Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ one of the court cooks come to maunder the secret of Mistress Dritchly’s pear tart.”

      “Cooks don’t get to ride on steeds like that,” Adam murmured.

      The riders were very near now and even in the gloom the boys could see that their horses were infinitely superior to anything they had ever seen.

      Then into the yard they came, reining their mounts to a stamping halt.

      The horses were magnificent. Fashioned from black steel, they were elegant and powerful and the boys gawped at them. Never had they imagined that any mechanical could be so beautiful as these incredible creatures. Every sinew of the original beast was hammered into the flowing panels and their proud heads tossed and strained at the reins in a most natural and convincing manner.

      Yet among those horses there was one even greater than the rest. It was a whole hand taller, the mane and tail were of the finest silken fibres and it was shod with bronze. In the obsidian globes of its eyes there gleamed a fierce intelligence, and both Henry and Adam guessed that somewhere within that fabulous steed there was undoubtedly a quantity of black ichor.

      “You, boy!” a clipped, commanding voice called down from its rider whose face was concealed in shadow. “Where is Richard Wutton? Why is he not here to greet us?”

      Not certain which of them the stranger was addressing, both apprentices bowed and began gabbling at once in apology.

      “I’m sure he don’t know of your arrival yet, sir,” Adam said.

      “I’ll go fetch Lord Richard out,” Henry spoke over him.

      An impatient, disdainful sniff was the only reply. Then another of the riders said in a conciliatory voice, “Look, Sir Francis, he is here!”

      The large oak door of Wutton Old Place was creaking open and a wedge of yellow candlelight flooded the yard. Adam and Henry backed away, for at last they saw just how forbidding and important the strangers appeared. Framed in the entrance, Lord Richard Wutton looked on the grave countenances of the horsemen and the ready smile failed on his lips.

      Richard Wutton was a jovial man, much respected by his few tenants. Their remaining with him throughout his years of banishment from court was a testament to the loyalty he inspired. His exile and the subsequent loss of fortunes had, however, grizzled and greyed his temples and he was more fond of the bottle than he ought to have been.

      Standing there upon the threshold of his run-down manor, he stared at the faces of his guests and wished he had quaffed a cup of wine before meeting them.

      There, upon that splendid horse, was Sir Francis Walsingham, stiff and intractable in his stark black garments, his mirthless face ringed by the white circle of his ruff. Lord Richard’s heart quailed inside his ribs. What could that calculating old spider want here?

      Hurriedly he glanced at the others. He did not recognise two of them but guessed that the one closest to Sir Francis was undoubtedly his personal secretary while the other, a sullen-faced man dressed in russets and already dismounting, was his groom. The fourth man Lord Richard knew very well and his mind began to race as it sought for the reason which had brought the old, white-bearded scholar back to Malmes-Wutton after all these years.

      “Welcome, My Lord Walsingham,” he called, leaving the doorway and walking towards them. “I am deeply honoured by this visit.”

      Like a huge raven unfurling its wings, Sir Francis threw back his black riding cloak and jumped from the saddle. His dark eyes glinted at Lord Richard but he said nothing and his host fidgeted uneasily under their glare.

      “I’m afraid the message I received made no mention of whom I was to expect,” the man mumbled to cover the silence.

      “That is because I did not want you to know,” came the bleak and disconcerting answer.

      “I trust you’ll find the meal and entertainment adequate …” Lord Richard said, his voice falling to a wretched whisper as Sir Francis Walsingham strode rudely away and entered the manor house.

      “A most tiring journey,” the secretary broke in. “You must pardon My Lord’s abrupt manner. What a pleasant isle this is; quite the smallest I have seen, but such plaudits I have heard concerning the work that is done here. Most interesting, all your merry apprentices tinkering away with broken cattle.”

      Lord Richard was hardly paying attention. Walsingham frightened him and he turned to the other man he had recognised.

      “And you, Doctor?” he began. “Why are you here? Have you ceased casting horoscopes and conversing with angels?”

      Doctor John Dee met his questioning glance for an instant, then had the grace to look away. “I should have called upon you earlier, Richard,” he said regretfully. “I am most sorry for that. Fourteen years is too long.”

      There was an awkward pause and, watching from nearby, Adam saw that the embers of an old argument lay between these two men.

      “Come!” the secretary cried, clapping his hands together. “Let us not tarry without when light and merriment awaits us. Let all quarrels be put aside this night.”

      Lord Richard remembered his duties as host and, clearing his very dry throat, guided the men to the doorway, leaving the groom behind.

      Adam o’the Cogs watched them enter the manor but, on the topmost step, the white-bearded man known as Doctor Dee paused and stared back at him. The boy shuddered under the intense scrutiny, before the elderly stranger followed Lord Richard inside.

      “I wouldn’t sleep easy this night if I were you, boy!” the groom chuckled unpleasantly. “Don’t you know who that were?”

      Adam shook his head. The name “Doctor Dee” had meant nothing to him.

      Holding the reins of all five horses, the groom gave him a leering smile. “Astrologer to the Queen, that’s who,” he said, affecting a hollow, sepulchral voice. “Invented the new Kalendar, he did, and more besides if rumours be true. Decent folk are scared of him, more so than they are of my master.”

      “Why?” Henry demanded.

      The groom’s eyes slid quickly from side to side as if afraid of the surrounding shadows. “They say he digs up corpses,” he hissed. “Grubs up the churchyard dirt and, by his wicked arts, speaks with the dead bodies.”

      Henry snapped his fingers in disbelief. “Donkey warts!” he said.

      “Is it?” the man murmured. “Jenks here thinks not. An imp from Hell does his bidding, that’s no lie – there’s plenty enough who’ve seen it. A crafty, clever man is Doctor Dee, but also a mighty dangerous one. You’d best watch out, lad, if he takes notice of you – no knowing what might come for you in the night to cart you off.”

      Adopting Henry’s sceptical stance, Adam managed a feeble laugh but he did not like the look of the groom. The man had a suspicious face and, when he saw that his attempts to frighten them had failed, his mouth twisted into an arrogant sneer.

      “Now then,” he began, his sly glance darting around the yard, “where are my master’s steeds to be housed?”

      Adam returned СКАЧАТЬ