by Robin Jarvis
Looking out at the countless, crowning towers, Adam noticed one that was greater than the rest. Two finer chains were anchored to its mighty pillars and rose up, climbing far into the blackness above where the underneath of a small fragment of jagged rock was bleakly delineated by the sun.
“What’s up there?” he asked. “It’s too small to be a proper island.”
Thomas Herrick avoided the question and tried to direct the boy’s eyes elsewhere. “The warden of the gate will soon be in sight,” he chirped hastily. “His Excellency is sure to be impressed.”
It was Lord Richard who answered Adam’s inquiry. Finally stepping on to the forecastle, he peered through the window and, in a grim voice, said, “’Tis the Tower. Upon that barren crag stands the solitary fortress to which only the most politically dangerous prisoners are sent.”
“I don’t think His Excellency needs to know this painful detail,” the Queen’s envoy broke in. “Undesirables blemish every society; this can be of no interest to him.”
“It is to me,” Henry declared. “Are they manacled in irons and sent there on a galley to be tortured?”
Richard Wutton’s eyes narrowed and his tone became even more solemn. “No night boat makes the journey to the Tower,” he stated. “It can only be reached by those chains along which the smallest of cabins is hoisted. To be sent there means there can be no pardon, for no one ever returns. But yes – there is torture.”
Disquieted by the edge in his voice, Brindle looked at Lord Richard and saw that his usually gentle features had grown hard and unforgiving.
“That is where your friend was sent?” the Iribian asked, recalling what Mistress Dritchly had told them.
Thomas Herrick clapped his hands over his ears and stared at them both, aghast and outraged. “Mention not that arch traitor’s name,” he cried. “I will not have it spoken aboard my night barge.”
“Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester,” Lord Richard proclaimed in defiance. “I’ve not forgotten and if She has, I’ll remind Her.”
Divorcing himself from this treasonous talk, Herrick ran to the helmsman and ordered him to reach the gates as soon as possible. The view of the lonely rock disappeared as the night barge came about and sank towards the London horizon. But, instead of continuing down, it reached a certain height and remained level.
“Why aren’t we heading for the entrance?” Adam asked Lord Richard.
“We are, but the threshold of London is not some underground cave, Cog Adam,” he replied.
At long last, the gateway to the city rolled into sight and Henry squealed. “Pickle the Pope! It can’t be true, Coggy, tell me that isn’t there!”
Staring out of the window, Adam spluttered and stammered but could not answer.
A monstrous, black-bearded face was glaring in at them. It was a startlingly gigantic countenance, painted in brave and brash colours. The head alone was the size of Wutton Old Place and each fierce eye was greater in length than Herrick’s night barge.
“What is it?” Brindle asked Lord Richard. “A representation of your God?”
“Nay,” the man replied. “That fearsome fellow is Magog, one of the two giants of the guildhall, legendary champions of London. In the old world they were not as large as this, since the Beatification they have become the porters of the entire island and have grown in stature.”
Standing upon an outcrop of rock, the colossus loomed in front of London’s leaded sky, wearing the helm and armour of antiquity. In one of the tremendous hands he wielded a sword, while in the other he carried a mighty set of keys.
Twice a day the mammoth keys were raised and lowered to allow entry, and now they were hoisted high. Exposed below was a huge opening in the vaulted sky and, through that, Henry and Adam espied enticing glimpses of the city beyond.
Steadily, the night boat veered about until the great entrance was directly ahead and the oars were lifted. Then, to the apprentices’ great wonder, the titanic Roman face turned to follow their craft’s approach and, from the open mouth, there galed the tidal breath.
Buffeted by the whirling squall, the vessel journeyed in through the monumental gateway and immediately the golden rays of a summer evening flared through the window.
The city of London spread out before and beneath them and, when the canopy ceased to quake, Thomas Herrick commanded that the canvas be lifted.
With almost unbearable slowness, the two halves of the awning parted and fresh air and light flooded over the deck.
Racing to the sides, Henry and Adam did not know where to look first. They whisked their heads left and right, until Lord Richard pointed behind them. With a shock, they found themselves staring straight into a second enormous face.
Here was Gog, the second of the London giants. The same staggering size as the one who stood guard outside, this effigy portrayed a barbarian, wearing only a coat of leaves and crowned with a wreath of woven twigs. In his massive hand he clutched an axe and, on this side of the firmament, it was that which lowered every twelve hours to govern the departure of ships.
Henry cheered at him then stared over the side.
The aperture in the vaulted sky was situated twenty fathoms above the ground and the night barge gently descended past Gog’s raised arm and his carved raiment of leaves.
Far below, the statue’s legs straddled the banks of a wide, crowded river and Lord Richard informed the apprentices that they were looking at the Thames.
Down through the balmy airs the vessel glided and the boys gazed at the surrounding city, breathless and awestruck. The lowering sun gilded every building and the church spires turned to golden needles pricking through a shimmering cloth. Dominating the skyline, the medieval fastness of St Paul’s transcended all, proclaiming the power and magnificence of the Almighty to rich and poor alike.
Henry whistled through his teeth at the scale and grandeur of this strange landscape. “Makes our home look like an ant hill,” he marvelled. “I never want to leave – not ever. What goes on in all those streets and lanes? Who lives in the hundreds of houses? I want to explore every last corner.”
Leaning on the deck rail, Adam rested his chin on his hands. “I wish Jack could have witnessed this,” he sighed.
Brindle closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Out into those foreign quarters he set his sapient senses scouting and thrilled to the warm pulse of the life which teemed there. The myriad scents which greeted him were an overwhelming, chaotic tumult of delight and squalor. Delicious sweet fragrances wafted from the private gardens of the wealthy but, carried on the same breeze, was the foetid stench of open drains.
“How many dwell in this land?” he asked Lord Richard.
The master of Malmes-Wutton tapped his fingertips together. “Oh, I should think at least thirty thousand souls,” he said. “There were many more in the old world and countless here have died since the Uplifting. The plague and various sicknesses are frequent visitors to the greater isles.”
“Thirty thousand,” Brindle murmured and only Adam noticed that the Iribian’s hand strayed unconsciously to the reaping hook attached to his belt and his long fingers were trembling.
Effecting a stately, balanced arc, the night barge floated downward to a spot where the river foamed and boiled and the gold of the scarlet vessel’s decorative scrollwork burned like fiery serpents in the rays of the setting sun. With the slightest of yawing jolts, it touched the water and the oars were lowered.
They had finally arrived in the celebrated isle of London. Yet, of the four who had set out from Malmes-Wutton, only two would return.
CHAPTER 3
Gloriana
The River Thames was crowded with many other craft; from great, swollen-bellied galleons with a pageant of banners and pennants fluttering from their masts, to the small, island-confined boats of the ferrying watermen. Thomas Herrick’s scarlet and gold night barge navigated between them, resembling a vain bird with exotic plumage pushing through a crowd of drab river fowl.
Re
turning to the forecastle, the Queen’s envoy commanded that his horse be brought up from below. Then, holding the mechanical’s reins with one hand, he struck an heroic pose and lifted his head high, the cream and blue feathers ruffling in the band of his hat.
“And so returns the valiant conqueror of the Wutton philistines,” Lord Richard said in an audible aside to Brindle and the apprentices. “One might be forgiven for thinking he is a caesar of Rome returning in triumph from the Punic Wars.”
The heroic stance sagged a little when Herrick overheard but he recovered quickly. Everyone watching must be certain he had achieved his mission and he called for the Iribian to stand at his side. “Come, Excellency,” he cried. “The bridge will soon be in view.”
“Give him his moment,” Lord Richard advised.
“What shall I do when I meet your Sovereign?” Brindle asked. “How should I be?”
“Be true to yourself, friend. No one could ask for more than that.”
“True to myself?” the Iribian echoed and for an instant his face looked wretched and desperate. “No, that is what I must never be.” Stepping up beside Thomas Herrick, Brindle’s tall, distinct appearance immediately robbed him of any feigned glamour. The balm merchant’s powerful presence was infinitely more aristocratic, and Richard Wutton was amused to see that his natural, noble bearing was almost princely by comparison.
“See, Excellency,” Herrick prattled. “The bridge.”
Behind the moving forest of masts, Brindle beheld a great stone structure spanning the river, upon which a hotchpotch of timbered buildings were crammed in an untidy line. Many projected precariously over the water, supported and braced only by stout wooden beams. In front of the most ornate edifice was a length of railing where many people had gathered to look down at the newly arrived night boat.
Thomas Herrick gave them an appreciative wave but the subsequent cries of “’Tis the angel!” left him in no doubt as to whom they were looking at.
“They do you much honour,” he told Brindle with an indulgent smile. “The denizens of London hate all foreigners with a heated passion; already you seem to have won their hearts.”
Overhearing, Lord Richard was sure that this was a matter Herrick would certainly repeat to the Queen’s jealous ears.
The conceited man pointed to the huge wooden piers that the bridge was founded upon, around which the river raced in violent torrents. “Now we must shoot yonder rapids,” he told Brindle. “Many faint hearts choose to alight here and await their craft on the other side, but we shall have no fear and the mob will love you the more for it.”
Into the shadow of one of the arches the night barge went and the swift current rocked it from side to side until Henry began to feel ill again. Staring up at the dark underside of the bridge, Adam enjoyed every instant of the rushing ride and revelled in the roar of the echoing waters.
Then they were through, to the sound of cheers from above. Brindle gazed up at the onlookers, his easy dignity extracting shouts of praise and bursts of bawdy song.
If they had only known the thoughts which festered within this visitor, they would have sung a different tune. Inside the Iribian a dreadful conflict had begun and when he saw their happy faces his mind flooded with the blackest cravings. How much longer could he contain and suppress these impulses? How he yearned to abandon his higher reason and submit to that overpowering instinct.
Once more his hand went reaching for the hilt of his reaping hook but, with a tremendous effort, he dragged it away and fixed his eyes upon the deck, where his stare collided with that of Adam. The boy pretended not to have noticed and turned quickly away.
Thomas Herrick watched the crowds with curdling interest, then observed with even more irritation the large number of other vessels sailing this stretch of the Thames at such a late hour of the day. The rumour of the Suffolk Miracle had spread throughout the island and, although he was pleased that everyone would know it was he who had brought in the celestial visitor, he also knew that the Queen would be furious.
The cathedral of Southwarke reared to the left, followed by open fields and the theatres of Bankside. On the right, the lofty height of St Paul’s was succeeded by the mouth of the Fleet River and the mansions of the wealthy until at last, around the river bend, opposite the Lambeth Marsh, the largest palace in Europe came into sight. A rambling collection of imposing buildings, streaming with standards, the royal residence of Whitehall was intended to impress and its grandeur was not squandered on Brindle. Reaching into the Thames there jutted a wide stone terrace and, gathered there, beneath a kaleidoscope of bunting, was a great assemblage of guards, pages, heralds, courtiers and councillors. At the first glimpse of the scarlet night barge, forty mechanical trumpeters stationed along the river stairs blared a resounding welcome and Richard Wutton wiped his sweating palms. The moment he dreaded had arrived.
As Herrick’s night barge advanced, every other craft pulled out of its path, clearing a direct course to the terrace. The Queen’s envoy puffed out his chest, adjusted his creamy dollop of a hat and the vessel drew alongside the stairs.
“Excellency,” he said to Brindle. “Her Grace awaits.”
Again the trumpeters let loose a joyful blast and the gangway was slid across to the steps which were covered in a sky blue cloth.
Leaving his horse on the deck, Thomas Herrick was the first to disembark, then he turned and executed a practised bow to invite the Iribian to follow.
Brindle stared over at the hundreds of people gathered upon the terrace and suppressed the urge which swelled unbidden within his soul. Only the mechanicals were silent now, for the gathering was whispering or exclaiming at his remarkable appearance – even the Yeomen of the Crown were murmuring to one another.
Behind Brindle the sun was setting over the marsh. Its rays glinted in his chestnut-coloured hair and glowed in the yellow metal of his torc, forming a bright halo around his head. The gasps from the attendant crowd increased.
With a cautious glance at Lord Richard, Brindle left the night barge but, before he could set foot upon the stairs, a tremendous, deafening roar came raging over the topmost step. There, prowling into view, came a fabulous golden lion.
“Nutmeg pudding!” Henry mouthed in wonderment.
It was the most sumptuous creation the apprentices had ever seen. Almost the size of a small pony, the beast was an heraldic interpretation yet it remained a fantastic feat of motive science.
The most proud and regal of visages had been wrought into shape from the precious, glittering metal, over which a complex intertwining relief of curling fur had been painstakingly chased. Beneath the ferocious-looking brows, two large rubies were set and, framing this mighty, kingly head, was a luxuriant mane made from coiled ribbons of flame-coloured velvet which rippled and churned like a rolling sea as the massive shoulders propelled the creature forward.
Yet, incredibly, a rider sat high upon the lion’s back. Clinging to the lush mane as the mechanical padded powerfully down the stairs was a little, wide-eyed child. She could not have been more than seven years old and was dressed in a miniature green gown. She wore a garland of flowers about her neck and more blooms were woven into her white-blonde hair.
With a marvellously fluid gait, the lion approached the gangway. Adam’s mind reeled as he tried to calculate how many pendulums were swinging within that gorgeous casing. Raising its right paw and swishing its jointed tail, the resplendent creature assumed the passant guardant posture of the three lions depicted upon the royal standards hoisted overhead and gave a thundering roar.
Blushing deeply, the girl looked across at Brindle and it was plain that she was more scared of him than the fearsome mechanical beneath her. Yet, taking a deep breath, she smiled prettily and recited the welcoming oration she had been bidden to say.
“Most honoured attendant from the abode of bliss, Enter thou this land which God hath filled with beauty.
Behold our isle, hallowed by the Almighty’s kiss.
&nbs
p; Where Gloriana reigns, our Queen in Majesty.”
Having ended her rhyme, the child tugged at the lion’s mane and the creature returned with her to the terrace where it lay down, dangling its wide paws over the topmost step.
Taking note of this pomp and show, Lord Richard understood that Elizabeth of Englandia meant for the Iribian to know precisely who was monarch here. Even if he had hailed from Heaven, she was taking no chances and was forcefully asserting her right of sovereignty.
Again the trumpets blew. From behind the halberdiers, maidens dressed in white stepped forward on to the blue cloth, bearing shallow baskets filled with rose petals. Into the air they cast the delicate contents and a roseate blizzard swirled about the terrace while ten mechanical drummers pounded a steady rhythm.
A sudden applause broke out, but the noise was the beating of many wings as a hundred silver doves were let loose into the gentle storm of falling petals. The dazzle from their burnished feathers was blinding; the reflected sun flashed and sparked and everyone upon the night barge was compelled to cover their eyes from the intense glare.
Then, through this dancing brilliancy, to the accompanying music of ringing hooves, emerged a tall and radiant shape. Adam and Henry fell to their knees but Lord Richard remained standing and, similarly uncowed, Brindle returned the newcomer’s appraising inspection.
A past mistress of orchestrating her perceived image, Elizabeth, the Queen, had calculated every aspect of her appearance. Perched upon a sublimely crafted silver unicorn, she was a compelling vision of purity and power. Arrayed from head to foot in white silks and taffeta, she seemed almost to have stemmed from the realm of Heaven herself. Pearls shimmered like milky dew over her bodice and surcote, and even her skin was pale as a spring cloud. The only hint of colour came from a gold headdress fashioned in the shape of a rayed sun, and the deep, reddish-yellow of her hair which tumbled between the spearing points was as generous light spilling from the wan sky.
