by Robin Jarvis
Down the panelled halls Henry fled, his mind a battleground of confusion and fear. What was he to do? Where was he to go? Stumbling out into a neatly tended garden, he leaned against a wooden pillar and broke down.
Minutes trickled by and, gradually, strains of music entered his raw, pounding desolation. Lifting his head, the apprentice stared across the low hedges and saw the windows of the banqueting house scintillating with countless candles.
“Brindle,” he sobbed. “He’ll tell me it’s not true. He’ll explain. It’s a dirty plot, that’s what it is.”
Dragging his sleeve across his face, Henry Wattle ran towards the great building.
Thomas Herrick’s smile had congealed on his lips. Watching Her Majesty instruct the Iribian in the dancing had been a sore trial. For three years he had been the Queen’s favourite partner and jealousy curdled inside him.
Brindle was an eager pupil. Already he had mastered La Volta and his strong arms had lifted Elizabeth higher than any man had ever done before. Herrick was incensed. Her loud laughter pierced him and when she saw his brooding face she laughed even more.
“Come, Sirrah!” she cried. “We will have no sullen wretches here. Grudge not My sweet Salamander. I am considering the bestowal of lands upon him – sulk any more and I shall give him yours.”
Master Herrick forced a grin on to his lips. “But this is unfair, Your Grace,” he entreated, “for the sun to shine upon a single bloom. What are the rest of us to do? We shall wither in the shade.”
“I would not have you pine without Me,” she said judiciously. “Let the musicians commence a new tune. I must bring warmth to My garden of pretty courtiers. The Tinternel then.”
The music was instantly replaced by a different melody and the Queen turned a sorrowful expression to Brindle.
“Alas, good Salamander. I must obey the will of My subjects. I am always theirs, such is the unhappy lot of a monarch. Stand aside and when this dance is over I promise to instruct you in its movements.”
The Iribian bowed and drew away to the tiered benches. A spiteful thrust jabbed from Thomas Herrick’s eyes as he took the Queen’s hand and led her into this new dance.
Brindle let his senses drift over the merry assembly. The richly-coloured costumes did indeed put him in mind of a garden. Thomas Herrick was not the only gentleman who vied for the Queen’s attention with costly clothing. The Iribian understood perfectly why this race had appealed to those his kind had hunted to extinction. He could appreciate what had attracted them and knew why they had been chosen to occupy these islands in the deserted regions of the darkness. They had an exuberant flair and imagination and their attention to the smallest detail was unlike any he had ever encountered. It was all most impressive and Brindle marvelled at the monumental achievement of bringing them here. Yet they were ignorant of their true purpose in these isolated isles and, beneath the luxuriant display of velvets and silks, he could smell the earthy sweat and dirt of this uninformed people.
Without thinking, his hand slid to the hilt of his reaping hook. It would be childishly easy to kill everyone in this room. One swipe of the blades would release that sacred essence and set his blood on fire, inspiring him with a tireless vigour. Absently, he counted the heads of the dancers and his mouth watered. Watching them weave in and out of one another, he pictured himself among them, leaping, and lunging with the twin knives. A divine providence had sent him here, a paradise where he was a tiger among the doves.
The emerald horseshoes of his eyes sparkled; if he relinquished control and abandoned himself to those primitive instincts his mind would never know a melancholy moment. The guilt and sorrow of the intervening years would vanish as the exquisite joy of the deathscent would uplift him to an unassailable rapture.
A loathsome chuckling broke into his black thoughts and he was shocked and sickened to discover that the laughter was his own. In that moment he despised himself. He must never again succumb to the awful lust which had damned his people and made them the scourge of other societies. There were other nobler joys and, for the first time since Jack Flye had perished, he found himself thinking of his family and wondered what his children were doing without him.
A glad and grateful smile tugged at the corners of his wide mouth. The choice was made. There would be no more killing. If the Queen permitted, he would retire to a lonely isle, away from temptation.
Sir Francis Walsingham was still huddled with the other privy councillors upon the raised platform, viewing the proceedings with hawklike concentration. Brindle glanced at him. He would never divulge the secrets of Iribia’s infernal weaponry to Her Majesty’s spymaster. They were not ready to wield such destruction – no one ever was.
Turning his attention back to the dancers, he gave himself to the merry tune and quickly memorised the movements. Then, dodging past the outlying figures, he made his way to the Queen and offered her his hand. It was a breaking of etiquette but Elizabeth was charmed by the impulsive gesture and readily assented. Glowering, Thomas Herrick was dismissed to the side of the hall where he gritted his teeth, almost wishing he had never brought the Iribian to London.
Now that the terrible burden was lifted from his conscience, Brindle danced more expertly than ever and the Queen was delighted.
“If you are as accomplished in the saddle,” she said, “you must ride with Me on the morrow. My horses are the finest in the realm.”
The balm trader accepted and, overhearing the invitation, Thomas Herrick’s displeasure was complete.
Another melody commenced. Around the spacious hall the courtiers processed in line, with the Queen and her new favourite at their head. Then, abruptly, Brindle faltered. Instead of leading Her Majesty through the aisle of expectant dancers, he turned and stared at the entrance.
“Salamander?” Elizabeth began. “Why do you hesitate? The steps of this are simple enough.”
The pigmented flames around Brindle’s eyes bunched together as he frowned. “Fear flies this way,” he muttered, his nostrils trembling. “Henry – he is confused and afraid. Something has happened.”
To the Queen’s astonishment, he left her side and strode toward the doors. Her surprise inflamed to anger and she stormed after him. “How dare you leave Me!” she cried. “God’s death, I will not brook such impertinence and want of courtesy.”
The music died but her indignant shouts were joined by a second commotion outside the entrance. “The heavenly messenger!” Henry Wattle’s voice was shrieking. “I must see him!”
Having run to the banqueting house, the apprentice had been stopped by the guards posted outside. No matter how hard he kicked and yelled, they would not let him enter.
“Brindle!” he shouted. “Brindle!” Within the great building, the Iribian bellowed for them to let him pass and the startled sentries put aside their halberds.
Henry pelted between them and came barging in. The sumptuous sea of courtiers parted before him, clearing a direct path to Elizabeth and the Iribian.
Clasping the shew stone to his chest, Henry blundered to a standstill.
“Who is this ragged urchin?” the Queen demanded, glaring down the divided gulf. “You have not the right to permit his entry. Explain this intrusion.”
Brindle did not hear her. He was staring at Henry’s tormented face, horrified at the burn which marred his forehead.
“Who has done this?” he thundered. “What has befallen you?”
Reaching out, he stepped forward but the boy gave a pitiful screech and pulled away. “Tell me it isn’t true!” he pleaded. “Tell me!”
“The boy is mad,” Elizabeth declared. “Remove him.”
“No!” Brindle protested. “Henry, what have you heard? Why are you afraid?”
“They said you were a murderer,” the boy snivelled. “A killer who’d gut us all, butcher us for the smell of our death. They said you were evil.”
The Iribian’s jaw tightened as he flinched from those terrible, condemning words and a murmur of s
hock rippled around the room.
“Do you believe that?” he asked.
Henry shook his head. “But Lord Richard and Coggy did,” he gulped. “It were that blasted doctor’s fault, him and his haunted secretary. The things they said about you. Oh, Brindle …”
All eyes were fixed upon the Iribian, regarding him with distrust and suspicion, but he was oblivious to them. The only thing that mattered was to soothe the boy’s distress.
“Let me see your wound,” Brindle said tenderly. “It needs dressing and you must rest.”
There could be no mistaking the genuine concern and compassion in that voice and Henry broke down again. Any grain of doubt he may have had was banished and he rushed forward. The Iribian wrapped his arms about him and the apprentice wept, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
“Do not fear,” Brindle said gently. “The danger is over. I won’t let any harm come to you. As a son to me, you are.”
Moved by Henry’s grief and the Iribian’s earnest affection, the Queen forgave his interruption and called two Tizzys over. “Take the child to a bedchamber and feed him well,” she commanded. “He is overwrought.”
Henry reared his head. “I won’t go,” he swore defiantly. “They’ll be here soon. Here to accuse Brindle. I’ll not leave him.”
“You are mistaken, child,” she chided. “Doctor Dee would not charge my Salamander of any wrongdoing. He has assured me the stars augur favourably. Your betters have played a game with you, that is all.”
“Do as you are bidden,” Thomas Herrick’s voice rallied to the Queen’s aid.
“I won’t!” the boy insisted.
“God’s blood!” Elizabeth cried at his obdurate insolence.
“Bum boils!” Henry retorted.
Brindle placed his hands upon the apprentice’s shoulders, unaware of the bruises dealt to him by the Torture Master. Grimacing, Henry winced. Only then did the Iribian notice the object he had been grasping to his chest.
“What is that?” he asked.
Henry held out the shew stone and Brindle drew a sharp breath when he recognised the design of its frame.
“I … I took it from the Doctor’s tower,” the apprentice stammered. “I wanted to give it to you. I knew you needed it.”
Brindle sank to his knees. He could scarcely believe it. Running his eyes over the twisting yellow metal, a faint cry of jubilation burst from his lips. “All the elements are in place,” he whispered, touching the blue stone of his torc. “I can construct a beacon. I am no longer cut off from my home. I can return to Iribia.” An entirely different future was opening before him. “I can see my family again. Henry, I owe you my deepest thanks.”
The Queen roared in exultation. “That is excellent news,” she announced. “The prosperous trade we spoke of can begin. Your people will be most welcome in My kingdom.”
Still kneeling, Brindle looked up at her – aghast. “No,” he murmured. “That must never be.” But his voice went unheard as Lord Richard Wutton and Adam o’the Cogs burst into the banqueting house.
“Don’t give it to him!” Adam yelled, dashing forward to wrench the mirror from Henry’s hands.
“Your Grace!” Lord Richard panted, out of breath. “This fellow has deceived us all. He is not who he pretends to be.”
The Queen looked from one to the other in consternation as Walsingham and the rest of the council made their way forward.
“Lord Richard, hear me,” Brindle begged. “You must allow me to explain. Whatever you have been told, be not hasty in your judgement. You are my friend and I yours; listen to me – please.”
“Hear him!” Henry yelled as Adam wrested the shew stone out of his fingers.
The master of Malmes-Wutton listened to them both and, away from the fervid cries of the disembodied voice in the tower, he felt the anger cool inside him and his usual level-headed reason returned. “I did not want to believe you would betray me,” he said. “It is only fair that you be permitted to deliver your version of what we have been told.”
“I agree with you, Richard,” Walsingham added. “This is a tale we must all hear.”
“He’s a black-hearted killer!” Adam shouted, dismayed at Lord Richard’s wavering resolve. “You don’t understand! You don’t know what he’s done!”
“But I intend to,” the spymaster promised. “Although not here in full show. This is a matter for Her Grace and the Privy Council.”
Elizabeth concurred. “Take the Iribian to the council chamber,” she instructed. “We will uncover the truth of these singular indictments there.”
“My thanks,” Brindle said. If he could only make them understand that he was no longer any danger to them. If they could only be made to know a fraction of his people’s shame at what they had done. If he confessed to everything then maybe he could begin again with a less burdened heart. If this primitive race could forgive him, then it might be possible to forgive himself.
Walsingham summoned the guards from the entrance but, before they could reach the balm merchant, Thomas Herrick intervened. The charges against Elizabeth’s Salamander had pleased him greatly. He felt only hostility and resentment towards the usurping stranger and was delighted that his own position in the Queen’s affections now looked to be restored. Always pushing himself forward, he could not resist doing so at that fateful moment.
“Your pardon, Your Grace,” he toadied. “Innocent or no, this dubious personage must be disarmed. Permit me to remove the curious knife he bears.”
Without waiting for an answer, he leaned across and pulled the reaping hook from its sheath at Brindle’s side. At once the Iribian sprang to his feet and seized hold of the man’s wrist.
“That is an heirloom of my house,” Brindle growled. “It was to pass on to my eldest son. I will not suffer you to so much as touch it. Release it from your sullying clutches.”
Herrick spluttered and tried to drag himself free. “Unhand me, you uncouth knave!” he cried. “I am doing Her Majesty’s bidding – do not obstruct me.”
“I will not quarrel with you,” Brindle warned, his iron grip squeezing the vain man’s wrist even more tightly. “If I have to surrender the weapon then so be it, but never unto you. You have done naught but show discourtesy and contempt for those I hold in esteem. Give the knife to one of the boys. They have in them more nobility than you can ever pretend.”
Struggling to liberate his hand, Thomas Herrick’s face had turned crimson with the strain. Between him and the Iribian the two blades of the reaping hook flashed and glinted as they shivered in his quivering grasp.
“Let it go,” Brindle ordered.
“Get away from me, you snorting beast!”
Exasperated by this public brawling, the Queen could stomach it no longer. “Enough!” she roared. “Herrick! Do not think you can hurl your insults in My name. Until this affair is decided the Iribian will continue to enjoy his status as the emissary of a foreign power. Do as he bids – give the weapon to one of the children.”
The dismayed man turned his head toward her in surprise and, considering the matter settled, Brindle released him. Yet the distracted Herrick was not expecting his sudden action. The muscles in his arm were still pulling and straining. Before he could stop himself, the fist which gripped the razor sharp blades jerked violently towards his own face.
Every voice cried in horror. The Queen covered her eyes and Adam turned away as Thomas Herrick fell, twitching, to the ground, the pale silks of his expensive garments darkening with his own blood.
“Fetch the physician!” Walsingham called. “Quickly! Staunch the flow, someone.”
Brindle staggered backwards, overwhelmed with a terrible fear. He threw his hands to his forehead where the long slit of his cranial nostril began to quiver, opening like a flower with fleshy petals as it quested the air.
“No!” he howled. “Help me – take me from this place. I beg you!”
“What ails him?” Walsingham shouted.
Richard Wut
ton rushed forward and tried to drag the Iribian away, but Brindle reeled back, falling into the crowd. The courtiers stumbled away from him as he toppled to the floor, calling out in a desperate, beseeching cry, “The man is dying!” he yelled. “HELP ME!”
It was no use. As Thomas Herrick’s final feeble movements ceased, Brindle began to shake. An excruciating, dolorous roar erupted from his lungs.
“Look at his skin,” the courtiers exclaimed. “What is happening?”
“Lord of hosts!” the Queen whispered.
Within the Iribian’s flesh, a luminous, spectral sheen was creeping, flowing through his veins until he glowed with a ghastly light. The battle had been decided against his will. His futile struggle against the base forces of his nature was ended – and he had lost.
“It’s what I glimpsed when Jack died,” Adam breathed. “It’s what the deathscent does to him.”
There was a heart-thumping pause. Then Brindle raised himself from the floor and the transformation that had disfigured his noble countenance was terrible to witness.
The Iribian was almost unrecognisable. His lemon and green eyes were wild and staring and shot with silver, threading veins. His many nostrils were gaping and his features shone with a livid, streaking light which moved beneath the surface of his flesh like sheets of cold flame. Yet it was Brindle’s expression which alarmed and frightened the apprentices. He now resembled a feral, hungry beast and even Henry shrank away from him in terror.
With swaggering, powerful strides, Brindle pushed through the frightened people until he stood beside the body of Thomas Herrick once more and sniggered cruelly. Then he pulled the reaping hook out of the dead man and rounded on Adam.
“Give me that device,” he ordered in a gargling, bestial voice that was not his own. “Bring it to me!”
Grasping the shew stone in trembling hands, Adam shook his head. “You can’t have it,” he answered. “I’ll break it before you can call more of your kind here.”
A vicious snarl gurgled in Brindle’s throat and he raised the bloodstained reaping hook as if to lash out at him. Then he spat and in one swift movement dragged the Queen to his side, pressing the blades to her neck.