CHAPTER 36
The chapel bell tolled nine. Francis Bacon groaned. Why did that accursed bell have to be so infernally loud? He rolled over and covered his ears with a pillow. He felt as though his brains had been baked in a kiln. His head was too hot and his feet were too cold, and he was ferociously thirsty.
Why did his wretched boy have to choose this week to visit his family? What great need could his parents have of him when Francis was lying here sick and unattended? And where was Whitt? Why was there no one to care for him? His father's house had employed more than seventy servants. Now he had not so much as a pot boy to fetch him a cup of beer. He felt utterly abandoned.
He struggled out of bed and managed to dress himself sufficiently for a brief foray across the courtyard to advise the butler of his needs. He pulled his door shut and stood on the landing for a moment, pressing his palm to his forehead. He was quite certain he had a fever. He'd need a sudorific tonic, laced with poppy juice, administered hourly. A noise opposite assaulted his ears. He glanced toward the library.
"Oh, it's you. A bit early for research, isn't it?"
"It's nearly nine of the clock. Not everyone spends the whole morning in bed."
Francis huffed. "I'm ill. Besides, it's Sunday." He hesitated. "Isn't it?"
A laugh. A rather unfriendly one. Francis felt a shiver run up his spine. He did have a fever. He must get back into bed immediately.
"Yes, it is Sunday, Your Readership."
Francis waved a limp hand to deflect the sarcasm.
"Actually, I wanted a word with you."
"It will have to wait," Francis said. "Tomorrow. Or the next day. I'm quite ill. Can't you see that I'm suffering?"
"That will soon be over."
How would he know? Francis took a step down the stairs. Then he felt hard hands pressing against his back, driving him forward. His feet lifted from the floor. He fell, tumbling, limbs banging against the age-hardened oak of the balusters.
Merciful God, he thought. I understand it all.
And the rest was silence.