LITMIR.BIZ

      Out in the deep darkness, in the one hundred and seventy-eighth year of Elizabeth Tudor’s prodigious reign, the beatified, uplifted realm of Britain was reaching the close of another long summer evening. It was the fifth of June in the Gloriana Kalendar and in the smallest of the twelve floating lands which made up the county of Suffolk, the shadows grew deep and rich about the red-bricked manor of Wutton Old Place.

      Malmes-Wutton was not the wealthiest of estates. From the furthest pasture, through the humble village and across to the outlying wood, the greatest measured distance was scarcely a mile.

      The manor had once been a splendid residence. Less than a century before, the Queen had progressed there to admire the quality of the horses, for it was widely believed that there were none in Englandia to match them. During those bygone, shimmering days, the manor’s mullion windows blazed with light and a near constant music flowed out over the rose garden.

      But the intervening years had changed many things. The fortunes of Wutton Old Place had shifted dramatically. Lord Richard Wutton had fallen from Her Majesty’s favour and the monopolies she granted to him had been revoked. Gone was the grandeur which the manor formerly boasted; the large building now looked shabby and was choked with ivy. Every horse had been sold to pay mounting debts and the neighbouring fields barely provided enough to feed those who tilled them. No one of rank ventured near, for who would be seen to frequent such a dilapidated estate?

      Yet someone was making the journey to this remote and isolated region. Beyond the boundaries of Malmes-Wutton, out in the perpetual void, a night barge was approaching.

      Sleek and black, it was an elegant craft but, although gilded scrollwork decorated the prow, it bore no other device or marking. Through the great silence the night barge sailed stealthily, blotting out the unnamed stars as it drew closer. A sable canopy sealed the deck from the airless cold and, beneath that midnight shelter, an austere figure gowned in the darkest Puritan style was staring out across the unending emptiness.

      There were few in this new world who wielded such power as Sir Francis Walsingham. This was his private vessel. With his large, impassive eyes, the solemn-faced man gazed intently at the isle of Malmes-Wutton which now filled and dominated his vision.

      The impoverished estate was enclosed by a protective firmament. Outside the window of the night barge it scrolled by at a ponderous pace. The opaque colours painted within the curved, leaded panes were beginning to turn transparent and the acres of Wutton Old Place were plainly visible far below.

      “Did you ever look upon so sad and squalid a spectacle?” a grave voice asked abruptly.

      Not bothering to turn around as a second man emerged from the gloom behind him, Walsingham gave the slightest of shrugs. “Does our business still disquiet you, Doctor?” he asked in his usual arch tone. “I thought you were agreed on this course.”

      Standing beside him, the white-haired man, cloaked in robes of the deepest red velvet and wearing a black skull cap upon his balding head, stared at the few sheep dotting the pasture now visible through the firmament.

      “I understand the necessity,” he answered, curling his long beard in his fingers. “It is the method I find not to my liking.”

      The night barge continued to descend, dipping smoothly below the top of the outlying trees so that the view was obscured.

      “I had not imagined the sorry depths to which Richard Wutton had fallen. Did you mark the fields? They were almost deserted; is he really reduced to a handful of sheep?”

      Walsingham gave an indifferent sniff and recounted a memorised list. “Nine sheep to be precise; four cattle, a large sow with two piglets, a particularly ferocious boar that no one dares hunt, various poultry, a dog and three pheasants he couldn’t give away. The deer, of course, went the route of the horses a long time ago.”

      The older man regarded him uneasily. “You merit your reputation, My Lord,” he admitted. “No wonder so many fear you. Truly, your eyes and ears are everywhere.”

      “I fear they are not as keen as your own,” Walsingham admitted. “Yet they will be the sharper once this affair is concluded.”

      His voice lowered to a whisper and he added, “I am determined to prove our suspicions, whatever the cost, and where better than out here – away from public notice?”

      With that, the night barge dropped beneath the Malmes-Wutton horizon and the great expanse of cragged rock upon which the estate was founded now stretched in front of them.

      “Has my secretary prepared everything?” Walsingham asked. “I wish to disembark at the first moment.”

      The white-haired man gave a slight bow and left the deck to attend to it. Alone, Sir Francis watched the immense, barren rockscape swing slowly by and, with his subtle mind contemplating the coming events, a rare smile crept across his face.

      A huge, unlit cavern, roughly hewn to form a tremendous arch, reared up beside the night barge and the craft executed a graceful turn to enter it,

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