Nicholas nodded. ‘There was nothing else to do through all those long nights.’
‘You must see through my telescope while you’re here.’
‘Thank you, Sir Michael.’
‘Reading the stars is another hobby of mine.’
‘My husband has so many scientific interests,’ said his wife indulgently.
‘But why do you need a cannon, Sir Michael?’ wondered Elias.
‘To mount on the tower, of course,’ said the other. ‘As soon as the gunpowder is perfected, I’ll have the servants winch the culverin up there.’
Elias was baffled. ‘But why? Do you fear attack?’
‘No, my good sir.’
‘Then why mount a cannon on your house?’
‘Because of the wildfowl.’
‘Wildfowl?’ gasped the Welshman. ‘Am I hearing you aright, Sir Michael? You’re going to shoot at birds with cannon balls?’
Sir Michael went off into a peal of laughter. ‘Of course, not,’ he said when he finally controlled himself. ‘That would be absurd. I love wildfowl. Why else do you think I had the lake built? The problem is that, at this time of year, it freezes over. The ice is inches thick. It’s a real effort to break through it so that the ducks, geese and swans have at least a portion of their water back.’
Nicholas anticipated him. ‘I think I see your plan, Sir Michael. A cannon ball fired from the top of the house would smash a large hole in the ice.’
‘Exactly, sir. Especially when fired at night.’
‘Night?’ said Elias with disbelief. ‘Why, then?’
‘Because that’s when the temperature reaches its lowest point,’ explained Sir Michael. ‘Wait until morning and the ice had already hardened. Strike it when it is newly formed and you shatter it beyond repair. That, at least,’ he admitted, ‘is my theory.’
‘I understand your reasoning, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful not to smile, ‘but isn’t there a serious problem here? When you put your theory to the test, you’ll make the most deafening noise.’
‘Guests who stay at Silvermere are used to strange happenings during the night,’ said Lady Eleanor airily. ‘My husband has a passion for nocturnal experiments.’
‘I steer by the stars, Eleanor,’ he said.
‘Turn your mind to more immediate matters. These gentlemen have ridden a long way in order to meet you. Put your gunpowder aside for an hour.’
‘Gladly, my dear. Now,’ said Sir Michael genially, ‘I bid you welcome, sirs. I’m so glad that Master Firethorn and I came to composition. Westfield’s Men will make a major contribution to the festivities. Is the Great Hall to your taste?’
‘It’s ideal, Sir Michael,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Ask for what you will and Romball will supply it. You’ve met my steward, I hear,’ he said, indicating the figure still lurking at the door. ‘An excellent fellow. But for Romball Taylard, we’d be in a sorry state.’
‘Our first request can only be met by you, Sir Michael,’ resumed Nicholas. ‘It concerns the plays we offer. The new piece has been chosen but five others must be selected as well and Master Firethorn is anxious to offer you variety. He suggests comedies such as Double Deceit and The Happy Malcontent but he feels that your guests should also be given at least one harrowing tragedy.’
‘Two,’ insisted Lady Eleanor. ‘Too much comedy will lead to boredom.’
‘There’s your answer,’ said her husband, beaming at her. ‘Four comedies and two tragedies. Though a little bit of history would not go amiss.’
‘So we thought, Sir Michael. If you approve the choice, Master Firethorn would like us to present Henry the Fifth by Edmund Hoode, a play that has elements of comedy and tragedy in it. Will that appeal?’
‘Very much,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Eleanor?’
‘I am more than content,’ she answered. ‘Comedies, tragedies and a stirring history. This is wondrous fare to set before our guests. What we do need to know, however, is the name of the new play for that will have a special place.’
‘Why is that, Lady Eleanor?’ asked Elias.
‘Because it will be the last of the six to be presented and will coincide with a highly important event.’ She turned to Sir Michael. ‘You explained that in your invitation, surely?’
‘It slipped my mind, Eleanor.’
‘Heavens!’ she cried. ‘Who else but you would forget his own birthday?’ She squeezed his arm affectionately. ‘You’re going to be sixty on that very day.’
‘Congratulations, Sir Michael!’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘Ice or no, the cannon will have to be fired in salute that night. As to the new play, I hear that it’s a riotous comedy with some darker moments in it. Nick will confirm that. He’s read it from start to finish.’
‘That’s true,’ said the book holder. ‘The play will bring our visit to Silvermere to a rousing conclusion. It’s not only a brilliant piece of work by a new author, it has a fortuitous link with the county of Essex.’
‘What’s the title?’ wondered Lady Eleanor.
‘The Witch of Colchester.’
‘I love it already.’
‘So do I,’ said her husband, chortling happily. ‘You could not have chosen anything more appropriate, gentlemen. Do you know my nickname in these parts?’
‘No, Sir Michael,’ said Elias. ‘What is it?’
‘The Wizard of Silvermere.’
‘It suits you well.’
‘I like to think so,’ said Sir Michael, laughing gaily. ‘What a fateful meeting it will be. The Witch of Colchester and the Wizard of Silvermere. We were obviously made for each other. Everything is working to our satisfaction, Eleanor,’ he went on, taking her hand. ‘We have our new play and Westfield’s Men have a new theatre in which to perform — the Great Hall at Silvermere.’
‘They also have a new apprentice,’ she reminded him. ‘Davy Stratton.’
‘Ah, yes. Jerome’s boy. How is the lad settling in?’
Nicholas shifted his feet. ‘Not very well, to be honest, Sir Michael.’
‘Oh?’
‘We brought him with us because he knew the way to Silvermere.’
‘Then where is he now?’
‘We don’t know,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘Davy ran off.’
Light was fading badly now. As he rode his pony through the woods, Davy Stratton shivered in the cold wind and grew apprehensive. He was lost. It was dark among the trees and impossible for him to recognise the paths that should have dictated his way. He thought of turning back to start again but that would only lose valuable time and render the woodland even less hospitable. Strange noises began to assault his ear. His pony, too, was frightened, jerking its head in alarm at each new sound. Davy was having difficulty controlling his mount. It was imperative to get out of the wood as soon as possible and back on a track that he knew. He dug in his heels to call for more speed but his pony simply bucked in protest. A long, loud, anguished cry then came from the throat of a nearby animal, cutting through the undergrowth like a phantom scythe and making the boy shudder. The pony reared up in terror before bolting wildly. Davy clung on to the pommel with both hands.
It was all to no avail. As the pony galloped headlong through the bushes, the overhanging branch of a tree swept the boy from the saddle like a giant hand. Davy hit the ground with a thump then rolled over. Winded by the fall and hurt by the sudden impact of the frozen earth, he needed a moment to recover. When he picked himself up with deliberate slowness, his body ached in a dozen places. The wood seemed darker and more threatening than ever now. There was no pony to take him out of it.
‘Hotspur!’ he bleated. ‘Come back here, Hotspur!’
But the pony was fifty yards away now. Davy could not even be sure in which direction it had gone. Walking gingerly, he set off down the path in front of him.
‘Hotspur!’ he called with more force. ‘Where are you, boy?’
The only reply came from the nameless animal whose first cry had made his pony bolt. Davy hobbled along as fast as he could, pausing only to pick up a long stick for protection. He was lost, alone and at the mercy of wild animals. Safety was a long way off now. He began to regret leaving Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias in the middle of the forest. With them beside him, he feared nothing. They were friends. They had even helped him to avoid an ambush. It hurt him to remember that he had let them down badly. This was his punishment for deserting them. It was no more than he deserved.