They both stood looking at him in silence, listening to the laboured rasp of his breathing. ‘Could it be the pneumonic fever?’
‘Aye, it could be that, Mistress. You must keep him warm and hope that the fever breaks.’ He stroked his chin, considering. ‘Shall I send for the surgeon? If we tell him it is not the plague he might come.’
‘To cup him and take away what little life blood still runs in his veins?’ Henrietta had no great trust or regard for surgeons except for dealing with simple breaks or cuts. Her aunt had brought her up to understand and use the country remedies and the wisdom of the local wisewomen and their plants and simples. ‘Sim has gone for Mistress Perrott, they will not be long, God willing.’
By the time they had wrestled Matthew's limp body into a nightshirt and tucked him between the covers Letty had fetched the first of the hot bricks.
‘Where is Martha?’ Henrietta demanded.
‘Nursing her boxed ears in a corner of the kitchen.’ Letty was grim. ‘I found her wailing about how the Master had the plague and how we'd all be locked up in here by the constable with a plague cross on the door until we're dead.’
‘Have the servants all run away?’
‘No, they have more sense.’ John opened the door. ‘I'll go down and talk to them, but Cook has the wit to disregard anything that tale-carrying wench would say.’
Henrietta wrung out a cloth in the water-pitcher and began to sponge Matthew's forehead gently.
‘He looks so white, Mistress,’ Letty whispered.
‘It is just the sheets,’ Henrietta said stoutly, wishing in her heart she believed it. She was very much afraid, but some instinct told her not to admit it, even to herself.
‘What have you done to him, Jezebel?’ a voice hissed from the door. Both women jumped, spun round to see Cobham standing just within the room, watching them with hatred burning in his eyes.
‘Cobham, hold your tongue. Your master has a fever and if you wish to help him you will go away and leave him in peace.’ Henrietta turned back dismissively to the bed, but the clerk did not retreat.
'You are to blame for this with your potions and your philtres.' He sidled up to the bed, stabbing a bony, accusatory finger in Henrietta's direction.
‘What are you talking about, man?’ Henrietta wrung out a fresh cloth and laid it on Matthew forehead. ‘My husband has only just returned, with a fever, as you see. How can anyone in this household be responsible for his condition?’
‘Harlot! You wish him gone so you can continue you wanton life. Distance is no barrier to a witch's arts.’
‘Get out.’ Letty shoved the clerk with such force that he staggered and was out of the door before he had a chance to recover himself. She slammed it and turned the key.
‘Thank you, Letty, we have no time to spare for Cobham's ravings. I think age must be turning his brain.’
They were distracted by Matthew moving his head restlessly on the pillow. He moaned softly and Henrietta motioned urgently to Letty for some water. ‘His mouth is so dry. I must get him to drink.’
‘He is insensible, Mistress, you will only choke him if you try and force him to drink,’ Letty pointed out.
Henrietta contented herself with moistening his cracked lips with a kerchief dipped in the water. ‘Where is Mistress Perrott?’ she fretted. Suddenly there was a great clamour in the corridor outside, in the midst of which the wisewoman's voice could be heard raised in anger.
Henrietta wrenched the door open. ‘Be quiet, all of you. Your master is sick. What is happening here?’
Mistress Perrott stood halfway up the stairs holding a covered basket tightly against her chest, her face flushed and angry. Cobham barred her way at the head of the stairs, a rusty black figure, arms outstretched like a scarecrow, defying her to pass him. ‘I shall not let you near him, witch!’
Henrietta gasped at the word and beside her Letty automatically stretched out her hand, making the sign against the evil eye.
‘Bewitch me if you dare, daughter of darkness. I am under the protection of the Lord, your spells will have no effect on me. But approach my master at your peril!’
Henrietta's frayed temper snapped as she realised that servants were gathering in an excited knot at the foot of the stairs, the word witch passing between them in vehement whispers.
‘Cobham, be silent, let Mistress Perrott pass. We all trust her in this household with our lives.’
‘She shall not. You are in unholy alliance with her and the Devil. You have bewitched my master, now you will kill him. Whore! Jezebel! Salome!’
Henrietta stood aghast, unable to deal with the intemperate outburst. The clerk's hair was awry, spittle foamed at the corner of his mouth and his fingers were clenched into claws with his hatred. To her frightened eyes he seemed possessed himself.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the treads and John and Tom pushed past Mistress Perrott and seized Cobham, one on each arm. ‘You don't speak to the mistress like that, you canting Puritan!’ John's amiable face was choleric with fury. ‘And Mistress Perrott saved my youngest when he had the flux last summer.’