet Brindle was swiftly gaining on them. In the bright June sunshine, the steel horse glinted and gleamed over the road, like a flash of light skimming across a river.
Just as Henry started to pull away from Adam, the Iribian passed them both and was catching up to Jack. An instant later and they were neck and neck. Then the horse shot ahead and, before Lord Richard could open his mouth to cheer, was suddenly crunching over the gravel of the yard. “Astonishing!” he cried as Brindle brought the steed to a stamping halt and welcomed the others home.
“Did you see it, My Lord?” Jack exclaimed. “We had a full half furlong gain on him and still he romped by us.”
“I had the fortune of the better steed,” Brindle said modestly.
In the piggery Suet jumped up and down as Adam came cantering into the yard behind Henry, and both boys praised Brindle’s skill.
“The Queen will be rightly pleased,” Lord Richard applauded. “She will surely command you to ride with Her and it is good that you will impress. Few men ever become so proficient. She may even invite you on a hunt.”
Brindle looked at him blankly.
“Another favourite recreation of Hers,” Lord Richard explained. “She revels in the sport, hunting the mechanical game, whether it be stag or …”
“Wild boar!” Jack interrupted. “My Lord, is this not a perfect time to rid the estate of Old Scratch’s menace? If we could still him once and for all, my conscience would be greatly relieved. His cordials could then be put in balance and never again would the woodland be a place of fear.”
