Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis
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Название: Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm
Автор: Robin Jarvis
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская проза
isbn: 9780007450473
isbn:
Deeply touched by the startling, unexpected gift, Adam was not sure what to say, but Lantern was already bustling from the barn.
In the yard, Walsingham, Doctor Dee and the groom were seated upon their horses when the secretary came pattering out. The astrologer hoisted the mechanical up behind him and they were ready.
Surveying the darkened manor of Wutton Old Place, Sir Francis commended himself upon the highly favourable outcome of his plan. The traitor had been dealt with, and in such an unimportant, benighted place that only minor ripples would ever reach the court. Confident that he had served his sovereign well that evening, and regretting only the loss of a most valuable steed, he spurred his inferior horse into action.
Emerging from the stables, Adam watched them depart. Along the road which led through the village, the four horses went galloping, merging with the black shapes of the night. Only the candle which still burned within Lantern’s hat disclosed their progress, but more than once the boy imagined he saw two circles of green light glow beneath it.
When even that receded into the distance and passed out of sight, and the only sounds to be heard were remote mechanical hoof falls, Adam wandered across to the piggery and sat upon the fence.
In the manor house a solitary light bobbed behind the windows as Lord Richard ascended to his bedchamber. He had observed the nobles’ departure and earnestly prayed to God Almighty that he might never have to deal with any from court again. A grim silence settled over the estate, broken only by a faint bellowing which echoed from the outlying woods.
“Even Old Scratch has been disturbed and upset,” he muttered dismally. “None of us can get any rest this evil night.” And he tramped to his room, a candle in one hand, a jug of ale in the other.
With his back against the pigsty, Adam listened to the distant trumpeting of the wild boar which terrorised the woodland. His mind was churning over everything that had happened. The horrendous events of the night were only just beginning to sink in. He had never encountered death before and it frightened him. In this uplifted world people aged much more slowly and only lost their lives through sickness or misadventure. This loathsome murder was the first death to have blighted Malmes-Wutton since before he was born.
Edwin Dritchly would never praise nor criticise his work any more and tears streaked down Adam’s face when he realised he would not hear that familiar “Hum hum” again. Bowing his fair head, the boy wept quietly.
Presently he became aware of a soft snuffling noise at his feet and, swivelling around on the railing, he saw that Suet had come toddling from the sty and was gazing up at him.
“Hello,” Adam said, wiping his eyes. “Is Old Scratch’s booming bothering you too?”
The piglet’s nose puffed in and out, and O Mistress Mine rose up composed of grunts and snorts.
A sad smile spread across Adam’s face at the sound of Master Dritchly’s favourite tune. Then, on impulse, he took from his pocket the phial of black ichor which Lantern had given to him and eyed Suet critically.
Next moment he was running back to the workshop with the little wooden piglet wriggling in his arms.
CHAPTER 4 The Scorched and Drunken Bee
Edwin Dritchly was buried two days later in the neglected churchyard of Malmes-Wutton. In the one hundred and seventy-five years since the Beatification only four people had been interred in the overgrown cemetery and Master Blackwill, the parson, had been forced to refresh his memory of the order of service.
It was a warm June morning. The twenty-three inhabitants of the estate gathered to pay their respects to a man they had all liked, and Mistress Dritchly murmured gentle words of thanks to each. Watching the coffin being lowered down into the grave, Adam thought that it was really too beautiful a day for anything so sad as a funeral to take place. It seemed so unreal.
Henry thought so too, and that, coupled with a peculiar, giddy nervousness, compelled Master Wattle to hang his head lower than anyone else in an effort to hide the silly grins which flashed without warning across his face. Mistress Dritchly was not so consumed with mourning that she was incapable of administering a sharp smack.
The man’s death had cast a dismal pall over Malmes-Wutton and a dejected languor crept into everyone. In the workshop, Jack Flye was finding it difficult to concentrate on repairing the animals and was daunted by the extra responsibility of Master Dritchly’s duties. Henry and Adam did their best to help, but as the only work they had was reassembling all those sheep, cows and poultry, their minds wandered and the dreary task took three days longer than it ought to have done.
Finally, when all the mechanicals were back out in the fields, swimming on the village pond or scratching around the yard, Jack was at a loss what to do next. No fresh consignment of faulties was due to arrive until the thirteenth of the month and so, as was the custom in the stables of Wutton Old Place, the apprentices were free to do as they pleased.
During these infrequent intervals, it was usual for them to work on their own pet projects, which they constructed from whatever scraps they could scavenge. Jack Flye had spent every spare moment of the past fifteen months building a bear from large wooden barrels. In the bear pits of nearby islands such beasts were much in demand, for the mechanicals baited there were always of a very poor quality. Jack was determined to make the finest that the gamblers of Suffolk had ever wagered upon. Originally it had begun as a way of earning enough money to set himself up in business elsewhere, but now he had succeeded Master Dritchly, his heart was no longer in that dream and he decided to let the others complete what he had started.
Adam and Henry were delighted. At that moment, however, they were both too busy with their own little schemes to take on Jack’s unfinished bear. They were adding the last touches to a pair of tin hawks which they believed were finally ready for a first trial flight. Standing at the edge of the manor’s wide lawn, they made last-minute adjustments and cast professional glances over each other’s creations.
Adam’s was a faithful representation of a goshawk, with neat talons forged from steel and a deadly-looking hooked bill. The tin feathers had been painstakingly coloured in grey and black, according to the drawings in Master Dritchly’s bestiary. But Henry’s was hopeless. He had painted it a garish blue on the top, while underneath it was a striking red with yellow stripes.
“I’m calling her Quicksilver,” Henry announced.
Adam resisted the temptation to point out that in all of the ludicrous colouring, there wasn’t a patch of silver anywhere. Instead he said, “The wings are too large – she’ll be too strong. If she were any bigger she’d be an eagle. You didn’t follow the plans properly, did you?”
Sporting a shapeless straw hat to shield his eyes from the sunlight which blazed through the painted panes of the firmament, Henry lifted the brim so that his friend could observe the rude face he was making. “Privy slop!” he scoffed. “You’re starting to sound like Hummy Hum hisself.”
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