Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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      Ferocious shouts were trumpeting behind him and, to his horror, the assistant saw that the corridor led nowhere. They were running headlong into a blank wall. It was a dead end and they were cornered by a savage mob. There would be no time to explain, these creatures were too ignorant to believe or comprehend them anyway. He knew that they would both see only the gleam of metal and feel thirsty steel plunging into their flesh. In a frenzy of primitive hate, they would be torn to pieces.

      “We have them!” Lord Robert’s furious voice bellowed.

      Even as the words echoed through the corridor, Arvel threw himself into a doorway which his assistant had not seen. Before Bosco-Uttwar knew what was happening, a gloved hand came reaching out and he was dragged in after.

      “Secure the entrance!” Arvel barked, slamming the door and staring frantically around.

      The room beyond was small and lit by a single rush light. In that paltry glow he could see a long, low table standing against one wall and he ran to it at once. In a moment the table had been flipped on its end and rammed up against the door.

      “There’s no way out of here,” his assistant blurted. “No window and no other exit. We’re trapped!”

      The table juddered violently as their pursuers began to kick and heave. “Come out of there! Craven filth!” Lord Sussex demanded.

      Holding the table in place, Bosco-Uttwar shook his head in misery. Arvel was still pulling every stick of furniture he could find to fortify the barricade, but it was all in vain.

      “Just like one of their rat creatures caught in a hole,” the assistant snivelled as the pounding blows increased.

      “A musical hole,” Arvel noted, for he had discovered a number of instruments in the far corner. But there was no time for him to admire their quality.

      Discordant jangling interrupted Bosco-Uttwar’s despair as Arvel began dragging a clavichord across the room to prop against the upturned table. From then on, every hammering blow inflicted upon the door was accompanied by a clangorous riot of notes.

      The din was unbearable but Arvel merely laughed and ran to pick up the rush light. Bearing the petty flame aloft, he dashed to the fireplace.

      “Did I not tell you that it pays to be thorough?” he cried. “For twenty-nine years this has been here, waiting for such an emergency. Behold, Bosco-Uttwar, here is our escape route.”

      The relief which flooded over his assistant was overwhelming. Beneath the high collar of his cloak, a wide smile spread across his long face when he gazed gladly upon the mirror which hung above the mantel.

      In the passageway, Sussex and Dudley had stepped aside to allow the burliest of the guards to throw their weight against the door.

      “Break it down!” Lord Robert bawled.

      There was a tremendous crash as the table went toppling to the floor in the room beyond, and the clavichord exploded beneath its crushing weight with a jarring finale of twanging scales. A powerful kick sent the door ripping from its hinges, but no one went charging inside. Every vengeful voice was quelled and many crossed themselves in the manner of the old religion.

      From that windowless room, brilliant colours were pouring and, for one instant, that dark corner of the palace was ablaze with light. A kaleidoscope of burning images radiated from the splintered entrance like dazzling sunshine streaming through a cathedral window – casting vibrant, fragmented shapes on to the corridor wall.

      The vivid glare flashed across Lord Robert’s face. Squinting, he saw within that room innumerable visions of the villainous physicians. Over every surface their fractured likenesses flared, but even as he marvelled, the wonder vanished and all was dark once more.

      Bewildered, Dudley and Sussex stepped through the doorway. But the chamber was empty. The strangers were nowhere to be found.

      “Where are they?” snapped Sir William, pushing his way through the abashed guards.

      Staring into the shadows, Lord Robert could only shake his head. “I know not,” he said softly. “It seemed to me I viewed them as if through the heart of a great faceted jewel, and then they were gone.”

      “Witches and devils!” Lord Sussex growled.

      Sir William threw them a disbelieving glance then turned to elbow past the guards once again. “Well,” he declared, “if they have flown up the chimney, then there is naught we can do. I’ll waste no more time on them this foul night.”

      “Where are you going?” Lord Sussex asked, hastening after him.

      “To summon back that German doctor!” came the stern reply. “If he doesn’t save the Queen, then I’ll stick a knife in him myself.”

      Alone in the room, Robert Dudley sheathed his sword and dismissed the gaping guards. In all the years that were left to him he never spoke of that night again, not even to his precious Elizabeth.

       PART ONE

       CHAPTER 1 Adam o’the Cogs

      Out in the deep darkness, in the one hundred and seventy-eighth year of Elizabeth Tudor’s prodigious reign, the beatified, uplifted realm of Britain was reaching the close of another long summer evening. It was the fifth of June in the Gloriana Kalendar and in the smallest of the twelve floating lands which made up the county of Suffolk, the shadows grew deep and rich about the red-bricked manor of Wutton Old Place.

      Malmes-Wutton was not the wealthiest of estates. From the furthest pasture, through the humble village and across to the outlying wood, the greatest measured distance was scarcely a mile.

      The manor had once been a splendid residence. Less than a century before, the Queen had progressed there to admire the quality of the horses, for it was widely believed that there were none in Englandia to match them. During those bygone, shimmering days, the manor’s mullion windows blazed with light and a near constant music flowed out over the rose garden.

      But the intervening years had changed many things. The fortunes of Wutton Old Place had shifted dramatically. Lord Richard Wutton had fallen from Her Majesty’s favour and the monopolies she granted to him had been revoked. Gone was the grandeur which the manor formerly boasted; the large building now looked shabby and was choked with ivy. Every horse had been sold to pay mounting debts and the neighbouring fields barely provided enough to feed those who tilled them. No one of rank ventured near, for who would be seen to frequent such a dilapidated estate?

      Yet someone was making the journey to this remote and isolated СКАЧАТЬ