Deathscent

by Robin Jarvis

  With a flick of his eyes he bade the boys sit with him and delicately called for their breakfasts.

  “Compliments of friend Herrick,” he told them. “So eat as much as you can, though I fear that Hobble John’s kitchen has forgot the true flavour of beef, if this sorry fare is aught to judge by.”

  Henry rubbed his hands together with renewed greed; his stomach had certainly recovered from the previous night.

  “Where’s Brindle?” he asked. “What a day this will be. The great isle of London, a royal palace and Her Majesty.”

  Richard Wutton’s face clouded even more. “Aye, we’ve that trial still to come.”

  A kitchen boy, no older than the apprentices, came bearing two trenchers laden with more cuts of beef.

  Henry fell upon his like a cormorant, then spat the barely chewed mouthful out. “Witch grease!” he cried. “Do they poison us? The meat tastes of mud.”

  Adam gave the unappealing grey slices a wary sniff and pushed the trencher away. “Least I still have one pasty left,” he muttered.

  “Never thought I’d miss anything about Widow Dritchly,” Henry grumbled.

  “And little did I think to find milk so strong within a cow,” Lord Richard said, his head sinking into his hands.

  “Good day,” a clear voice proclaimed behind them.

  The boys spun around and Henry leapt from his stool to give Brindle a welcoming hug. Then fell back, pointing to his face in amazement. Even Lord Richard blinked in disbelief and rose from his seat.

  “What happened?” Henry breathed. “It’s a wonder.”

  The Iribian chortled quietly. Every last scar had faded from his skin, and now his left eye was free from bandages and its emerald iris was as bright and clear as the other.

  “But the injury …” Lord Richard said doubtfully.

  Brindle brushed their surprise aside. “I have received the best possible care,” he said lightly. “I owe you and Mistress Dritchly much.”

  “Nay, I saw how deep was the damage. No cure was possible; how was it done?”

  “I am from Iribia. Our fibres are tough and do not yield easily.”

  Richard Wutton sat down again. “Even so,” he murmured. “I am half tempted to believe this heavenly visitor foolishness. If the Queen asks if you are capable of miracle healing, how then am I to answer?”

  “I am no angel,” Brindle reminded him.

  Lord Richard shook his head and looked at him. That day Brindle had put on the richest clothes from Edwin Dritchly’s amended wardrobe: a jerkin of the darkest blue velvet, trimmed with picadils and shining brass buttons, over a marigold-coloured doublet, embroidered with symbols appropriate to a master of motive science.

  “Well you’re certainly an arresting spectacle, my friend. All eyes shall be upon you when we arrive at court.”

  The Iribian fidgeted and ran a finger around his ruff. “The attire is not fitting to meet your sovereign?” he asked. “I am ignorant of such matters. I do not wish to bring shame upon you.”

  “Forgive me,” Lord Richard laughed. “I was but teasing. You’ll pass muster sure enough. Indeed, this day you’ll be giving Thomas Herrick competition.”

  Brindle did not answer and Adam observed him closely. There was no trace of where the wounds had been, not even any discolouration or bruising around the eye. He appeared flushed with health and vigour.

  “Have you broken your fast?” Lord Richard asked. “Is there aught in the morning air of Havering to tantalise your senses?”

  An enigmatic glint sparkled in the Iribian’s large eyes. “I have found it to be most enlivening,” he replied. “There is in these lands much to commend them. ’Tis a grievous pity I have not a second torc to bring my people hither – they would take great enjoyment in the delights you have to offer.”

  Adam wondered if there was more in those words than Brindle meant them to understand.

  “But what of Master Wattle?” the Iribian demanded. “How does he fare after last night’s evil happenings?”

  “Ready to take on an army,” Henry replied and he meant it.

  “You slept without disturbance? Of dark dreams or aught else troubling you?”

  “’Twas as if I had a stilling crest that had been firmly pushed.”

  “And Cog Adam, did he rest peacefully?”

  Surprised by the question, Adam merely nodded, but Brindle’s bright, lemon eyes seemed to pierce him.

  “Are we to join Master Herrick aboard his night barge?” the Iribian inquired with an abrupt change of subject.

  Lord Richard chuckled and tapped his hands together lightly. “Aye, the popinjay is down in the quay at this moment. But your nose is more tender than I guessed if you can sniff him out from here.”

  “His is an individual scent. This inn groans of his attendance and will never truly be free of it, but the stronger trail leads out to the entrance of the quayside and fills that place like a lavender fog.”

  “Excellency!” Henry whistled. “You’re a hound and a magician and a knight all fluxed into one.”

  “I am a balm trader only,” Brindle disagreed, with a glance at Adam.

  Henry nodded to the reaping hook sheathed at the Iribian’s hip. “That’s not just for cutting flowers,” he insisted. “You should have seen it gouge into stone, Coggy – easy as if it were curd.”

  “To harvest the purest scents,” Brindle began. “There are times when you needs must cut through the strongest stems. Young Adam, do you feel a chill? You are shivering.”

  “No,” the boy said quickly. “I’m just impatient to be off, that’s all.”

  “We have no reason to loiter here,” Lord Richard decided. “The food is less palatable than the wooden trencher ’tis served upon. If we each have our bags then let us bid farewell to the Copper Cow.”

  “But where is Hobble John?” Adam asked.

  “Went to inform the Justice in person of that foul brigand Kitson,” Lord Richard told them. “He’s been gone this past hour and will be another I fancy. We can’t be waiting on him, the tidal breath won’t permit it.”

  Out into the courtyard they traipsed, then under the hanging mechanical cow. Henry looked across the road, at the alleyway where he nearly lost his life.

  “Let’s hurry,” he said with a shudder.

  Along Honey Lane they made their way and were about to pass into the entrance that led down to the quayside, when Adam heard the sound of hooves and turned to look up the street.

  A mechanical horse was cantering towards the inn but carried on by when the rider saw them. It was the burly figure of John Chester and he hailed them with a wave of his hands and a ripe shout. “Hold a moment, good masters!” he called. “Hold a moment.”

  Hobbling John’s steed was a hefty beast wrought of blackened steel and the apprentices admired the craftsmanship that had gone into its making. It was not the usual clunking horse a man of his station might be expected to own, but then the Copper Cow afforded its landlord a very agreeable living.

  Reining the creation to a snorting halt, he wiped his glistening forehead and made a bow to them while remaining in the saddle.

  “Why this is a fortuitous chance,” he exclaimed. “I might have missed you and then you would be robbed of the tale. A happy day this is, for all of us who live in Havering.”

  “Did you speak to the Justice?” Lord Richard asked. “Will he seek out that cut-throat?”

  The landlord gave a substantial laugh that shook his horse and set its head wagging. “Why no, he’ll not be doing that,” he guffawed. “I ne’er even crossed the distance to his hall.”

  “You did not tell him?” Lord Richard pressed, with bemused irritation creeping into his voice. “By the stars, man, why not?”

  Hobbling John eased his mirth and wiped his eyes. “Clink Kitson don’t need no finding,” he claimed, “for he’s found already.”

  “Then the Justice will need the lad here as witness,” Lord Richard said. “But that must wait ’till we return fro
m London and Her Majesty.”

  Henry imagined Clinker’s wiry figure dangling from a rope and he grunted in satisfaction, hoping he would get a chance to dance around the gallows.

  The landlord’s shaggy brows pulled together and he leaned over in the saddle. “There’ll be no assize for Kitson,” he promised. “Why, none save the judgement we’re all to face one day and he’ll catch it hotter than most.”

  Lord Richard shielded his eyes from the sunlight as he stared up at Hobbling John. “He’s dead then?”

  “Like none other I ever saw,” the big man drawled with morbid relish. “Tim Nocks, the herdsman, did find him a little after dawn, lying out in his field. He’s a bold brute when all’s done is Tim, yet he had the colour knocked from him this day. ’Twere him and Abel Linton, our constable this year, who I met on my way to the Justice and they shewed me what was left of Clinker.”

  “What was left?” Adam repeated.

  “Why yes,” John Chester affirmed. “In the days that are gone, in the world that was, there were butchers and slaughterers, and what I eyeballed not half an hour ago put me in mind of their crimson trade.”

  Lord Richard tutted and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “An apt demise,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Who did this murder?”

  “I have a list of twenty would secretly sing and brag to it,” the landlord replied, “and I might be one of them. Kitson was not a favourite son of these environs. But no, ’tis a worse fiend than he who has done this and Abel Linton has gone on to the Justice to set the wheels of law in motion.”

  “I pray you find him,” Lord Richard said.

  “I’m glad I could tell the tale in time before you departed,” he answered with a toothless grin. “Why, the lad will rest the easier now, I’ll be bound.”

  Henry only stared at him.

  “And what of our angel?” John Chester cried. “Has he no word to say on this? If this is not a divine judgement and retribution then I know not what is. I believe your presence amongst us has brought this about.”

  Brindle seemed at a loss for what to say and it was then that Henry finally found his voice. “Don’t you speak to His Excellency like that!” he stormed. “You’ve as good as accused him of committing this murder.”

  John Chester’s throaty laughter drowned out the rest of Henry’s outraged defence. “No, no,” he rumbled. “I’d not shipwreck my chance of Heaven by slandering one of its generals. ’Twas a frame of speech only, young master. Take it not so.”

  The boy glowered up at him but Lord Richard announced that it was time to leave and, with a final wave, Hobbling John Chester rode his horse under the sign of the Copper Cow.

  “The isle of London awaits,” Richard Wutton told them and they descended the rocky stairs to the quayside.

  Adam o’the Cogs trailed behind, his mind filled with doubt and misgivings. Had he heard Clink Kitson’s killer returning to the inn last night? The landlord’s words chimed within him – who else could have sought out that villain in the dead darkness?

  His suspicions festered, yet how could he think such things of the Iribian? Brindle had proven himself a hero on more than one occasion, but did that pardon murder? The boy was not certain. Clinker deserved to die, but not in the way Hobbling John described. Torn by these conflicting concerns, Adam grew silent but resolved to watch Brindle more closely than ever.

  Thomas Herrick was combing his swallow-tailed beard in his cabin when informed of their arrival and he appeared on deck greatly pleased to see them approach. Dressed that day in the pale colours of whey and watchet, he reminded Henry of a pint of cream that had soured in the sun.

  “Earlier than I had expected!” he called. “My congratulations. I did think the young apprentice’s foray into the darkling world of the cut-purse might have delayed you this morning. Or if not he, then Lord Wutton’s partaking of Chester’s costly cellar.”

  Then, with an eye on Brindle’s midnight blue velvet, Herrick added, “And how is His Excellency? So intriguing, to array yourself in bygone fashions. I see that your eye is free of bandages. That is well – for deformity is repulsive to Her Majesty.”

  Boarding the vessel, Lord Richard’s group watched as the canvas canopy was cranked over their heads again and the night barge’s oars dipped into the water. Caught in the tidal breath, the craft was exhaled from the isle of Havering and went coursing through the Outer Darkness.

  Henry’s initial enthusiasm for the day ahead soon flattened as the prospect of another unrelenting voyage unfolded, but at least he did not feel ill this time. Lord Richard became ever more pensive as each land roved by. His dread of meeting the Queen once more occupied his thoughts to such an extent that he hardly heard the muted conversations around him.

  Again Thomas Herrick attempted to engage Brindle in a lively discourse, firing questions and doing his best with saccharine flattery. But, to his annoyance and consternation, the Iribian preferred to speak with the apprentices and the Queen’s envoy was forced to stand idly by, excluded.

  At one point, Brindle tried to rouse Lord Richard from his despondency and they talked on many different subjects. Adam endeavoured to overhear as much as possible, but Henry kept interrupting and so he only caught snatches of conversation.

  “Tell me,” Brindle asked. “This Uplifting you call the Beatification – how were you changed by it?”

  Lord Richard regarded him with some surprise. “Changed?” he replied. “I don’t know that I was changed. Days went by as before and although the mechanicals took a little getting used to, I think I remained pretty much the same.”

  “There must have been some difference,” Brindle persisted. “Perhaps you did not feel it straightaway but it was there.”

  “I don’t believe so. Of course it was a long time ago now. I cannot be expected to recall everything.”

  The Iribian stared at him encouragingly. “A long time?” he said. “Why do you say that with such emphasis?”

  “Because in the old world I would have died, oh, a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Brindle’s face brightened. “Then you live longer here than in your former sphere,” he stated. “Of course, now I understand. It resolves everything. I knew there was a reason.”

  “You have the answer to some riddling puzzle?” Lord Richard asked. “May I know of it?”

  The Iribian took a vacillating breath, then decided against divulging what he had unravelled.

  “Your pardon,” he excused himself. “Not yet.”

  By the afternoon, everyone was subdued until, standing on the forecastle, Herrick announced that the journey was almost at its end.

  Brindle and the boys gathered at the leaded window and gazed out. The edge of a modest island could just be glimpsed sliding out of view to the left while, ahead, another small land was moving towards them.

  “Is that it?” Henry asked, disappointed. “I thought London was supposed to be grand and huge. Yon place is no bigger than Malmes-Wutton.”

  Thomas Herrick cleared his throat in mild agitation.

  “We have just rounded the palace of Eltham,” he said, “and that country now in our path contains the Queen’s favourite estate of Greenwich. The isle of London is beyond.”

  Aware of the spectacle that was about to strike their eyes, Herrick stood back to allow them more room at the window and waited. Gradually, the oarsmen propelled the night barge around the leaded sky of Greenwich and all expression fell from the apprentices’ faces.

  “Behold the city of cities,” Thomas Herrick half sang under his breath. “Fair London, the great seductress – is she not a ravishing beauty? Tempted and destroyed far too many men, she has, and will ever continue to do so.”

  As the protective panes of Greenwich scrolled beneath the ascending night boat, the greatest isle in the whole of Englandia appeared in the distance. Brindle murmured in disbelief.

  “We never dreamed …” the blue stone whispered. “A supreme masterpiece hidden in the backwater of a region thoug
ht desolate.”

  Here was where the immense web of isle-linking chains converged, each connected to the inverted range of peaks which London was built upon. This was the centrepiece, the jewel of the uplifted realm, and the apprentices found themselves questioning their eyes.

  Resplendent in the eternal night, the enormous country eclipsed all others they had seen in the two days of their journey. Over twenty miles it stretched in length, curving in a gradual, majestic sweep which was another five miles across.

  The firmament itself was spectacular and fabulous to gaze upon. Pinnacles of elaborately chiselled masonry speared upward, echoing the spires of the churches below while, in the vaulted glass, images of clouds travelled over the diamond-shaped panes.

  It was a bewitching illusion and Henry squashed his face against the window, utterly captivated. “Only God could have done this,” he whispered.

  “What say you to that, Excellency?” Thomas Herrick asked of Brindle.

  The Iribian ignored him, drinking in the enchantment of the uplifted isle.

  Richard Wutton had not gone to the window. It had been fourteen years since he had looked on that wondrous scene and now he did not have the courage to view it again.

  As the night barge floated closer the apprentices began to take notice of the other vessels sailing to and from the vast island.

  “Balingers, galleons and carracks,” Adam observed in fascination. “So many craft streaming about, like bees round a hive.”

  “’Tis a pity night has not yet fallen,” Henry complained. “I wish I could see through the firmament. I’d dearly love to look down on the city as a bird would.”

  Hearing his words, Herrick gave a faint chuckle. “That desire is most easily granted,” he said mysteriously.

  Henry did not know what he meant but wasted no time trying to decipher it, there were far too many other delights to lure and command his attention. The night barge was rowed nearer, until the window was filled with London’s immense splendour and the bouncing glare of the glittering sky played over the canvas canopy, splashing it with daggers of light.