'What else did you find, sir?'
'Pleasure.'
'Cicero has spoken on that subject, too,' noted Mordrake with scholarly glee. ' Voluptus est illecebra turpitudinis. Pleasure is an incitement to vileness.'
Willoughby fell silent and stared down at the floor. Though lie was dressed with his usual ostentatious flair, he did not have the manner that went with the garb. His face was drawn, his jaw slack, his hands clasped tightly together. Mordrake could almost feel the man's anguish.
'How can I help you?' he said.
It was a full minute before the visitor answered. He turned eyes of supplication on the old man. His voice was a solemn whisper.
'Did I see a devil at the Queen's Head?'
'Yes.'
'How came it there?'
'At your own request, Master Willoughby.'
'Rut you told me it could not happen in daylight.'
'I said that it was unlikely but did not rule it out. The devil would not have come simply in answer to the summons in your play.'
'What brought it forth, then?'
'You did, sir.'
'How?'
'You have an affinity with the spirit world.'
Willoughby was rocked. His darkest fear was confirmed. Words that he had written raised up a devil. The apparition at the Queen's Head had come in search of him.
'You should have stayed at Cambridge,' said Mordrake sagely. 'You should have taken your degree and entered the Church. It is safer there. The duty of a divine is to justify the ways of God to man. Christianity gives answers. The duty of a poet is to ask questions. That can lead to danger. Religion is there to reassure. Art disturbs.'
'Therein lies its appeal.'
'I will not deny that.'
Mordrake pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across to a long shelf on the other side of the room. It was Pilled with large, dusty leather-bound volumes and he ran his Fingers lightly across them.
'A lifetime of learning,' he said. For ten years, I travelled all over Europe. I worked in the service of the Count Palatine of Siradz, King Stephen of Poland, the Emperor Rudolph, and Count Rosenberg of Bohemia. Wherever I went, I searched for books on myth and magic and demonology. In Cologne, I found the most important work of them all.' He took down a massive volume and brought it across. 'Do you know what this is?'
' Malleus Malleficarum?’
'Yes,' replied Mordrake, clutching the book to his chest like a mother cradling a child. ‘ Hexenhammer, as it is sometimes called. The Hammer of Witches. First printed in 1486. Written by two Dominicans from Germany. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, scholars of great worth and reputation.' He sat on the stool again. 'It is a wondrous tome.'
'Can it help me, Doctor Mordrake?'
'It can help any man.'
'Truly, sir?'
'Here is the source of all enlightenment.'
Ralph Willoughby touched the book with a reverential hand before looking up to search his companion's grey eyes. Hope and apprehension mingled in his breathless enquiry.
'Will it save my soul?'
*
Westfield Hall was a vast, rambling mansion set in the greenest acres of Hertfordshire. From a distance, it looked mote like a medieval hamlet than a single house, being a confused mass of walls, roofs and chimneys on differing levels. It presented to the world a black and white face that glowed in the afternoon sun beneath hair of golden thatch. The house was as splendid and dramatic as its owner, with a hint of Lord Westfield's paunch in its sagging eaves and a reflection of his capricious nature in its riotous angles.
Francis Jordan stayed long enough to feel a twinge of envy then he turned his head away. Spurring his horse, he went on past Westfield Hall for half a mile or so and came to a long, wooded slope. His bay mare took him through the trees at a steady canter until they reached a clearing. A sturdy man in rough attire was carrying a wooden pail of water towards a small cottage. Jordan brought his mount to a sudden halt and directed a supercilious stare at the man. Instead of the deferential nod that he expected, he was given a bold glance of hostility. Jordan fumed. His horse felt the spurs once again.
When he emerged from the woods and got to the top of the ridge, he reined in the animal once more. From his vantage point, he gazed down at the dwelling in the middle distance. Parkbrook House was true to its name. Set in rolling parkland, it was almost encircled by a fast-running brook that snaked its way through the grass. The house was built of stone and replete with high casements. With its E-shaped design, it was more austere and symmetrical than Westfield Hall and could lay claim to none of the latter's antiquity, but it still did not suffer by comparison in the mind of Francis Jordan. There was a unique quality about Parkbrook House that lifted it above any other property in the county.
It was his.
As soon as he began to ride down the hill, he was spotted. By the time Jordan arrived, an ostler was waiting to help him dismount and take care of his horse. The steward was standing nearby.
'Welcome, master!' he said with formal enthusiasm.
'Thank you, Glanville,'
'All is ready for your inspection.'
'I should hope so, sir.'
'They have worked well in your absence.'
Joseph Glanville was a tall, impassive, dignified man of forty. As steward of the household, he had power, privilege and control over its large staff of servants. He was dressed with a restrained smartness that was made to look dull beside the colourful apparel of his master. Over his grey satin doublet and breeches, Glanville wore a dark gown that all but trailed on the ground. A small, tricornered hat rested on his head and his chain of office was worn proudly. He had been at Parkbrook House for some years and addressed his duties with the utmost seriousness.
'Take me in at once,' said Jordan peremptorily.
'Follow me, sir.’
The steward conducted him across the gravel forecourt and in through the main door. A group of male servants were standing in a line in the entrance hall and they bowed in unison as their master passed, Jordan was pleased and rewarded them with a condescending nod. He walked behind Glanville across the polished oak floor. When they reached the Great Hall, the steward stood aside to let him go in first.
Francis Jordan viewed the scene with a critical eye.
'I thought the work would be more advanced.'
'Craftsmanship of this order cannot be rushed, sir.'
'There is hardly any progress since my last visit.'
'Do not be misled by appearances.'
'I wanted results, Glanville!'
His barked annoyance caused everyone in the hall to stop what he was doing. The plasterers looked down from their scaffolding. The painters froze on their ladders. Carpenters working on the moulded beams held back their chisels and the masons at the far end of the room put down their hammers. Francis Jordan had wanted to redesign and redecorate the Great Hall so that it could become a focal point of his social life. As he strolled disconsolately over sheets of canvas, it seemed to him that the work was not only behind schedule but contrary to his specification. He swung round to face his steward.
'Glanville!'
