Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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      “And where is that?” asked the secretary, unaware that the ashes of the old argument were being disturbed and stoked once more.

      Without warning, Sir Francis rapped the table sharply. “Go no further with this!” he snapped. “Do not even think to mention that forbidden isle or that traitor’s name! Not even in your own house. Will you never learn, Lord Richard? Look around you, see where that misguided loyalty has brought you. Be thankful you lost only your revenues and not your head – that could still be arranged, if you persist.”

      Richard Wutton returned his attention to the cup which was trembling in his hand. Finally he said, “Tell me. Why are you here? Have I done something new to offend Her Majesty? Does she suspect me of another crime?”

      “Are your musicians never to play us anything?” Walsingham asked blithely, ignoring him.

      Baffled at this interest in his mechanicals, Lord Richard signalled to Edwin Dritchly at the end of the hall. The raspberry-faced man bowed in return and whispered quickly to his apprentices. “This is it, lads,” he said. “Hum hum – you ready, Jack?”

      The eldest youth nodded; the recorder and the lute had been thrust into the mannequins’ gloved hands. Now they would see if their efforts had been in vain.

      Master Edwin’s podgy fingers ran over the lutanist’s velvet-covered shoulder until he found the raised carving of the Wutton crest beneath. “Now,” he told Jack as he pressed firmly.

      The crest gave a click and immediately the figure jerked into life. Within its brass head the ichors began to bubble, and a pendulum suspended in its chest swung steadily to and fro.

      A disharmony of notes sailed up to the painted ceiling as the mechanical’s fingers strummed the long neglected lute and it paused for a moment to pluck the empty air where the missing string should have been. The blank brass face turned to Master Dritchly, tilting to one side as if in puzzlement.

      “You’ll have to make do,” the man instructed.

      The musician shook its head slowly in mock disgust, and Master Dritchly was glad that it was not able to talk.

      Meanwhile, Jack had pushed down the Wutton crest of the recorder player, but that figure was finding its newly repaired arm intensely fascinating. Flexing and fluttering the chicken-claw fingers, it waved and waggled the hand, then tried to remove the glove for a better inspection.

      “Leave it,” Jack ordered. “Just play your rotten recorder!”

      The mannequin turned its polished face to him and blew two blasts of air through the opening of its mouth which sounded vaguely insulting. Then it lifted the recorder and assumed the correct pose.

      By now the lutanist had tuned the remaining strings and it too was waiting to begin. They had not been used for so long that Master Dritchly had forgotten they needed to be told which melodies to play and he said the first one that came into his head.

      “O Mistress Mine,” he whispered. It was also his favourite.

      The lute strings played and a bellows-blown breath blew the opening notes on the recorder. The hall of Wutton Old Place rang with music once more.

      “A fine pair of musicians,” Walsingham declared. “They keep the refrain well.”

      Lord Richard was still perplexed. Sir Francis was too sour and serious a man to indulge in such trivial frivolities. There was obviously something more behind his interest, but he could not comprehend what that might be.

      “Indeed,” he replied uncertainly. “Edwin Dritchly is exceeding proficient in matters mechanical. He is the most able and adept craftsman in all of the Suffolk islands.”

      Walsingham’s eyebrows knitted into a single dark line. “How gratifying to hear that,” he commented. Then, resting his elbows upon the table and pressing his fingertips together, he finally related the purpose of his visit. “You may rest easy. I am not here to accuse you of anything.”

      Lord Richard breathed his thanks but knew enough about the Queen’s counsellor not to relax completely.

      “Fourteen years is a long period to be absent from court,” Walsingham continued. “Here, at the extreme rim of society, you are no doubt ignorant of current policy and state affairs.”

      “I know only what the winds of rumour bring,” Lord Richard admitted.

      Swallowing a morsel of bread with a gulp, Master Tewkes eagerly brought him up to date.

      “Never have diplomatic relations with the Catholic powers been so strained,” he rattled. “France and Spain – alas it’s become quite impossible. The Queen refuses to grant an audience with either ambassador and will not even permit them at court. A crisis is approaching. Those despicable Spaniards are plotting some vile outrage. Is that not so, Doctor?”

      Doctor Dee nodded. “You enquired earlier about my angelic messages, Richard,” he said. “Those Enochian studies have confirmed to me that a terrible conflict lies ahead. There is much in the future which bodes ill for Englandia. The new stars tell me so.”

      “Our fears are not based solely upon horoscopes,” Walsingham was quick to point out. “My spies in Europe report the same. France and Spain are preparing for war. Even now they are mustering their forces; it would be a fatal mistake if we were found lacking.”

      Master Tewkes banged a bony fist upon the table, making his knife and trencher jump and clatter. “Those whey-faced idolaters!” he cried passionately. “May they all burn on a pyre of their own incense!”

      Lord Richard pushed his half empty cup away. “Assuredly,” he began, “this is a most frightening intelligence, and yet why does it bring you to Malmes-Wutton?”

      The dangerous light gleamed in Walsingham’s eyes once more, and he looked across the hall to where the musicians were playing.

      “One hundred and seventy-five years,” he said. “That is how long we have been in this uplifted realm, out here in the deep darkness. During that time there have been no major wars – who then can say what manner of contest such strife would be? I cannot. This is a new world, filled with marvels undreamed of. If we are to win through, then we must be ready.”

      As he spoke, the music ceased. The tune had ended but the lutanist played no more for there came a creak of metal from within and, with a judder, the mechanical stopped moving. Master Dritchly attended to it at once. In the mean time the other musician was waiting for a new melody. When no fresh instruction came, it recommenced O Mistress Mine.

      “There appears to be some problem,” Walsingham observed.

      “Edwin Dritchly can remedy it,” Lord Richard assured him.

      “Her Majesty has need of such skilled men,” came the ominous reply. “In the approaching battle their talents will be in great demand. For many months, under cover of secrecy, I have been recruiting masters of motive science to create engines of destruction fit for the impending war.”

      Lord Richard’s heart sank as he perceived where this was leading.

      “Seventeen СКАЧАТЬ