Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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      “Not all along,” Walsingham confessed. “Your singular condemnation of all Popery did kindle my initial suspicions, for they were such ardent damnings that they left a bitter tang upon even my Puritan palate. Yet gradually I learned of your treachery and collated as much intelligence pertaining to it as was possible.”

      “How much?”

      Walsingham’s eyebrows bunched together. “You are in the employ of Spain,” he stated. “You were indiscreet enough to be observed at a clandestine meeting with the ambassador, the Count de Feria, on two occasions during the past five years. Yet I have further proofs than that and expect many more still.”

      Master Tewkes turned pale. “There is no need for torture,” he said quickly. “I will tell you everything.”

      “Oh, I know, but it’s tidier this way, don’t you think? You were always such a zealous clerk that I am certain you understand. A tickle of torture to give veracity to your statements, and then …”

      “Then?”

      Sir Francis permitted himself a grave smile. “The Tower,” he snarled.

      “No!” Master Tewkes yelled in terror. “Not there! I beseech you, My Lord! I would rather die a hundred deaths.”

      “One will suffice,” Walsingham said coldly. “The Tower it is.”

      “Never!” the man cried in panic, and with a shriek he stamped violently upon Jenks’ injured foot. The groom recoiled, and in that brief moment of liberty, Master Tewkes snapped the neck of the bottle containing the indigo ichor and poured the liquid down his own throat.

      A wild, dangerous look clouded his face as the fatal juice trickled into his stomach, and his stained lips blistered immediately. “I’ll not go to that doom!” he cried, his voice rising to a high, mad laugh. “Though you, My Lord, may shortly be consigned there. The time of Elizabeth, the misbegotten usurper, is over! The crown of Englandia will be cast from Her head. Philip will reign here. This uplifted world is for the true Catholic faith – not your filthy heresy. It must be cleansed of your infection, as God plainly wills …”

      The secretary shuddered as an agonising spasm seized him and he gripped his stomach feverishly. The venomous ichor was scorching his insides and he dropped to his knees, convulsing in torment.

      Lord Richard hastened over to him but Master Tewkes was beyond rescue. Dark blue vapour trailed from his nose and mouth and, emitting a last gurgling cry, the traitor fell on his face and expired.

      Richard Wutton knelt beside the dead man, whose features had assumed a hideous, chalk-like pallor. The master of Malmes-Wutton looked across to the crushed corpse of Edwin Dritchly lying by the barn entrance. It had been a night of horrors and countless emotions broiled inside him.

      “I did not expect that,” Walsingham said dryly. “There was much he could have told us – what a squandered opportunity.”

      Doctor Dee agreed. “I did not foresee what other purpose the malignant ichor might be used for,” he murmured. “We must be doubly vigilant. ’Twould seem our enemies have been most busily occupied.”

      “They are massing their strength, constantly devising new weapons of destruction. My spies in the Spanish court have recently despatched reports of mechanical torture masters, diabolic instruments which only a Catholic mind could envisage. I would dearly like to obtain a copy of the plans.”

      Lord Richard could endure it no longer and his simmering rage finally burst forth. “Listen to you!” he snapped. “You chatter and squawk whilst two men lie dead, and pick over their carcasses like carrion birds. This ridiculous visit was orchestrated solely for the purpose of unmasking your secretary. The blood of Edwin Dritchly besmears you both.”

      Walsingham regarded him with faint surprise. “I regret the death of your craftsman,” he drawled in his usual composed and maddeningly detached manner. “But it was necessary to capture Tewkes as far away from court as possible. You still do not realise the perilous state of affairs. There was simply no other way.”

      Lord Richard could not bear to look at him. “I want you gone,” he ordered. “Now that your odious mission is complete, you are to leave my lands. Get from this place, you are no longer welcome.”

      Sir Francis was already striding for the entrance. “You were always an emotional fool, Richard,” he reflected. “To buy the safety of Her Majesty and ensure the welfare of Her blessed realm I would gladly sacrifice any number of lives.”

      “Then I pity your conscience,” Lord Richard murmured and he turned his back on him.

      Walsingham’s tall black figure departed, but Doctor Dee remained. “I told you this was not of my doing,” he said.

      “Spare me your hypocrisy, John,” Lord Richard retorted. “May another fourteen years go by before we see one another again. You spend the lives of my friends too freely.”

      The astrologer fell silent and motioned to Lantern to follow him. Still sitting upon the floor, occupied in the task of replacing his own breastplate, the little figure rose to his feet. Only then did they realise the damage caused by Master Tewkes’ savage kick.

      The mechanical’s right leg was buckled and bent backwards. Peering down, Lantern gave the disfigured limb an experimental shake and the green light dimmed in his eyes when there came a tinkling rattle of fragments that clattered down into his boot. Abruptly the leg gave way beneath him and, with a clang, the copper man sat down again.

      “My dear fellow,” Doctor Dee exclaimed, offering him a hand. “Can you not walk?”

      His leg twitching pitifully, Lantern gave him a forlorn look then hung his head.

      “Take it to the workshop,” Lord Richard said with some reluctance. “I’ll send Jack Flye to deal with it.”

      The colour rose in the astrologer’s face and he thanked his host for this last kindness.

      Richard Wutton went stomping from the barn. “I go now to speak with Mistress Dritchly,” he said tersely. “When that painful interview is over I will expect to find that you and Walsingham have gone.”

      A short while later, Jenks had readied the remaining horses. The body of Master Tewkes had been slung over the beast that had carried him to Malmes-Wutton and Sir Francis Walsingham was impatient to be away. Master Dritchly’s remains had been respectfully removed into the manor.

      Within the stables, Lantern was sitting upon Jack Flye’s workbench, keenly watching the boy repair his leg.

      “Nasty bit of harm done here,” the seventeen-year-old declared. “Don’t think it can be mended back to what it was before. Need a whole new limb, this will.”

      Casting an interested eye over the impressive array of tools gathered in the workshop, Doctor Dee tutted into his long white beard. “How inconvenient,” he muttered. “Such skilled work requires time. I rely upon my secretary a great deal. His assistance is invaluable to me, as is his steadfast companionship.”

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