Page 33 of Exile's Return
‘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 onour 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.’
