‘You’d best go at once,’ she stuttered.
‘Go where?’
‘To the dining room.’
‘We’ll be taking the food through in a moment.’
‘Master Firethorn needs you now,’ said the girl anxiously.
‘What are you talking about, girl?’ demanded Margery.
‘Your husband, Mistress Firethorn. He’s unwell.’
‘That’s nonsense. I saw him only a minute ago and he was a picture of health.’
‘Not any more,’ continued the girl. ‘He begged me to send you.’
‘Begged you? When he has a voice that could call me?’ She eased the servant aside and walked to the open door. ‘Lawrence!’ she yelled. ‘Did you send for me?’
The reply was so faint that she did not hear it at first. Hands on hips, she shot a stern glance at the girl then repeated her question even louder. This time his voice made itself heard from the dining room.
‘Come to me, Margery,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please!’
It was a cry for help and she answered it immediately, rushing out and charging into the dining room. The sight that awaited her made her gasp in dismay. Firethorn was seated in his customary place at the head of the table but he was not the robust husband who had flirted with her only minutes before. He was patently in distress. Arms on the table, he panted stertorously before being seized by a coughing fit that racked his whole body. Margery dashed forward to put an arm around him.
‘What is it, Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t know, my love.’
‘When did this come on?’
‘The moment I sat down in here.’
‘Were there no signs of illness earlier in the day?’
‘None, Margery. I’ve never felt fitter.’
‘Was it something you ate? Something you drank?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Are you in pain?’ she said, kissing him softly. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘All over,’ he moaned.
He slumped forward and her alarm grew. She crouched in front of him, taking his head in her hands to hold it up so that she could take a close look at him. The change in Firethorn was dramatic. The strapping husband who had come bounding into the house earlier on was now a weak and troubled man. His eyes were dull, his mouth agape. The room was cold yet his face and beard were glistening with sweat. When Margery put a hand to his forehead, she drew it away in fear.
‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re on fire, Lawrence. You have a fever.’
Chapter Five
Nicholas Bracewell was pleased with their welcome at Silvermere. Their hosts could not have been more amenable. Sir Michael Greenleaf was kind, attentive and unfailingly obliging while his wife’s admiration for Westfield’s Men never faltered. They were such a gracious and engaging couple that Nicholas wondered how they had been befriended by their wayward patron. Lord Westfield’s cronies tended to be in his own mould, amiable sybarites, devotees of drink and gambling, idle aristocrats who hung around the Court in search of favour or who left it in flight from scandal. Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf did not conform to the usual pattern. Where Lord Westfield and his decadent entourage were invariably deep in debt, the Wizard of Silvermere was clearly a man of substance, able to fund continuous improvements to his estate as well as to pay for his expensive scientific interests. Yet he did not flaunt his wealth. He dressed like one of his servants and behaved with a touching humility.
Owen Elias liked the man as much as Nicholas. Not only had their host provided Westfield’s Men with a worthy auditorium in his Great Hall, he gave the visitors a guided tour of the house, showed them his extensive arsenal, discussed the manufacture of his gunpowder and even offered to take them up to the top of the tower. The Welshman glanced through the window with misgivings.
‘It’s pitch dark out there, Sir Michael,’ he said.
‘Exactly, my friend. The stars will be out. Wouldn’t you like to come up on the roof to look through my telescope?’
‘No thank you. It’ll be freezing.’
‘What’s a little discomfort in the interests of astrology?’
‘It’s a kind offer, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, aware of the passage of time, ‘and I’ll be delighted to accept it on another occasion but we’ve already stayed longer than we intended. Master Stratton told us that Stapleford is only a mile away. Put us on the road to the village and we’ll seek lodging at the inn.’
‘Inn?’
‘I believe that it’s called The Shepherd and Shepherdess.’
‘But you’re going to stay here, Master Bracewell.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes,’ insisted Sir Michael. ‘I wouldn’t dream of turning you out. My wife and I will be your shepherd and shepherdess. A chambermaid is already preparing a room for you. When the whole company descends upon us, of course, you’ll have to make use of those little cottages set apart from the house, perhaps even of the outbuildings as well. Tonight, however, the pair of you will lay your heads beneath the roof of Silvermere.’
‘That’s most generous of you, Sir Michael.’
‘We accept on one condition,’ said Elias.
‘Condition?’
‘Yes,’ added the Welshman with a grin. ‘Give us fair warning before you fire any cannon balls from the roof in the middle of the night.’
Sir Michael burst out laughing and clapped his hands to his side like young bird making its first clumsy attempts at flight. The three of them were alone in a room at the rear of the property that served its owner as library, laboratory and workshop all in one. Along the back wall, oak shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled to the last inch with hefty tomes and piles of documents. One vast table was covered with scientific instruments of every description while another looked more like a carpenter’s bench. The culverin was kept beside the furnace in the adjoining outhouse. Seeing it all by the light of candelabra, Nicholas was impressed. Sir Michael was no Egidius Pye. There was a sense of order and calculation in the room. It was also impeccably clean. The scientist looked after his possessions with great care. This was his private world where he sought, in his own small way, to push forward the frontiers of science.
There was a knock on the door and Romball Taylard entered. He looked almost sinister as he emerged from the shadows but his manner towards the visitors was more pleasant now that he knew that they would be staying overnight. With good news to pass on, he even contrived a smile.
‘Yes, Romball?’ asked his employer.
‘You have visitors, Sir Michael.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Master Stratton sends his apologies for calling so late.’
‘Oh, I see. It’s Jerome, is it? Well, he can come at any time he likes. Does he wants to speak to me or to Lady Eleanor.’
‘He’s really here to see your guests, Sir Michael,’ said the steward, glancing at the two of them. ‘Master Stratton has brought someone with him.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘His son.’
‘Davy?’ asked Nicholas, cheered by the tidings.
‘Where has the rascal been?’ said Elias.
Taylard smiled again. ‘Only Master Stratton will be able to tell you that.’
‘Then let’s go and find him at once,’ urged Sir Michael, leading the way.
The four of them went off down a long corridor that was lit at regular intervals by candelabra. Dancing flames threw their profiles against the walls as they passed and gave the house a ghostly quality. When the quartet came into the entrance hall, Jerome Stratton was standing beside a marble bust of Plato, holding his son by the hand and making an effort to appear relaxed. Davy Stratton, by contrast, was sullen and subdued, his face bearing some dark scratches and his attire torn and soiled. He did not look up as the others arrived. Taylard faded quickly into the background but stayed within earshot.