Chapter 13
‘This must be it,’ Agnes said. ‘Red brick gateposts and round things?’
The landlady of the Black Cross had been correct in her description, although the red brick gateposts had seen better days and one of the finely carved stone balls had fallen off its lopsided support and lay on the verge of the road with long strands of dying grass winding around it.
Two iron gates hung drunkenly from the leaning supports, the coat of arms that had once been painted on a central oval long since faded and flaked away.
Agnes glanced at Daniel. He had turned breakfast away when it was offered and she knew he had not eaten the night before. His face had a sallow hue, his eyes sunken, the whites tinged with yellow. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, drawing his cloak tighter around him.
‘Daniel, you are … ’
‘I’m fine,’ he interrupted her. ‘Didn’t sleep well. Let’s get this over with. Just want to deliver these letters and we’ll be on our way.’ His words sounded slurred and she glanced at him in alarm.
They turned their horses onto a weed-infested, potholed driveway that curved around through trees concealing a long, low, red-bricked manor house surrounded by a moat from the road.
Smoke curled from a couple of chimneys and as they approached, a groom came out from under the gatehouse, gesturing for them to cross the bridge.
He took the reins of the horse and Daniel slid from the saddle, reaching up to assist Agnes down from her mare.
His steadying hand on her elbow shook and she scrutinised his ashen face, her anxiety about his condition growing with every minute.
‘How may I be of assistance?’ The thin reedy voice of an elderly man came from the main door.
Daniel turned to face him. ‘I have business with Sir Jonathan Thornton,’ he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.
‘May I say what the business concerns?’
Daniel ran a hand across his eyes and enunciated each word with almost deliberate care as if the act of speaking had become an effort. ‘It is with Sir Jonathan alone.’
The steward stood his ground and Agnes took a step toward Daniel, as he swayed forward, catching himself with a shake of his head.
‘At least give me your name, sir,’ the steward persisted.
‘Lovell … ’ Daniel began. ‘Oh, curse it.’
He slid to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Agnes and the steward stared at Daniel’s crumpled body for the beat of several seconds before Agnes dropped to her knees, her hand going to his forehead.
‘He’s burning with fever,’ she said and, looking up, addressed the elderly steward. ‘Get help now.’
‘I’ll be fine in a moment. Just need a rest.’ Daniel murmured without opening his eyes. She lifted his head onto her lap and stroked his forehead.
‘You’re not fine. How long have you been unwell?’
‘It’s been threatening for the last day. I hoped to be … ’ A shudder convulsed his body.
A rustle of skirts announced the arrival of help; two women, one the lady of the house, to judge from her gown of fine blue wool and lace-edged collar and cuffs, and an older woman in plain russet.
Agnes’s mind ran through all the possible ailments that matched Daniel’s symptoms.
The steward said it for her, in a tone heavy with certainty. ‘Plague, m’lady.’
Everyone around her recoiled and Agnes looked up into the anxious faces of the strangers on whose doorstep Daniel had just collapsed. ‘We’ve just come from London but there’s no plague there. At least I don’t think so.’
Daniel opened one eye and another shudder shook him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he managed. ‘It’s marsh fever. I’ve had it before.’
Everyone visibly relaxed. Able-bodied servants were summoned, and with an almost practised efficiency, Daniel was carried into the house and up two flights of stairs.
The servants deposited him on a large feather bed in a guest bedchamber.
The two women followed the strange procession, with Agnes bringing up the rear and another servant carrying their bags.
The older woman went straight to the bed and leaned over Daniel, untying his cloak strings.
‘What’s yer name, lad?’ She spoke with a strong northern accent.
‘Daniel Lovell,’ he murmured in response.
‘Aye well, ye’ve quite a fever on you. Marsh fever, you say.’
He gave a quick inclination of his head, grimacing.
‘Ellen, I’ve some feverfew in the still room,’ her mistress said. ‘And sorrel … ’
The older woman looked up at her mistress. ‘We can try, Mistress, but if it’s marsh fever the only remedy is Jesuit Bark and we’ve naught any of that. A king’s ransom won’t buy us enough.’
Daniel clutched at the arm of the older woman. ‘I have Jesuit Bark. Agnes … ’ He raised his head, looking around the room as if searching for something. ‘It’s in my bag.’
Standing at the end of the bed, feeling utterly useless, Agnes jumped at her name. Daniel’s back arched as a spasm of fever went through him, and the two women turned to look at her.
‘What does Jesuit Bark look like?’ she asked.
The older woman gave her a withering glare. ‘It looks like what it is, the bark of a tree. Hurry, lass.’
Agnes went through Daniel’s leather satchel, scattering his few possessions around her until she found a parcel wrapped in oiled cloth at the bottom of the pack The other women gathered around her as she unwrapped it.
‘I’m sorry, I have not introduced myself. I am Lady Katherine Thornton,’ the woman in the blue dress said. ‘And this is Ellen Howell.’
‘Lady Thornton?’ Agnes looked up and the woman nodded. ‘I’m sorry we had to arrive in so dramatic a manner. It would not be how Daniel planned it.’
‘And you are?’ Lady Thornton prompted. Like the older woman, her voice bore traces of a northern origin.
Agnes felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Agnes Fletcher — Daniel’s … ’ she was going to say “sister”, as she had said at every inn for the past days. She shook her head. ‘Daniel’s friend … travelling companion … ’
Lady Thornton smiled. ‘There will be time enough for explanations later.’ She held up what looked to Agnes to be sticks of dried bark. ‘So this is Jesuit Bark.’ She turned back to the bed. ‘You are fortunate to be carrying it, young man.’
‘Always have it … never know when the fever will hit … ’ He squeezed his eyes tight shut as another tremor ran through his long body.
Lady Thornton handed the sticks to Ellen. ‘You know what needs to be done?’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ll go and prepare an infusion,’ she said.
‘And we will make our patient more comfortable. Mistress Fletcher, will you help me strip him?’
Daniel’s eyes shot open and he clutched at his jacket fastenings with shaking hands. ‘Not Agnes.’
Agnes regarded him, with her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve seen a naked man before.’
‘But not me … ’ Daniel protested, with a clarity that belied his fevered state.
Lady Thornton looked across at Agnes, her lips tight with compressed laughter. ‘If you’re going to be coy, Master Lovell,’ she said, ‘Perhaps Mistress Fletcher had better leave the room.’
The man beneath her hands stilled. ‘Please. I can see to myself … ’
‘With these tremors?’ Kate picked up one of his hands. ‘We’ll make do and mend. Mistress Fletcher, perhaps you can find Ellen and bring up water and cloths. She will be in the still room. Go down the stairs to the ground floor, and the still room is just before the kitchen.’
Agnes hurried down the stairs. As she reached the next level a door flew open, and a tall man in his late thirties stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up and a smudge of ink ran across the bridge of his long nose as if he had been scratching it with the wrong end of a pen.
‘What is all this commotion?’ he demanded and, seeing Agnes, he frowned. ‘Who are you?’
Agnes dropped a curtsey. ‘Agnes Fletcher — and you are Sir Jonathan Thornton?’
‘Yes, but … ’ He ran a hand through his dark hair, the light catching silver strands. ‘My apologies, Mistress Fletcher, I am working on the accounts and it makes me forget my manners.’ He rolled the cuffs of his shirt down. ‘I wasn’t aware we were expecting guests. What brings you to Seven Ways?’
Agnes glanced at the stairs. ‘My friend, Daniel Lovell … ’
He started at the name. ‘Lovell? Daniel Lovell, did you say? Good God. Where is he?’
‘Unfortunately, he has been taken ill — I was just going to find Mistress Howell.’
Thornton waved a hand in the direction of the lower floor while looking up in the direction from which Agnes had come.
‘She’ll be in the still room. Is Kate with him?’
Kate? Katherine …
‘Yes, she is,’ Agnes replied.
Thornton relaxed, and for the first time, a smile lifted his lean face. ‘Then he is in good hands. A poor welcome I am afraid, Mistress Fletcher. You continue on your errand, I’ll not detain you.’
Despite the vague directions, Agnes found the still room.
Dried hanks of herbs hung from nails in the ceiling and the walls were lined with shelves of jars and bottles.
The room smelled of herbs and honey. It reminded her of her mother’s still room from which had issued unguents and potions for all ailments and ills.
Ellen looked up from stirring a pot over a small fire. ‘Come for the brew, have ye?’ she said.
Agnes hovered uncertainly in the doorway while Ellen stirred the kettle. Anyone more like a witch would have been hard to imagine.
‘I’ve come for water and cloths,’ she said.
Ellen’s sharp eyes appraised Agnes. ‘Don’t ye fret,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen worse.’
‘I’m not fretting,’ Agnes said, but her voice lacked conviction.
She couldn’t imagine herself being cast adrift from Daniel Lovell, not that he had given her the slightest encouragement to form any sort of attachment.
She had clung to him because he had shown her kindness when she needed a friend, and he was her means of getting to Charvaley. Nothing more but he was all she had.
‘I’ve plenty of lasses come to me seeking the means to turn a young man’s head,’ Ellen said.