Lord Richard’s heart sank as he perceived where this was leading.
“Seventeen men I gathered from all across the realm,” Walsingham continued. “Yet it has been proven that agents of foreign powers are at work in this land, for nearly all of those learned masters have met with accidents and misfortunes whilst making the journey to London.”
“Waylaid and murdered!” the secretary interjected. “The finest talents of sweet Englandia, butchered by Philip of Spain’s heinous envoys.”
Walsingham raised a hand for silence and Master Tewkes reluctantly drew a great breath to stifle his fizzing outrage.
“Henceforth,” Sir Francis continued, “I shall ensure the safety of such craftsmen by escorting them personally to the isle of London.”
Lord Richard had listened to this discourse in mounting dismay. “You are going to take Edwin Dritchly away from Malmes-Wutton?” he murmured.
“It is by Royal decree,” Walsingham answered with a cold finality in his voice. “We shall depart at first light.”
“If you had the slightest notion of the approaching conflict,” Doctor Dee put in, “you would not demur.”
Richard Wutton looked to the stage where Master Edwin was still making adjustments to the lutanist. Without his expertise the sole income of Malmes-Wutton would disappear, but that was not the impoverished Lord’s first thought.
“What of his wife?” he asked. “Will she be permitted to accompany him?”
“If he wishes.”
Lord Richard drained his cup. “Edwin was never one for the city,” he said. “Nor is Mistress Dritchly, but if it is commanded then there is naught I can do to halt their going.”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Walsingham stated.
“Forgive me,” Master Tewkes broke in with a blank expression upon his sharp features. “But is this not the fourth time we have heard O Mistress Mine? Can your minstrels play no other music?”
Unaware that his future was being discussed at the table, Master Dritchly had completed his repairs to the lutanist and urged Jack Flye to still the recorder player. The seventeen-year-old obeyed and the ensuing silence was a welcome relief to everyone.
“I hate that stinky tune,” Henry muttered to Adam.
“Hum hum,” Master Dritchly puffed, mopping his face with his hat. “Let us start them both up again.”
The crests of both musicians were pressed and the mechanicals lifted their brass heads to await instruction.
“The Honiesuckle,” Master Dritchly commanded.
The two mannequins began to play. The sound, however, was horrible to hear, for although the lutanist was performing the desired melody, the recorder player had launched into O Mistress Mine for the fifth time.
“Stop it!” Master Dritchly growled, but the mechanicals ignored him and the ear-jarring discord continued.
Jack reached up to press the Wutton crest on the recorder player’s shoulder, but the device was jammed and would not budge beneath his fingers. The terrible noise persisted and Master Dritchly threw a worried glance at the table. A distressing grimness was etched into every face, even on that of his own Lord, and his blotches deepened to a rich plum colour.
To extinguish this awful din, he gave the lutanist a sound slap and the instrument fell from the abruptly frozen fingers as the mannequin became like a statue. With a reverberating bump, the lute dropped to the floor but there was no time to attend to that. Jumping on to the stage, Master Edwin raised his fat fist and brought it down on the other musician’s shoulder.
O Mistress Mine piped on regardless.
“Be still!” Master Edwin ordered, hammering blow after blow upon the immovable crest. “I insist.”
Watching from the side, Henry Wattle bit into his lip as he tried to keep from laughing, while Adam stared across to Lord Richard and his guests. “That Walsingham’s got a face to curdle cream,” he told the other apprentice.
A sixth rendition of O Mistress Mine started and Richard Wutton refilled his cup. “Most unfortunate,” he announced, although secretly he was almost enjoying the embarrassing situation. If the ridiculous scene continued, Sir Francis might have second thoughts about removing Edwin Dritchly to London.
“Can this foolery be all a part of the entertainment?” Master Tewkes suggested brightly. “Most novel of you, Lord Richard.”
“Assuredly not,” his host informed him. “I really cannot think what Master Dritchly imagines he is doing.”
Suddenly the music stopped for, in desperation, Master Edwin wrenched the recorder away, leaving the mechanical to blow only upon its twitching fingers. “Let that learn you!” the man hissed.
The brass head turned to him and, to his astonishment, emitted a low “Moo”. Master Dritchly blinked in bewilderment and the musician snatched the recorder back from him. The all too familiar tune piped up again, louder and more shrill this time.
Catching sight of Walsingham’s thunderous expression, Lord Richard feigned disappointment. “Perhaps his reputation is a trifle exaggerated,” he ventured.
By this time Master Dritchly had lost all composure. “Be quiet!” he bawled at the obstinate mannequin. Then, discarding the final shreds of his dignity, he grabbed it by the throat and dragged the minstrel from the stage. The velvet-clad arms flailed wildly and the raucous notes squealed to a stop when the instrument was jolted from its grasp by Edwin’s violent shaking.
“Back to the workshops!” he cried.
Adam had never seen Master Dritchly look so furious, but the sight was too much for Henry. Clutching his stomach, the boy leaned against the wall, sobbing with laughter.
The mechanical’s brass head was swinging from side to side in protest, but Master Dritchly had been pushed too far. “It’s the hammer for you,” he swore.
Unfortunately, the man had forgotten that directly behind him the lute was still lying on the floor. Striding backwards, holding the recorder player aloft, his boot came crashing down through the wooden instrument. It slid along the ground and Edwin went tumbling through the air, with the musician crashing on top of him.
Henry Wattle’s shriek of exploding glee could be heard throughout the manor house.
“Get it off!” Master Dritchly yelled, wrestling with the thrashing mechanical. “It’s completely deranged.”
Jack and Adam dashed forward to help, but the musician was stronger than all of them. Pounding its gloved fists against Edwin’s chest in revenge for its earlier rough handling, it shoved the apprentices away and began bleating like a sheep.
Leaping to the stage, Jack Flye picked up the empty chair and smashed it against the mannequin’s side. The figure toppled from Master Dritchly’s stomach and Jack stamped on its back before it could recover.
At once Adam sprang in, sitting on the shuddering shoulders as the musician attempted to rise. The determined mechanical was so powerful that Jack was pitched off balance, but Adam clung on and, taking hold of the brass head, unfastened the clasp.
There was a dainty clang as half of the face fell to the ground and, before the chicken-claw fingers could come reaching for him, the boy delved inside and removed the ichors. With a droning moan, the figure slumped down – inert and motionless.
“Good … good work, Cog Adam,” Master Dritchly huffed breathlessly while rubbing his bruised chest. “Hum hum … help Jack take it to the stables, and give young Wattle a