by Robin Jarvis
“A divine visitor is what they’re saying,” he jabbered, wiping his hands on his apron and taking hold of the Iribian’s arm. “Fell out of Heaven, I heard. Why, you’re well come, good master – it’s the finest room you’ll be having! I’m certain sure Master Herrick won’t be minding as he normally resides there.”
Limping into the inn, John Chester trawled Brindle after him.
“A shame about your room,” Lord Richard goaded Herrick.
“I was going to surrender it anyway,” came the unconvincing reply. “Who does that lame oaf think he is, laying his common hands upon His Excellency’s person?”
Richard Wutton winked at the two apprentices then pushed into the tavern, licking his lips at the prospect of the costly wine which he would drink that night.
And so Henry and Adam entered the Copper Cow. By the time they stepped through the doorway, a deathly hush had already descended and it was like walking into a painting, for no one moved and every goggling eye was fixed on Brindle.
Adam had never seen so many people gathered in one place before. It was almost double the entire population of Malmes-Wutton. The patrons of the inn were a disparate brew: old and young mingled with the grave and merry. Many of them were local, downing ale after the sport of the cock pit, but others were travellers – merchants and sailors seeking diversion from the ships anchored down at the quay.
Every stool and standing space was taken. In one corner an area had been set aside for the playing of dice while, throughout the low-beamed room, games of cards were under way. Yet all motion was frozen and Adam nearly laughed at their half frightened expressions.
Brindle’s nostrils quailed and shrank from the smell in the room. It was far more stuffy and airless than the latter part of the voyage had been. To make matters worse, few of the people gathered there ever bathed and others hardly washed. Puddles of spilt ale saturated the floor and someone had puked under a table. To the Iribian the crawling reek was appalling and he coughed at the unholy stench which battered his delicate senses.
But it was impossible for him to leave; the landlord had him by the arm and a superior grin was plastered over his weathered face, divulging the absence of many teeth.
“See here!” Hobbling John proclaimed with consummate pride to his dumbstruck customers. “There’s an angel in my tavern.”
Immediately the talk broke out again. Most of them had heard the rumour of the Suffolk miracle and each had something to say about it. Someone crossed himself and dropped to his knees while another fell off a stool and tumbled against the table behind, scattering the players’ cards.
“What ails its eye?” one of the braver souls at the back called out.
Thomas Herrick stepped forward, his costly clothes giving them no doubt that he was a nobleman and not to be disputed. It would be best to make certain that they were in awe of his authority.
“I am on an errand for Her Glorious Majesty, Elizabeth,” he announced in his most imposing, haughty tone while placing his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “He that obstructs or hinders me shall suffer the severest penalty. I will not have His Excellency, Lord Brindle, plagued with foolish questions. There will be no pleas for healing and no heretical mutterings – is that understood?”
A sea of heads nodded dumbly and he turned back to Hobbling John. “Attend to our rooms,” he instructed. “This rabble is no company for such an exalted guest. But first bring us ale and wine. It has proven a most dry day in every meaning of the word.”
The landlord released the Iribian’s arm and hurried away. Brindle turned a concerned face to Lord Richard.
“Is that why your Queen has sent for me?” he whispered. “Can She truly think I am capable of healing? I am not the angel your people believe or wish me to be. If She truly expects it then She will be sorely disappointed.”
Richard Wutton agreed. It was a disturbing thought and one even he had not anticipated.
“No,” he muttered after consideration, making certain no one else could hear him. “Elizabeth is no fool. She will not think you are from the Almighty, yet what Her subjects suppose is another matter. How can She who was only anointed before God compare with one whom the populace believe hails from His very kingdom? She is a jealous monarch and will suffer no rivals, friend Brindle – again I say beware.”
Since leaving the night barge, Henry Wattle’s churning stomach had been gradually settling but, in that stifling room, it wormed and squelched within him once more. Fighting it in silence he was beginning to think he could win the battle when, suddenly, his eyes caught sight of the vomit beneath the table and the struggle was over.
“I have to go outside!” he balked, rushing to the door and hurling himself into the yard.
Stumbling against the cock pit, the apprentice took frantic, gulping breaths until, eventually, the burning in his throat abated and he let out a long dismal moan. For several minutes he stood there, gripping the circular fence. Then the urge to feel a cool breeze upon his face took possession of him, and he left the enclosed yard and strolled into the street.
Standing beneath the broken mechanical cow, he wiped his damp forehead and let the summer draughts refresh him. The unusual inn sign creaked on its chains and Henry regarded it with professional interest.
“An afternoon in the workshop and I’d have you booting landlords again,” he said aloud. “There’s no mechanical Henry Wattle can’t mend, no matter how rusted they are.”
“That crippled pirate kicked you out as well, has he?”
Henry jumped at the unexpected voice and, for a startled instant, thought it was the cow who had spoken.
“Who said that?” he demanded.
“Loaded dice and tainted cards, that’s his sharp game,” the bitter snarl continued.
Henry whipped around and peered into the darkness which shrouded the far side of the road. “I needed to take the air,” was all he could think of in answer.
A movement stirred in the shadows. “The chit’s ill, is he?”
From the concealing gloom a sinewy figure emerged, and the boy recognised it as belonging to Clink Kitson, the man the landlord had thrown out when they arrived.
“I’m feeling better now,” Henry said, backing slowly into the yard.
“Don’t you be going yet,” Clinker cried, his long legs leaping quickly across the lane. “It’s only a chat I be wanting. I was just sat over there on my lonesome, cursing my rotten fortune and wishing a judgement upon cheating folk who limp, when I hears your sparky words.”
Henry affected a yawn and stretched his arms. “I’m really tired,” he began, edging warily away.
“All I ask,” Clinker begged, “is for you to run your expert eye over Jackspur, my fighting cockerel. Them brutes of Hobble John’s have done for him good and proper, and I don’t know how to fix the sorry wreckage. Folk say that squash-nose tops up their red temper with humour taken from his mad dogs and I’ll believe it now.”
“Jack?” Henry murmured.
“Jackspur, that’s right.”
The apprentice stared up at the man’s pinched and hungry face. “Too much red ichor …” he whispered, as his thoughts travelled back to the woods of Malmes-Wutton and the clearing where Jack Flye had been killed.
“Dishonest, that is, and downright deadly.”
Henry found himself agreeing. “Where is your mechanical?” he said readily. “I’ll see what I can do to repair him.”
Clink Kitson laughed and clapped the boy on the back.
“Over there, young master,” he said, flitting back across the street. “I bagged up all the bits I could find. A real piteous state he’s in. How you’ve raised my spirits; if you can only get little Jackspur up and pecking again I’ll swear you’re the best tin doctor I’ve ever heard of.”
Kitson capered like a giant daddy long legs to the entrance of a shadow-drowned alleyway that sneaked between two stone buildings. His caution forgotten, Henry followed.
“Here he is,” Clinker said,
crouching to pick a bag from the ground. “Poor Jackspur’s in there.”
Henry took the tinkling bundle but, before he could even open it, the man threw a wiry arm around his throat and dragged him into the darkness. His heels scraping along the alley floor, the apprentice kicked and struggled. He tried to call out but Kitson’s arm was crushing against his windpipe and he could barely breathe. Then a point of cold steel pressed into his neck and the man sniggered menacingly in his ear.
“Just like a little coney,” he growled. “Now, this poacher’s going to see what’s in that travel bag the little rabbit’s got strapped so tight to his shoulder. Fine company he keeps. I saw that trussed up gentry you came with. Must have plenty of yellow money, that one.”
Keeping his arm tight about the boy’s throat, he cut through the bag strap and tore the pack open. “There’d best be some shillings in here or the rabbit’ll lose its skin,” he swore.
With his face turning purple, Henry gagged and choked. There was nothing of value in his bag.
“What’s this?” Clinker snapped, squelching his fingers through the uneaten food. “What is it?” Enraged, he pushed the apprentice against the wall and smacked his fist across Henry’s face, then snatched hold of his hair.
“M … mutton pasties,” the boy sobbed hoarsely.
“Then it’s the end for you,” he spat. “Seven men I’ve sent galloping to Hell. Two I throttled, four I punctured and the last I battered till his head could pour into a jar. The Justices ain’t nabbed me for them and they won’t for you neither.”
“I … I don’t have any … any money.”
A hideous leer crawled across Kitson’s gaunt features. “You ever heard what happened in one of the Spanish isles nigh on forty years ago? Grew tired of eating false flesh, they did, so what do you reckon they ended up doing instead? After a while no travellers dared set foot there, ’cos none ever came back. Always seemed like a good notion to me, that did. You keep your mutton pasties, my little morsel – I always was partial to a rabbit pie.”
Clink Kitson raised the knife and, with a final taunting cackle, hissed, “Poor little coney, shouldn’t have popped his head out of the burrow.”
The blade gleamed in the darkness and Henry gave a terrified shriek.
CHAPTER 2
Gog and Magog
“Let the child go!” a fierce voice boomed.
Clinker whisked around and saw a towering figure rushing up the narrow alley. Quick as a snake, he pulled Henry in front of him and made sure that the knife blade was plain to see.
“Halt right there!” he yelled. “One step nearer and I’ll carve a door to let out the lad’s soul.”
Only yards away, the tall shape stumbled to a standstill and a weird flicker of blue light shone beneath its chin.
“Henry!” Brindle called anxiously. “Are you unhurt?”
Clinker pulled the apprentice’s head back and the boy yelped in pain.
“He’s just taking the night air,” Clinker laughed. “Shall I cut him another mouth to let in a bit more?”
Brindle’s shadowy outline drew itself up and his right hand went reaching for his hip. “If you dare put your mark on him,” he warned, the spectral light gleaming coldly in his uncovered eye, “you shall taste an Iribian’s fury. Release him whilst you still have a chance.”
The cut-throat gave a deriding snort. “Who are you to make demands?” he taunted. “Yours is an empty hand to bluff with. No, Clinker holds the trumps this time. Now you stand back there – else I deal him a big juicy heart.”
But Brindle remained where he was and, in the cloaking darkness, his fingers unclasped the scabbard hanging from his belt.
“You deaf, clod?” Kitson snapped. “I’m warning you.”
“And I have warned you,” came the assured reply. “For my hand is far from empty, as you can see.” In one swift movement he drew the deadly, twin-bladed knife from its sheath and let it glitter in the blue light.
Clinker smothered a rasping cry. “What devil’s weapon is that?” he croaked.
“’Tis only my reaping hook,” Brindle answered, “yet ’twill serve to fillet your corrupt bones.” And, with a careless confirming thrust, he drove the double blades into the wall, raking up a shower of sparks and scribing a deep wound into the stone with the barb at his elbow.
Henry felt Clinker’s heart beat faster and the dagger at the boy’s throat was quivering.
“That don’t fright me,” the man lied. “Doesn’t take a knife sharp as yours to plough a bloody ditch in this tender field of flesh – so back off!”
Brindle lifted the blades in readiness and continued to speak with unnerving confidence. “I promise you that I can move with more speed than your eyes are able to bear witness. Your death will come before there is time to even register surprise.”
At that moment they heard Lord Richard’s voice call out in Honey Lane, quickly joined by Adam and Hobbling John Chester.
“Seems we’ll never learn the truth of that!” Clinker cursed, his rat-like eyes shining, and he gave Henry a mighty shove which sent the boy lurching at the Iribian’s feet. Hooting his contempt, Clink Kitson pelted up the alley and disappeared into the night.
Brindle lifted the apprentice off the floor and Henry threw his arms about him. “Thank you,” he wept, clinging to him desperately. “I was so stupid – how did you find me?”
“I perceived that you had wandered from the yard and that villain’s scent was still heavy in the air. Then I sensed your fear.”
Henry buried his face in Brindle’s shoulder and sobbed.
The Iribian glared into the distant darkness, his nostrils gaping and exploring. Then, in grim silence, he carried Henry from the alleyway.
That night Henry Wattle slept deeper than ever before in all of his twelve short years. The terror of Clink Kitson had faded rapidly under the concerned attention of Lord Richard and Cog Adam’s friendship. Besides, with Brindle at his side he knew there was nothing more to fear. The landlord of the Copper Cow also made much of the boy and vowed that the Justice would be informed of the vile felon’s actions at first light.
Hearing this, Thomas Herrick had uttered a lazy, unsympathetic laugh. Havering was riddled with low dens where Kitson could duck the noose. He was certainly beyond the law already.
It was a discouraging thought and, when he was certain that Henry had suffered no other hurt, Lord Richard retired to his bed with a bottle of the finest wine from Hobbling John’s excellent cellar.
Henry and Adam had been given a sparse room in one of the attics, but the straw mattresses were clean and they threw themselves down, completely exhausted. By the time Thomas Herrick’s report to the Queen left Havering aboard a night boat with one of his men, the two apprentices were sound asleep.
The hushed hours of darkness shifted slowly towards the dawn. A faint cry, howling in the remote distance, travelled unheard to the still emptiness of Honey Lane and Adam rolled on to his side. Dappled sunlight shone into his dreams and he was back in the woodland, watching Old Scratch charge at Jack.
The older boy’s screams blistered his ears once more and Adam’s eyes snapped open as he sprang from the pillow and stared, disorientated, about the darkened room. Dribbles of sweat trickled cold down his face and the boy reached for the comforting, keg-shaped form of Suet at his side.
But the bed was empty.
On the other mattress Henry was still slumbering, his steady breath rising and falling, and Adam wondered what the hour was. From the street outside, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps. Hugging his knees, he listened keenly as the walker approached the inn until, eventually, the stealthy tread turned into the courtyard below.
With a creasing forehead, Adam wondered who could possibly be abroad in this inky night. The even footfalls ruled out Hobble John, and the boy’s curiosity smouldered. Creeping from his bed, he tiptoed to the door and looked discreetly over the balcony.
Down in the courtyard a solitary lantern still bur
ned but, by its light, he could see that the place was deserted. Whoever had come in from Honey Lane had either entered the empty tavern, was hiding in the stables or had gone swiftly to his room. Stepping closer to the railed edge in order to peer a little further, a loose board squeaked under Adam’s bare feet and the boy flinched in alarm. He did not want to be discovered prying into this nocturnal business and he fled back into the attic.
The remaining night entombed the Copper Cow in silence.
When Adam awoke the second time, the sun was nudging into the room and the hooves of mechanical horses were clopping up the street. Henry was already out of bed and pulling on his breeches.
“Wish I still had them pasties,” the boy chattered when he saw Adam blinking and running a hand through his fair hair.
“I’ve two in my pack,” Adam mumbled groggily. “But won’t there be a breakfast?”
Henry shrugged and rooted inside the other apprentice’s bag. “That Herrick’s prob’ly too mean to prise his purse open,” he said, spitting pastry crumbs as he chomped between words. “All he cares about is getting our Brindle to the Queen.”
Henry finished the hasty breakfast and wiped the debris from his lips, wincing as he accidentally brushed the ugly purple bruise dealt by Clink Kitson.
“That’s twice Brindle’s saved my life now,” he murmured, adopting an uncharacteristic, serious tone. “Was there ever anyone like him? He deserves to be called ‘Excellency’ – I might start doing that myself. A guardian angel, that’s what he is. Bum boils, Coggy – how lucky were we when he foundered in our sky?”
Still yawning, Adam said nothing and hunted for his clothes. Soon both boys were dressed and they left the room in search of the rest of their party.
Lord Richard was already downstairs, seated at one of the tables staring glumly at a trencher of bread and cold beef. The master of Malmes-Wutton was clearly suffering the effects of the landlord’s wine, as he had finished the whole bottle before going to bed. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and he held his head as if it were an egg of the old world that was about to hatch.
