Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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      Within the banqueting hall, Sir Francis Walsingham brusquely appropriated the place of honour at the table. Anxiously, Lord Richard sat beside him. The secretary and Doctor Dee assumed their seats and their host eyed the food spread before them with considerable relief. At least here there was nothing to be ashamed of or which might cause offence. Mistress Dritchly had worked miracles in the kitchen and the board was covered with a respectable variety of dishes. There was fine white manchet bread, miniature pastries filled with spiced chicken, generous cuts of boiled mutton, a large onion tart, a sallat and a cheese pie with herbs. It might not have equalled feasts at court but few of the country gentry in the neighbouring isles dined upon grander fare than this.

      The best plates had all been sold, so the guests were obliged to eat off wooden trenchers and drink from earthenware cups. There were only two jugs of wine, but it was the best Lord Richard’s depleted cellar could provide and when that ran out there was always the strong October ale.

      “Pray commence and help yourselves,” he encouraged. “Mistress Dritchly is a fine cook, as you are about to learn.”

      Leaning forward to take some slices of mutton, the secretary, who had readily introduced himself as Arnold Tewkes, smiled ingratiatingly. “I am always eager to partake of such lessons,” he said. “A more willing student would be difficult to find.”

      As he was a small, thin-boned man whose head jerked about like a bird with faulty neck springs, that statement was rather difficult to believe, but he attacked the food with surprising zeal.

      Doctor Dee busied himself with one of the pastries and a slice of cheese pie, but Lord Richard observed that Walsingham partook of nothing and wore such a stony expression that his own appetite withered within him.

      Several difficult minutes passed during which not a word was uttered by anyone and Lord Richard swigged his first cup of the evening.

      The banqueting hall of Wutton Old Place was panelled with oak and the ceiling mouldings were painted bright colours. Four large iron candlesticks, each bearing ten candles, gave a warm illumination to the room and at the far end, upon a little stage, Master Edwin and Jack Flye were busily placing the mechanical musicians in position.

      Sitting stiffly in his chair, Walsingham regarded the activity with significantly more interest than he bestowed upon the food.

      “A little entertainment for later,” Lord Richard explained, “to accompany the compotes and marchpane. I find music aids the digestion.”

      Sir Francis made no reply and continued to stare in that unsettling way. Like a hawk viewing some remote and unsuspecting morsel, Lord Richard thought unhappily.

      “Most excellent onion tart,” Master Tewkes declared, trying to soothe the tension. “It would appear that I am graduating the Dritchly College with honours. The mutton also was very flavoursome and cunningly done. You are very lucky in your cook, My Lord.”

      “I’m glad to hear it,” Richard Wutton answered. “My Lady Fortune has been noticeably absent from these estates of late. I thought she had abandoned me.”

      Brushing pie crumbs from his beard, Doctor Dee commented, “If a man slams the door in the face of sound advice and refuses to listen to all good sense, then what else is she to do but depart?”

      His host opened his mouth to respond, then caught sight of Walsingham still sitting like a forbidding gargoyle and thought better of it, settling for another draught of wine instead. Old arguments and resentments could wait but, try as he might, Lord Richard could not guess the errand that had brought these important visitors here. He grew more and more concerned as wild suspicions frothed up in his mind.

      “If Your Lordship wishes,” he began again, desperate to glean anything at all from Her Majesty’s spymaster, “on the morrow you could go hunting in the outlying woods. There is a wild boar which is in dire need of a-catching. A real terror it is.”

      “Sounds a most fearsome beast,” Master Tewkes clucked in between mouthfuls. “What a thrill that would be.”

      Walsingham stirred and diverted his gaze from the far end of the hall. “I think not,” he said in a voice of ice, with a purposeful glitter in his eyes as his features hardened all the more. “My quarry never has more than two legs.”

      A faint, strangled noise gurgled in Lord Richard’s throat and he drowned it hastily in yet more wine.

      Just then, Adam and Henry came running in with the instruments and they hurried over to where Master Edwin was waiting.

      “Tell me,” Master Tewkes began, leafing through the sallat as though it were a set of disarranged accounts, “what has been the most outlandish creature to pass through your workshops? Has the new fashion for imaginary animals penetrated this corner of Englandia yet? I’ve seen such fanciful constructions of late – why, there was a cockatrice in particular which I admired at Nonsuch …”

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