Hurrying into the manor house, Adam called for Master Dritchly. The groom dashed back to the barn and stared in horror at the plight of one of the most expensive horses in Englandia.
The beast was shuddering all over. Each segment of black steel was scraping and grinding against the next and horrible screeches issued from the delicately crafted mechanisms. The proud head shook furiously and the obsidian eyes rolled in their sockets. Bronze hooves bruised the air and the silken tail cracked like a whip as the great hind legs kicked out at the barn walls.
Fearfully, the groom held up his hands. “Belladonna!” he cried, trying to get within striking distance of the horse’s neck, where Walsingham’s crest was emblazoned. “Be at peace. Let me help you.”
But the creature shied away. A grotesque, screeching neigh shrieked from its trembling mouth and Jenks saw threads of dark smoke escaping from the quivering joints.
Roused by the clamour, Jack and Henry came racing across the yard. They stared at the scene, afraid and stupefied. “Where’s that other boy with Dritchly?” Jenks shouted in desperation.
At that moment Adam came running from the manor, with Master Edwin huffing along behind, dressed in a nightshirt and pulling on his boots.
Within the barn Belladonna lurched to one side, crashing into one of the other horses, denting it severely. Then back it came, its mighty legs shivering and stumbling beneath it. Throwing back the fabulous head, it gave a ghastly scream and the apprentices knew there was nothing anyone could do.
“Heavens pickle and keep us!” Edwin Dritchly exclaimed, pushing past the gawping boys. “Hum hum, never in all my—”
Before he could finish, Jenks whirled around and dragged him through the barn doors.
“Save her!” he demanded. “Dritchly, you must!”
Suddenly the horse screamed worse than ever and, with a clash of gears and whining metal, it bolted forward. No power in this uplifted world could stop it. Like the devil’s own infernal steed the mechanical came thundering, smoke steaming from its nostrils.
Blundering back, Master Dritchly cried out, but the nightmare raged straight for him. High it reared – up into the dark, smashing its steel head into the lintel of the door. The oak beam splintered and Belladonna brought her bronze hooves plunging down.
“No!” Adam yelled.
A rioting blur of destruction filled the boy’s cringing eyes as those massive legs stamped and kicked, and Master Dritchly was caught beneath them. Battered to the floor, the man crumpled like a bundle of linen. Belladonna trounced and pounded, tossing her buckled head and flicking her tail in a frenzied, murderous dance.
Across the length of Malmes-Wutton the grisly tattoo went drumming. The demented horse’s shrill, insane whinnies echoed beneath the vaulted firmament, penetrating the outlying woods where even Old Scratch, the wild boar, withdrew into the deepest shadows.
Jenks was hurled across the yard and the horrific crunching slaughter continued. Each of the apprentices turned away in revulsion. The entire household was roused now and everyone came streaming towards the barn bearing candles and lanterns.
Rivers of deep blue vapour were flooding from the horse’s mouth, and within its mad, prancing frame, bright flashes of fire crackled as brilliant sparks spat from its joints. Abruptly, the wild capering halted. With its steel legs splashed scarlet, the bronze hooves steeped in Master Dritchly’s blood, the horse reeled away from the man’s crushed and broken body, then keeled over and fell to the ground with a tremendous crash.
The interior of the barn bounced with light as sharp tongues of flame lapped around the fallen beast. Still quaking and trembling, the mechanical lay upon the floor, plumes of blue smoke rising from every warped and gaping crevice.
At the threshold, all eyes gazed on Master Edwin’s stricken corpse but not many could bear to look at him for long. The most learned master of motive science in Suffolk was dead, and for several moments the only sound was the harsh clicking and grinding of his mechanical destroyer. The people gathered around were too distressed and aghast to utter a word.
Sir Francis Walsingham’s calm, cold features betrayed nothing but, beside him, his secretary was almost wilting, covering his face with jittery hands. Sorrow and compassion were graven in Doctor Dee’s solemn, white-bearded countenance, yet when he shifted his glance to the collapsed horse, fierce curiosity assumed their place.
Met with the sobering sight of his dead servant, Lord Richard Wutton searched for Mistress Dritchly in the crowd.
Master Edwin’s widow was not among the assembled faces and, looking back at the house, he saw the plump, prim-looking woman, with her greying hair tied up in curling papers, come bustling towards them.
“Jack,” Lord Richard said hastily. “Go to her – she must not see her husband thus. Take her back indoors.”
Dragging himself away from the stunned group, the apprentice nodded and hurried to obey.
Henry Wattle’s eyes were bulging from his head. “Squashed and stamped on!” he breathed. “You could slide the bits under a door.”
“Don’t,” Adam balked.
“Fetch a cloak to cover him,” Lord Richard commanded, and Henry scampered away. Then, with a face as grim as the appalling scene before him, the master of Malmes-Wutton glared at his distinguished guests and strode to confront them.
Sir Francis Walsingham and Doctor Dee had already stepped over the dead man’s crushed body. Remaining at a safe distance, their black and red figures peered at the quivering mechanical horse through the billowing blue reek which bled from every opening.
Into this fog Lord Richard went wading. “A man is dead!” he roared. “Yet all you care about is your vile charger! What manner of ice-blooded creature are you?”
Walsingham waved a silencing hand which only served to enrage his host all the more. “This tragedy would never have happened if it were not for you,” he cried.
Sir Francis ignored him and gave a signal to his secretary. With a handkerchief of Holland cloth clamped over his mouth and averting his eyes from the gruesome spectacle, Master Tewkes tiptoed into the barn.
“Lord Richard,” he began, spluttering in the smoke and the sharp stench of scorched metal. “Do you not see? Yet another skilled craftsman has met with an unlikely accident. This is not the work of unhappy chance – it was purpose meant and blackly done. Your man has been murdered.”
For an instant Richard Wutton’s anger was quelled as he struggled with this awful revelation. The secretary seized this opportunity to expound.
“Verily!” he declared. “Here again do we see the malevolent ministries of the hated Catholic powers. This is assassin’s work! May the Lord visit his vengeance upon their evil heads!”
“Tewkes!” Walsingham scolded. “If you can curb the damning of our enemies for a moment, make yourself of use and send that melancholy audience away.”
Tucking the handkerchief into his sleeve, the secretary turned to face the gathered members of Lord Richard’s