by Robin Jarvis
An eruption of earth hailed into the clearing as the foundations were torn from the soil, and Adam and Henry were thrown sprawling under a tempest of dirt and collapsing poles.
In the midst of the wreckage and upheaval, Old Scratch stumbled to his hooves, but Brindle had already picked up his large glittering knife and was running towards him. The wild boar bayed in defiance and the two clashed for the last time.
Into the tough casing the bitter blades ripped, carving a ragged hole in the mechanical’s side. Even as Old Scratch screeched in protest, Brindle held him firm and the twin knives went gouging inside, scything through the tarnished gears and spindles as though they were made of paper.
Fiery sparks gushed from the wild boar’s evil snout and a horrendous whine of agonised metal vibrated within him. The frothing ichor ceased squirting from his narrow eyes and gradually his frantic movements slowed until only the jaw twitched and flapped. A burbling rattle bubbled up through the severed internal tubes before spilling out of the throat in a surprised snort.
Then it was over and Old Scratch fell inert at Brindle’s feet. The Iribian stared at the monstrous creation coldly, then returned his weapon to its scabbard.
Glancing quickly at the destruction, he saw with relief that Adam and Henry were unharmed. Then he leaped over to where Jack was lying upon the ground and knelt at his side. One brief look was enough to tell him Jack was close to death – Old Scratch’s tusks had done their foul work well and the lad knew it.
“Master Flye,” Brindle said gently. “The danger is over.”
Jack’s eyes were gazing fixedly above but they blinked slowly when he heard those words and flickered across the Iribian’s blurring form. “Scratchy’s ended?” he asked in a failing voice.
Brindle nodded.
“Good,” Jack murmured. “Master Edwin always said you have to pay for your mistakes, sooner or …” A spasm of pain twisted the lad’s face and, gritting his teeth, he reached for Brindle’s hand and grasped it tightly.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” he stuttered.
“There is naught to be ashamed of,” the Iribian answered. “If you were one of my sons, I should be proud indeed.”
“I thought you’d deserted us – I … I was wrong …”
Jack coughed then stared up at the stranger. A darkness was creeping into his vision, forming a ring of light about the dim outline of Brindle’s head and a faint chuckle drifted from his lips.
“I believe it now,” he laughed feebly. “’Tis well that you’re here, My Lord. No longer do I fear the end – I have an angel to send me hence.” And with that, Jack Flye’s last breath sighed from his body.
Bruised and aching, Henry and Adam clambered from the destruction and hurried over to where Brindle was kneeling. Henry paused to stare with round eyes at the sight of Old Scratch’s motionless carcass and gave the wooden husk a vengeful kick. “A lovely bonfire we’ll have with you!” he promised.
Approaching the Iribian, Adam saw his wide shoulders sag and his head droop. Adam halted. “Brindle?” he asked. “Is … is Jack …?”
The Iribian made no answer. He rose and walked a few, faltering steps away from him and the boy understood.
“God have mercy,” he said in a cracked whisper.
“How is he faring?” Henry called, stilling the broken ponies. “There’s much to do this night.” When he received no reply, Henry hurried across and stared aghast at Jack’s body. “Stop this!” he cried. “Jack! We must away and pack – we’re to London on the morrow. Jack?”
Adam looked into the other boy’s stricken face. “He’s gone,” he said simply.
A strangled cry blurted from Henry’s mouth and he dropped to the ground.
Adam o’the Cogs turned to Brindle. The Iribian still had his back to them but the boy could sense that he had been greatly affected by Jack’s death. He was holding his fist to his forehead and had unclasped the torc from his throat so as to keep his sounds of grief private and unproclaimed.
The same sense of unreality which had followed Edwin Dritchly’s passing spared Adam’s feelings now. The lowering sun had dipped behind the trees and the depthless shadow that swallowed the clearing made everything appear flat and false.
Adam suddenly felt chill and he made his way to Brindle. “Are you well?” he asked, for the Iribian had not moved since stumbling to his feet and shuffling those few steps.
Drawing closer, he put out his hand, then withdrew it sharply and blinked. For an instant he thought he had caught a glimpse of something strange. An ethereal, almost luminous sheen was moving under the skin of the Iribian’s face and the long slit in his forehead was pulsing.
Looking again, Adam shook himself. He had imagined it, a trick of the failing light. “Brindle?” he said, putting his hand on his arm.
The balm merchant flinched at the touch, then stared at Adam with his one lemon-coloured eye and its green, horseshoe centre. It was an empty, vacant stare, almost as though he were viewing the boy for the very first time.
Slowly he returned the torc to his throat and in a croaking voice said. “Forgive me – I am fatigued.”
Regarding him, Adam thought he looked anything but tired. In an odd way he actually appeared younger.
“Some of your scars have healed,” he observed in surprise. “Your face – ’tis smoother and less seamed than …”
The Iribian moved away quickly. “We must bear Master Flye back to the manor,” he announced.
Stooping over Jack’s body, he lifted him in his arms with infinite gentleness and strode solemnly from the clearing.
Adam hurried to the oak where Suet had been smashed. Hunting quickly through the splintered bits and pieces of wood and brass, he collected all the fragments that he could find. Then he threw them down again.
The broken ichor bottles twinkled dully. Suet’s perky personality had already seeped into the soil. Like Jack, the piglet was beyond repair.
Abruptly, a pounding uproar blasted into his sorrow and he turned to see Henry feverishly battering Old Scratch’s casing, pulling it apart with his bare hands. Adam decided it was best to leave him to it. Departing from the oak, something sparkled in the corner of his eye and, when he investigated, the boy discovered a small phial lying by the tree’s roots.
By some miracle, the glass vessel was still intact. It contained Suet’s black ichor and Adam pocketed it morosely as a token of the friendship and devotion the piglet had bestowed upon him.
Following Brindle’s trail, his thoughts were a turbulent wreck. Even so, he kept returning to the vague and disturbing suspicion that once again he had chanced upon a secret that the Iribian did not wish to be revealed.
Behind him Henry Wattle fell, exhausted, on to the wild boar’s ruins.
Never in his darkest dreams could Adam have guessed what Brindle’s terrible secret might be, or why his people were so reviled and hated.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
To the Copper Cow
The estate of Malmes-Wutton awoke to one of the bleakest days it had ever witnessed. An unbearable night had preceded in which grief and anger reigned, and the God who had raised the lands was cursed by many voices. Now a raw emptiness had taken possession and, almost as if they too were mechanicals, the inhabitants roused themselves and prepared for the grievous day ahead.
The royal summons still had to be obeyed. Lord Richard knew the Queen too well to suppose she would excuse him because a servant had been killed. But he refused to embark on Thomas Herrick’s night barge until Jack had been laid to rest in the churchyard.
Mistress Dritchly had toiled through the night, mending clothes and ensuring her late husband’s best would fit Brindle. By first light, everything was packed and ready for the journey. Now, dressed in the sober black of Edwin Dritchly’s Puritan best, his long hair groomed and tied neatly in a ponytail, Brindle was a striking presence. Studying his face, the woman was pleased to note that it had healed beyond her expectations – now only
the left eye remained bound with a bandage. Silently, she praised the Almighty but also privately preened herself for her own nursing skill.
It had been decided the company should depart as soon as the interment was over. Lord Richard deemed it would be plain cruelty to leave Cog Adam behind and alone in the workshop. The boy needed companionship and perhaps the spectacle of London’s great isle would help ease his grief.
The last farewells were said. Richard Wutton voiced final words of condolence to Jack’s mother and father while Henry’s parents warned their boy to behave himself.
Adam o’the Cogs had no one to wish him goodbye, except Mistress Dritchly who hugged him tightly before returning her attention to Brindle.
“Only the second day out of the sick bed,” she declared in a wobbling tone. “Here you are going off to visit Her Majesty. Well you just remember this, my angel: She’s no dominion over you nor where you’re from. Don’t be intimidated; you’ll be attending Her in the capacity of ambassador and She must show you the proper courtesies, though you’re already worth a hundred of any at court – aye, even Her.”
For the first time since the previous afternoon, Brindle managed a smile. A salty tang flavoured the woman’s floury scent that morning, as tears brimmed in her eyes.
“I have much to thank you for,” he told her. “I pray one day I can repay your kindness.”
“Seeing you hale and well is the only reward I seek. Just come you back to us.”
The Iribian could not answer and slung the pack he had been given on to his shoulder. At his hip he still wore the weapon he had taken from his night boat, safely sheathed in the oddly shaped scabbard.
“The hour is nudging past eleven,” Lord Richard announced. “We must away. I shall return as soon as the Queen permits. Farewell.”
The calls of his tenants and friends sped him and the others along the road which soon began to slope downward, cutting a deepening valley into the ground. At the end of this green channel, spanning across the gulf, there stood a large, red-bricked wall.
Roofed with grass, a pair of large double doors, carved with the Wutton arms, were set into the centre. Adam and Henry had seen it many times but had never ventured beyond the entrance. As they approached, the doors were pushed outward.
Two surly-looking men wearing the apparel common among seafarers, being Monmouth caps and the baggy breeches known as gallygaskins, held the wooden barriers open. Then, from the gloomy, lantern-lit interior, the finely dressed figure of Thomas Herrick sauntered into the bright day.
That morning he was decked out in the shades of red, violet and purple which he termed gingerline, lustie gallant, murrey and zinzolin. He watched Lord Richard’s group approach, his face twitching with impatience while blinking from the brilliant sunshine.
“Hardly punctual, Sirrah,” he declared. “’Tis now less than an hour before noon. Do you flout the Queen’s command?”
Lord Richard met his haughty stare and replied in a gruff tone which set Thomas Herrick’s eyebrows lifting. “Did you not hear the passing bell rung with speed last night? There has been a death in this estate. We have lost one dear to us. I delayed only to see him lowered in the ground.”
The Queen’s messenger waved the excuse aside. “I did think the church bell was rejoicing in your departure,” he said lightly before turning his attention to Brindle. “Let us tarry no longer on this dismal shore. If we are to arrive at the steps of Whitehall tomorrow evening we must be gone at once to catch the tidal breath. Her Majesty is most eager to make your acquaintance, Excellency.”
With a sweep of his murrey-coloured cloak he strode back through the entrance. Lord Richard gave Brindle an apologetic and exasperated look.
“There are many more of his kind at court,” he whispered, “so you’d best get accustomed. Arrogant young fellows hungry for advancement and desperate to attract the Queen’s attention. I wonder what Master Herrick’s reward will be for conveying you thither?”
Brindle was too wrapped in thought to make an answer. It was Henry who quipped, “P’raps a new suit of clothes, for he looks like a beetroot’s twin in that garb.”
“He was a lettuce yesterday,” Adam remarked.
“Then he is a sallat,” Henry said. And with that they passed under the red-bricked archway and the bright day of Malmes-Wutton was left behind.
A deep thudding of oak proclaimed the closing of the doors behind and everyone except Brindle paused a moment to adjust to the sudden dark.
The Iribian glanced around him. They were in a wide, arching tunnel that smelled richly of stale, green water, damp earth and wet sand. Mingling among the dun, dank odours were the lingering scents of the food which had formed the cold breakfast of Herrick and his servants, interspersed with the stale memory of the previous night’s supper and the chill ashes over which that had been cooked.
They were standing upon a sandy path that led down to a long, tar-seasoned jetty which stretched out over the surface of a great subterranean pool, where two wildly different vessels were moored.
The first and most humble was the Wutton night boat, used to return or collect broken mechanicals. It was a modest and unremarkable craft but vital in trading with the neighbouring Suffolk islands.
The second vessel could not have been more different. Low at the bows and high at the stern, it was more like a ship than a simple night barge, with small leaded windows set into the fore and aftcastles. In spite of its size there were no masts but a row of eight oars, withdrawn upon either side, and a crew of twenty standing stiffly upon the deck, awaiting the order to man their posts.
“That’s no night barge!” Lord Richard muttered. “’Tis almost a brigantine.”
The Iribian gazed at both vessels in disbelief, wondering how such primitive constructions could possibly sail out into the emptiness of the Outer Dark.
Henry and Adam were also staring at the pompous night barge. Its timbers were painted a gaudy scarlet, embellished with gilded flounces and showily festooned with flickering amber lanterns. It obviously belonged to Thomas Herrick.
“My own little craft is honoured to bear you to our beloved Gloriana, Excellency,” the Queen’s envoy told Brindle. “Alas that its comforts are rudimentary, but we shall overcome any want and look forward to the bounty of Her presence on the morrow.”
Down the slope to the jetty he took them and the apprentices marvelled at the sound of their footfalls echoing over the boards. Into the high, cavernous gloom the noise went soaring, only to bounce back a thousandfold until it sounded like an army was marching behind them.
A wide plank served as the gangway and, one by one, they crossed it to step aboard Thomas Herrick’s ostentatious night barge. At once the crew ran below decks to take the oars. The two men who had pushed open the boat house doors hurried over the plank behind then pulled it in and dashed to their stations.
“We shall be hard pressed to reach Whitehall in time,” Herrick said. “Although this vessel is faster than most.”
Setting his heavy pack on the deck, Richard Wutton looked at the night barge with a studious scowl. “But this craft could arrive at London before dawn,” he retorted.
Herrick assumed a pained expression. “My men cannot row all night,” he said. “We shall see what progress we make this day then put in at some hospitable place. I have spent one night in my cabin and will not endure another.”
Slowly, the night barge was pushed away from the wooden quayside. Gracefully the oars slid out, dipped into the water below and the craft glided through the darkness. The lanterns that lit the jetty began to recede and Adam and Henry leaned over the side to watch them dwindle into the distance.
“We’re off, Coggy,” Henry breathed, unable to quell his excitement.
Adam peered down at the black water. Churned by the rhythmic motion of the oars it sparkled and glittered in the light of the barge’s ornamental lamps. It was as if they had already left the island behind them and were sailing the airless void.
&n
bsp; “Stand clear there,” Thomas Herrick scolded. “The canopy is about to close and you’ll forfeit your fingers.”
The boys stood back as one of the men cranked an iron handle and two halves of a canvas-covered framework were hoisted above the deck, unfolding with a rattle of chains over pulleys.
Brindle observed the operation with interest. The canopy closed overhead to the sound of a muffled clang and, when the join was made secure and the mechanism locked, the deck was totally encased and sealed.
From the enclosing canvas a chemical vapour came pouring which only his delicate senses detected and a murmur of recognition left his lips. “So, it is true,” he said.
Everyone looked at him.
“Excellency?” Thomas Herrick asked. “What is this truth?”
“The canopy,” Brindle explained. “I have seen its like before. I am familiar with the mordant in which the canvas is steeped. Matters are now much clearer to me – that is all.”
Herrick gave a bemused grin. “Such knowledge is for shipwrights and labourers, surely?” he laughed. “Come, view our departure – we are approaching the mouth.”
Stepping on to the forecastle, he beckoned Brindle to follow. The Iribian complied, and so did Adam and Henry.
Across to the far side of the raven black pool the night barge skimmed, to where the surface foamed and bubbled before a cliff of rock that reared up into the darkness. Yet high in that craggy wall there gaped an immense opening.
“Raise the oars,” Herrick instructed as the vessel entered the seething waters.
As every oar pointed upward, the night barge gave a gentle lurch, then began to rise from the boiling pool, causing a teeming rain to pour from its elevating keel.