The Sensorium of God E-Book

Stuart Clark

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Sky's Dark Labyrinth Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 458

Beschreibung

It is the late seventeenth century and still the movement of the planets remains a mystery despite the revolutionary work of Johannes Kepler, Galileo Galilei and Tycho Brahe almost a hundred years previously. Edmond Halley - dynamic adventurer and astronomer - seeks the help of Isaac Newton in unravelling the problem, but though obsessed with understanding the orbits of the planets, Newton has problems of his own which could undermine the essential work. The reclusive mathematician and alchemist has a guilty secret. He stole some of his ideas from Robert Hooke, and the quarrelsome experimentalist is demanding recognition. While capable of the loftiest ideals and theorising, the three men are just as quick to bicker and hold petty grudges which could derail scientific advancement. The men's lives and work clash as Europe is pushed headlong towards the Age of the Enlightenment and science is catapulted into its next seismic collision with religion.

Leseprobe

Praise for Stuart Clark’s trilogy:

‘A moving and eye-opening story of brilliance and bravery’

Daily Mail

‘A game of galactic hide-and-seek’

New Scientist

‘A vivid, thrilling portrayal of the lives and work of Kepler and Galileo . . . Books like this transform the way we access and understand our view of history’

Lovereading UK

****

Book of the Month, BBC Sky at Night

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

Birlinn Ltd West Newington House 10 Newington Road Edinburgh EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Stuart Clark, 2012

The moral right of Stuart Clark to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 1 84697 187 7 eBook ISBN 978 0 85790 079 1

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by IDSUK (DataConnection) Ltd Printed and bound by Scandbook, Sweden

CONTENTS

Part I

1. Woolsthorpe, England 1679

2. Southwark

3. Woolsthorpe

4. London

5. Cambridge

6. London

7

8

9. Danzig, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth

10. London

11. Rome, Papal States

12. Islington Village 1683

13. London

14

15

16

17. Islington Village

18

19. London

20. Cambridge

21. Greenwich

22. Cambridge

Part II

23. Cripplegate 1686

24. Cambridge

25. Cripplegate

26. London 1687

27. Cripplegate

28. London

29. Hampton Court

30. Adriactic Sea

31. London

32. High Laver, Essex

33. Cambridge 1693

Part III

34. Cripplegate 1703

35. London

36. Cambridge

37. Hanover, Saxony

38. London

39. Oxford

40. London

41

42. Hanover

43. London

44

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

PART I

Action

1

Woolsthorpe, England1679

There was no place for daylight in this morbid womb. The alchemist smoothed the heavy curtains across the window and pressed them into the corners of the frame, determined to banish any sunshine from the room. Candles would provide all the illumination he needed to perform his work.

Edging round a table cluttered with bottles and vials, he approached the bed. His eyes came to rest on its unconscious occupant, whose outline was scarcely visible beneath the heap of blankets.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small mirror. Just a fortnight ago he had used it to bounce light across his rooms in college. Now, he held it close to his mother’s mouth. Reassured by the faint condensation that collected on the polished metal, he straightened. His eyes stung from exhaustion.

Returning to the window, he stood in front of the table and stared at the bottles. Each one contained something different: a salt, a herb, some liquid essence. Now they were all that stood between his mother and death. He drew his hands together as if in prayer and raised them to his face. Taking a sharp breath, he shoved the baggy cotton shirt-sleeves up his thin arms and set to work.

He picked up a flask, upturned it and shook the final drops of a previous concoction to the floor. Then he began swirling a new mixture together.

Three drops of yellow dock root oil – to help purify the blood.

A sprig of saturated thyme – to bring courage.

Coffee essence – to stimulate the heart.

A pinch of crushed turmeric.

A few days ago he would have measured everything and kept track of the recipes in his notebook, but yesterday his mother had slipped into an unbreakable sleep. Now, he sloshed together anything that came to mind. He set the bottles chinking as he snatched up one container after another.

God grant her reprieve and I will atone for every wicked thought I have ever harboured against her, he vowed.

He took the flask and leaned over his mother to drip the curative on to her thin lips. As he did so, the door opened. Unwelcome light entered the room, making him blink.

‘Come along, Isaac.’

Newton shot a piercing look at the all-too-familiar figure bustling into the room. The portly woman carried a tray of food.

‘I must work,’ he snapped.

‘Nonsense.’ Mrs Harrington thrust the tray at him.

Upon his arrival last week, he had found the troublesome woman supervising the household with misplaced industry.

‘You must eat,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in making yourself sick as well.’ There was no warmth in her voice.

‘What concern is it of yours? You don’t belong here.’

‘I’m your mother’s closest friend. I’ve known you since you were born. I helped deliver you, in that very bed.’

‘You were just a girl from the village, hired to help out during my mother’s confinement. Only later did you worm your way into her affections.’ Newton crossed to the table and lifted more bottles, inspecting their contents. ‘Isn’t it true that you were so convinced I wouldn’t last my first night that you dallied in conversation when you were sent for medicines?’

She drew herself up. ‘Your mother grows weaker every day, Isaac. It’s time to say goodbye to her.’

‘No! I haven’t finished my ex–’ He cut himself off.

‘Your what? Your experiments?’

‘My treatments, my treatments.’

Mrs Harrington softened her voice. ‘Isaac, let her pass in peace, with sunlight and warmth.’ She pushed past him, making for the curtains.

‘Don’t open the window. There are miasmas in the air, my mother is too frail.’

‘She needs fresh air. It reeks in here.’

‘The potions react with sunlight. You’ll destroy them.’

She gave him a sour look. Balancing the tray on one hip, she pulled the curtain open. The sunlight cut into Newton’s eyes. He gripped the sides of the table to steady himself against the molten force rising inside him.

She crossed to the mantelpiece, still carrying the tray. ‘You think your mother wants all this?’ She cast her disdainful gaze over more bottles and flasks.

‘My mother will be treated with whatever I choose,’ he said through clenched teeth.

A knowing smile crossed her face. ‘I’ve watched you and your wicked little ways since you were a boy.’

‘The boy you remember has grown up.’

‘As far as I can see, nothing’s changed. I remember you peering round the congregation while the rest of us bowed our heads in prayer. You always did think you were something special.’

Newton’s hands jerked free from the table and he started groping among the bottles. He picked something up and without thinking hurled it in Mrs Harrington’s direction.

Jaw dropping in disbelief, she heard it smash against the wall. Newton’s second missile found its mark, glancing off her fleshy left cheek. She reeled backwards, dropping the contents of the tray across the floorboards, and fled the room, screaming.

Newton rushed after her, kicking the food aside and slamming the door shut with his whole body. He stumbled to the curtains and yanked them shut before returning to his mother’s bedside. Her jaw was slack. He reached out to touch her face, hesitating at the last moment. When his ink-stained fingers made contact with the skin, terror flashed inside him and he snatched his hand away. She was gone. Tears of rage spilled from his eyes. When the spasm subsided, he sank to his knees and raised his face to heaven.

‘Lord, why do you test me with such impossible tasks?’

The servants took Hannah’s body and sewed it into a woollen burial garment and bonnet. Quiet tears accompanied their busy hands. They laid the body on a table in the parlour where Newton stood in one corner, keeping vigil.

Outside the world had turned to green, yet he seemed immune to its warmth. His clothing hung as if tailored for a larger man. To hide this fact he had swaddled himself in his academic gown, embracing its comfortable feeling of far-off Cambridge.

He could not go near the corpse. How small she looked compared to his memory. The bonnet covering her hair could not disguise the tangled white eyebrows and the thin skin stretched over her cheekbones. She was as pale as the coarse wool of her shroud, and with each passing hour looked less as though she had ever been alive.

He conjured the memory of her once delicate face, with its attentive eyes and the tumbling ringlets of dark hair that she had let him stroke. He tried to hold the image but another kept forcing it away. He saw his mother in the distance, peering out of the carriage that had taken her away from him for eight years. It was his earliest memory. The scene replayed itself in staccato images, and he watched for the millionth time as she broke her gaze and looked away from him long before she had to, before the vehicle had drawn out of sight.

Why had she turned away? The question haunted him, now perhaps more than ever before. What if she were magically to open her eyes now? The impossible reality filled his mind. She would sit upright, the sunlight from the window catching the outer threads of her woollen garments but rendering the rest of her in silhouette. She would talk in the softest of voices, her features indistinct, answering his questions without hesitation.

– Why did you leave me, mother?

– I fell in love with Barnabas. I wanted to start again, to pretend you neverexisted.

– Why?

– You always were difficult. You didn’t need me or want me.

– Then why did you return when he died?

– We couldn’t stay in the rectory once Barnabas had died. I needed a home for my new children. You just got in the way.

– Did you love them more than me?

– Of course I did.

Movement through the panelled window snapped him from his imaginings. The round ball of Woolsthorpe’s rector was making its way up the path towards the front door.

Newton left the parlour and opened the front door before the Reverend Hazel could knock.

‘My condolences, Mr Newton. Your mother was a credit to the parish.’ Hazel made to step forward, stopping himself just in time to avoid walking straight into Newton’s immobile form.

‘You have a difficult task, Reverend. My mother has not left a will. I searched her papers today but could find nothing.’

Hazel patted his leather satchel. ‘I have it here. Mrs Harrington delivered it to me at the beginning of the week.’

Suspicion flared in Newton. ‘Let me see it.’

Hazel fumbled around, eventually producing a folded piece of paper. Newton seized it and unfolded the sheet. It was indeed covered in his mother’s handwriting.

‘As you see, you are sole executor and principal beneficiary,’ said Hazel. ‘She has left the house and estate to you in its entirety.’

Newton’s eyes worked through the almost illegible scribble. Indeed, Woolsthorpe Manor was now his. The other gifts were trifling, some five pounds for the parish poor and similar sums for the serving staff.

‘There is little provision for your siblings,’ said Hazel tentatively.

‘Half-siblings,’ Newton corrected him. ‘They inherited from their father. They want for nothing.’

Hazel paused before answering. ‘If that is your decision.’

‘It is.’ Newton handed him back the will.

‘Then there is just one other matter. Your mother indicates that she is to be buried according to your wishes.’

‘In the churchyard, next to my father.’

Again, Hazel paused. ‘As you wish. Well, I see no further reason to delay you.’

‘I’m aware that you had a high regard for Barnabas Smith, Reverend, but I know my mother.’

‘God bless you, Mr Newton.’ The coldness in Hazel’s voice made it sound like a curse.

Newton shut the door on his receding form and looked around the hallway, seeing the plaster and timbers anew. For thirty-seven years – his entire lifetime – he had either lived in or visited this house and walked its fields. Now it was his, yet he felt more at home in a small room overlooking the quadrangle in Trinity College. He grimaced at the irony.

The mourners gathered by the church. Dressed head to foot in black, they were silhouettes against the sun that had chosen to mock them with its rays.

Newton looked around and thought what a pitiful end it was. The servants and the farm hands were there, snuffling and grizzling. There were a few villagers and, of course, his half-brother and half-sisters. They stood together, Mary, the eldest, blinking tears and being comforted by Hannah, the youngest and his mother’s namesake. Benjamin looked angry, as usual. He bristled as Newton greeted them.

‘Not here, Ben,’ whispered Hannah.

Newton scrutinised his half-brother and thought what an imperfect rendering he was: short and lacking a well-proportioned oval face, with a nose that was too small. The glare from his red-rimmed eyes, however forceful, inspired no confidence.

‘Why bury her here?’ Benjamin asked.

Newton should have guessed this would be his lament. ‘To be with her true husband.’

‘But you never knew him! He died just eighteen months after marrying her, while she was still carrying you. She was married to my father for eight years. If there is a rightful place–’

‘Silence!’ Newton raised his hand. ‘I will hear nothing from the man who killed her.’

Benjamin’s mouth gaped in astonishment.

‘Isaac, how can you say that?’ gasped Hannah.

‘By nursing him – a grown man – my mother contracted the fever herself. It’s nothing but a statement of fact.’ Newton turned from their incredulous faces, exhilarated by the shock he left in his wake.

The congregation stood around the grave, as unmoving as the headstones, while Hazel mumbled his way through the eulogy. He insisted on referring to the body as Hannah Smith, a name so alien to Newton that his mind soon drifted, leaving the minister to work through his platitudes.

Left at Woolsthorpe in the care of his grandparents, Newton had never known when his mother would visit. There was not enough consistency to her appearances to allow him to discern their shape; they could fall on any day of the week and last anything from a whole day to a meagre hour. He would present her with the latest of his wooden models, maybe a simple sundial or a mobile windmill, and she would politely contemplate the creation and then ask how his schooling was progressing.

When it was time for her to leave – always too soon – his grandparents would force him to watch her go. Sometimes the pain of her departure would rumble inside him like summer thunder; other times it would strike like a bolt of lightning. If he tried to run away or he succeeded in hiding, his grandmother would threaten at the top of her wavering voice, ‘If you cannot behave yourself, we’ll have to stop your mother coming to see you.’

‘I wish she were dead,’ Newton had screamed at them when he had heard the ultimatum once too often. In the shocked aftermath he had fled the house, returning at twilight, tear-stained and grubby but unrepentant.

For eight years this hateful cycle repeated itself, but then came the biggest tragedy of all. His mother returned for good, but trailing a meddlesome six-year-old girl, a weakling boy and a screaming baby. Daily, Newton was forced to witness her devotion to them while she all but ignored him.

Newton’s thoughts returned to the present. He watched with utter disbelief as the small body was lowered into the grave, wincing when he noticed that Benjamin was helping the undertakers.

Where are you, Mother? With Father in heaven? With that devil Smith, suffering for abandoning me? Well, God cannot help you there. Only I can forgive you that sin.

The day after the funeral Newton called the servants to the kitchen. They stood in silence, straightening uniforms and tucking away curls of hair. Mrs Harrington rose from her throne at the end of the long, heavy table, her hand fluttering self-consciously to the bruise on her cheek.

‘Mrs Harrington, your services are no longer required. You will leave immediately,’ Newton barked.

She looked around for support but no one would meet her gaze. Swallowing hard, she regained her composure. ‘You wicked man! What would your mother say?’

‘My mother is no concern of yours. She has her sins to atone for, you have yours.’ He lifted his dimpled chin to look down his long nose at her.

‘She loved you, Isaac, more than you deserved. That’s why she left you here when she married Smith. He wanted Woolsthorpe, but she insisted it was yours alone. He forbade her to bring you to live with him, thinking she’d relent. But she didn’t, because she knew you’d always be overlooked in favour of any children she had with Smith. So she bound you up in Woolsthorpe so tightly that no one could contest it when she left it all to you.’

‘We were happy here, together,’ Newton heard himself say, and instantly chided himself for revealing his thoughts.

‘You were three when she left. How could you possibly understand that your mother was struggling for money? She had to marry Smith. He was already old when she married him. It was just your bad luck that he lived until he was seventy-one.’

Newton’s eyes locked with hers briefly, then turned to the gleaming pots and their curved reflections of the scene. ‘You’re trespassing. Leave my grounds and never return.’

When he glanced back, a half-smile played across Mrs Harrington’s face. As she stalked to the kitchen door, she turned and said: ‘One day, you will meet someone who will do to you what you have done to me. Mark my words.’

2

Southwark

A stooped figure paced the cobbles outside the Crown Inn, hands clamped behind its back, downcast face invisible beneath a shock of greasy hair. Only a sharp nose protruded, from which dripped the occasional dewdrop of clear fluid.

Most people gave the shuffling homunculus a wide berth even when the courtyard became crowded with carriages and new arrivals. They edged around him as if his crooked spine were contagious. It was a reaction that Robert Hooke was used to and, for the most part, ignored. After all, avoiding eye contact was the easiest thing for a hunchback to do. So he contented himself with watching his own feet, craning his neck only when the whirling clatter of approaching wheels and hooves drew his attention.

What would she look like?

Certainly not the vivacious young woman he had sent back to the Isle of Wight eighteen months earlier, if her mother – his sister-in-law – were to be believed. No, Grace would be broken and contrite. Perhaps he would put a protective arm around his niece as they walked home, to let her know that one member of the family still loved her.

The evening air invaded his ill-fitting jacket through the gaping cuffs and the threadbare patches at his elbows and shoulders. His stockings and voluminous breeches offered little protection from the chill either. He pulled the jacket tighter and paced around some more.

The colour was draining from the rectangle of sky above the courtyard. If the Portsmouth coach did not arrive soon, Hooke would have to leave before the bridge gates were closed for the night and return in the morning.

Perhaps, he thought, I could book a room and wait here.

He checked the pouch containing his money and was about to head inside when a battered old coach rattled into the yard. Almost at once the passengers disembarked, stretching and helping each other down. They laughed and exchanged pleasantries as their luggage was unloaded. A young woman turned to leave the group.

It was not her.

This woman wore a velvet cape and walked with purpose, carrying a large bag with ease. He looked past her, hoping for another female to sidle out. Perhaps he should go and look inside; maybe she was afraid to face him. She had good reason.

‘Hello, Uncle,’ said the woman.

Hooke fought to straighten himself to look at the stranger.

‘It’s me,’ she said.

‘Grace?’

She smiled, a flash of white teeth behind cherry lips, and the breath left his lungs. He stared into her dark eyes. Where was the ruined girl he had been expecting? Grace was supposed to be cowed, not yet nineteen but her bloom already plucked. He had imagined her on the verge of tears, unable to look at him for shame.

She produced a handkerchief and dabbed his chin. A red spot appeared on the material, no doubt the result of his last-minute decision to shave before hurrying to Southwark. The gesture broke his paralysis. He swatted her away and said angrily, ‘I can look after myself.’

She looked around in case others had witnessed the rebuff.

‘You’re not even sorry, are you?’ he said.

‘Uncle. . .’

He could hardly bring himself to look at her. ‘From now on, you will address me as Mr Hooke. You are my housekeeper. Nothing more.’

They walked in silence to the bridge, where a large crowd was milling around the gatehouse. The imposing wooden structure towered above them, and people looked blankly from one to another. As was usual when confronted with a crowd, Hooke tried to burrow through, but this time the way was blocked by the press of people. The musty smell of unwashed clothing hung in the air.

A plump woman turned to stare down at him. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn like the rest of us.’

Hooke retreated. He could see nothing but people’s backs. ‘What’s going on?’

Grace stood on tiptoe and peered into the crowded passage. The bridge was like a tunnel with wooden buildings lining either side. She saw people hanging out of top-floor windows, calling to each other and pointing at something, while at street level the shopkeepers hurried to gather their wares before they were trampled or stolen in the crush. ‘Everything’s at a standstill. I cannot see why.’

Hooke singled out a young man who had just emerged from the throng. ‘You there, what’s the hold-up?’

The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘A cart’s got a wheel off. You’ll be lucky to get across before the hour’s up.’ He paused long enough to look Grace up and down, then hurried on his way.

‘We’ll take a wherry. Come on, before everyone has the idea,’ said Hooke irritably.

They cut through the crush of people into one of the alleys that ran parallel to the riverbank. It was dark now, and Hooke stepped up his pace. As they headed downstream, away from the torrents of water cascading between the wooden bulwarks of the bridge, Hooke’s breathing became laboured.

‘We can slow down if you want,’ said Grace.

‘I will walk at whatever speed I choose,’ he said, but slowed down nevertheless.

It grew cooler as they descended a flight of stone steps to the riverside. Shadows moved on the quayside and the lanterns on a line of river taxis bobbed up and down.

‘Need a ride?’ asked a gruff voice.

‘North bank,’ said Hooke.

The wherryman caught sight of Grace and quickly reached for her bag. ‘Allow me, miss.’ His voice had softened.

‘Thank you,’ she purred.

Hooke’s blood almost boiled.

The man stowed Grace’s bag, then he took her gloved hand and guided her into the boat. For a moment, they looked as if they were dancing.

Hooke plunged from the bank, setting the small vessel rocking. Unbalanced by the motion, he sat down heavily.

‘Are you all right, Uncle?’

Hooke glared.

‘Sorry . . . Mr Hooke.’

‘Perfectly,’ he spat. ‘Now, let’s be on our way.’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ the wherryman said with just a hint of sarcasm. He cast off and pumped the oars with his big, muscled arms, straining against the river. As he rowed, he stole frequent glances at Grace.

The towering shape of the bridge loomed to one side, almost lost to view except for the occasional lighted window. They cut through the inky water, navigating the constellation of boat lights that danced around them as others crossed the river. When they reached the far bank the wherryman set the oars, ensuring that they landed with nothing more than a soft tap on the quayside.

Dismissing the man with some coins, Hooke turned to Grace. ‘Hurry up, girl,’ he grumbled.

They headed northwards, leaving behind the crowds and entering the hinterland between the stone of rebuilt London and the older realms of wood and plaster. Half-finished buildings lined their way, deserted now that the workmen had left for the day. In the darkness, it was easy to confuse the nascent buildings with ruins.

Hooke crossed the road, pacing out its width from force of habit. Anger flashed as he reached the opposite kerb; the road was at least two feet narrower than his written specification.

Why did the authorities insist on squeezing London back into its mediaeval claustrophobia? Did no one ever learn? The labyrinthine old alleys and shanties had proven to be coffins when the fire came. Nursing his annoyance, he even forgot to watch the corners for pickpockets.

After what seemed like an age, with Grace trailing along silently behind, the familiar bulk of Gresham College loomed. A dozen years ago, it had been on the safe side of the Duke of York’s firebreaks and escaped the flames. It had become a sanctuary for city officers and financiers. Now, however, it found itself painfully unfashionable. The flesh was gone from its timbers, leaving just the matted sinew of the wood to hold the structure upright. Yet, for all its obvious antiquity, it was home.

Hooke fumbled with his keys and the side door creaked open. He led Grace through a shabby hallway and back outside into the quadrangle. They crossed to the far corner.

Hooke’s rooms were little warmer than outside. He wasted no time getting a collection of apple logs burning in the grate, then set about kindling the rushlights dotted around the main room. As the fire drove away some of the cold and the strong odour of rat droppings, Grace circled the large room. Her footsteps set the floorboards creaking beneath the threadbare rugs. She stepped over the pieces of abandoned apparatus and ran her fingers along the wood panelling. She straightened a few of the portraits and lingered by the fire. ‘It’s good to be back.’

Hooke buried the shred of pleasure provoked by her comment.

‘Am I to sleep in the turret room?’ she asked.

He gave a curt nod.

With a rushlight in one hand and her bag in the other, she disappeared through the door that led to the turret.

‘Don’t be long,’ Hooke called. ‘There are provisions in the kitchen for you to make us supper.’

He dropped into a chair at the large dining-table squatting in one half of the room. The chunky piece of furniture doubled as his workbench during the weeks when it was too cold to work in the cellar. Taking up half of the scuffed tabletop today was a wide wooden cone, upturned and sitting in an iron cradle. Resting at the bottom of this shallow funnel were three iron balls, each smaller than Hooke’s clenched fist. He scooped them out and set one after the other rolling around the wooden rim.

The growl of the iron on the wood blocked out his thoughts as his eyes followed their elliptical trajectories. Each ball would dip low and gain speed, then whip round the centre to climb the incline, never quite reaching as high as on its previous lap. He became lost in the repetitious motion, rolling ball after ball, wondering what would happen if there were no friction between the iron and the wood. Would the balls circulate endlessly like planets?

Grace reappeared wearing a simple shift with her brunette hair pinned rather brutally into the nape of her neck. In the lamplight she seemed to have less rouge on her cheeks now.

That’s better, thought Hooke.

‘You have new-fitted my room. Thank you,’ she said.

Hooke rolled another iron sphere, and Grace went to the kitchen to prepare supper.

She returned almost an hour later, carrying two chipped bowls. Each was filled with a colourless gruel.

Hooke peered at the one she laid before him. ‘Is it soup?’

‘Potatoes and oysters.’

‘From the pail near the window?’

‘The oysters, yes.’

He pushed the bowl across the table. ‘They were for an experiment next week on water temperature.’

‘It’s not my fault. I’m not used to this kind of work.’

‘Oh no, you’re too fine to cook for yourself, let alone others. Well, it’s all you’re good for now. You’re nothing but a servant of your own making.’

‘I won’t spend the rest of my life in servitude,’ she cried.

‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before you let Sir Robert Holmes make a whore of you.’

She gasped. Her head dropped and she pressed her hands to her cheeks before speaking in a quiet voice. ‘I thought that, of all my family, you might have forgiven me. We have a bond, remember?’ She looked up. The hope in her face elicited a stab of hatred inside him. He knew exactly what she was trying to do, and the knowledge extinguished the provocative memories she was attempting to revive. ‘Did you expect me to greet you with open arms? John is dead because of your shameful behaviour.’ He stumbled from the table, seized the poker and stabbed at the embers. What on Earth had possessed him to spend this past fortnight fashioning new bedposts and remaking the chest of drawers in her room? What a fool . . .

‘I have suffered enough,’ she pleaded.

‘My brother, my only brother. Gone because of you.’ He glared over his shoulder at her.

Silent tears cut streams across her cheeks. ‘Don’t you think I would change things if I could? I never dreamt that Father would . . . ’

‘Go on, say it. Say it. Take his own life. Your father committed suicide because of you and your despicable behaviour. For all your London airs and your good looks, you’re nothing but a foolish slut.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘Indeed! I must have been utterly foolish to think that you would still love me.’ She fled.

Hooke watched her disappear, an awkward mixture of guilt and satisfaction replacing the hatred that had swirled inside him. Had he not wanted her to cry, to show remorse? He thrust the poker back into the bucket, raising a sharp clatter. Yes, he knew, he had wanted those things. So, why did they now feel so wrong?

3

Woolsthorpe

Apples carpeted the orchard outside the manor-house, ripped from their branches by last night’s gale. The wind had begun its journey over the North Sea, roused from its slumber at the urging of some great westward attraction. It had begun its blind tumble slowly, but by the time it reached the plains of Lincolnshire it was howling round the house’s stone walls, piercing the gaps in the window-frames and invading the chimneys to blow soot across the hearths.

The maelstrom had roused Newton from his dreams. He lay for a moment trying to separate the real wailing outside from the one in his sleepy mind. In his dream he had been watching impassively as people screamed and shouted, their bodies tumbling in an avalanche of limbs towards molten lakes. He had been surrounded by tin furnaces and flasks of chemicals, the very things that had lain abandoned in Cambridge these past months. Shaking his head at the images, he had stumbled, sweating, from the bed and stared outside until the storm had abated.

Now, as he walked through the dewy grass, the air was still once more and suffused with the sweet tang of ripe apples. Around him, the servants were collecting the windfalls in large wicker baskets. He stooped to retrieve one of the fruits himself and rolled it from one hand to the other. If not for the fallen apples he could have dismissed the storm as part of the nightmare, the product of that dark place in his imagination he had promised to atone for had his mother been spared.

Years ago, during one of her haphazard visits, he had insisted that she walk with him through this orchard. Pulling at her arm and ignoring her requests to know where they were going, he coaxed her further into the grounds. Choosing the most circuitous routes, he guided her into the furthest grazing-fields, where the sheep might look up with curiosity but no one else would notice them. With every step he had hoped that they would become so lost she would have to stay the night.

But she had turned him around with a soft stroke of his head. ‘It’s getting late,’ she had said, even though it was early afternoon.

The memory jarred him back to the present. Those words were the last thing she had said before unconsciousness had taken her, and then death. It’s getting late. What a hatefully dishonest way to announce her departure, then and now. He had not thought of it at the time, but now the phrase banged around his head.

He passed close to one of the farm hands. ‘Send someone to examine the fences for damage,’ he said.

The man touched his forehead in acknowledgement. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Newton, that’s already been seen to. There’s some little damage to attend to, but nothing serious.’

Newton pursed his lips. ‘Very well. See to it that all is fixed by nightfall.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Newton dropped the apple at the servant’s feet and walked on.

He had to find a tenant farmer so that he could go home – yes, home. Cambridge was home: his books, his experiments, John Wickens. The yearning to return was becoming all-consuming. He and Wickens would start the experiments again. Perhaps the work would drive the troubling dreams from his head. The nightmares came almost every time he slept now and often lingered well into the next day. Something was coming, he could feel it. It was less than a shadow at the moment, but still perceptible. It was everywhere, a kind of latency, as if the whole world were waiting for something.

He looked at the servants gathering fruit.

Could they feel it too? He scanned the trees and above, to the islands of clouds in the sky. What was coming? An inner voice whispered a reply. He could not quite make it out, but it sounded like a single word: apocalypse.

4

London

Hooke climbed the tiny twist of staircase to the turret room, a fluttering sensation in his stomach. Over these last few days since Grace’s arrival, they had settled into an uneasy rhythm in which each tried to avoid the other. They spoke in guarded terms, holding back all but the mildest hints of emotion. After each frosty encounter, something akin to remorse would churn inside him. He would have to fight the urge to comfort her, yet the moment she came into view, with those deep eyes and her perfect complexion, he felt repulsed.

Steeling himself, he knocked before opening the door to her room. The bed dominated the tiny space. The chest of drawers was covered with brushes, toiletries and a mirror. There was still a hint of the worked timber in the air, and the unmistakable smell of her particular rose-water.

He had not smelled that since . . .

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, working with a bundle of mahogany-brown material, looking up at him.

‘There is the Society meeting here this afternoon. Please remain out of sight.’ He realised only after the words were out of his mouth that his intended command had come out as a plea.

‘Will Edmond Halley attend?’

‘No, he will not. He’s in the South Atlantic, mapping stars from Saint Helena – not that his whereabouts are any concern of yours. You must stay in your quarters. No one is to know you’re here.’

Her eyes dropped back to her work. ‘You cannot pretend for ever that I’m not your Grace.’

Dangerous feelings bubbled inside him.

She pulled at a length of the fabric, splitting it down the seam. He recognised the dark folds as a pair of his breeches.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ He tried to grab the garment.

Lifting it out of his reach, she said, ‘Gentlemen are wearing their breeches tighter these days, to allow for jackets being longer.’

‘I don’t have any long jackets.’

‘Not yet.’

Hooke snorted. ‘London is not the place you remember. Didn’t the news of Sir Edmund Godfrey’s murder reach the Isle of Wight?’

Grace shook her head. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘He was Justice of the Peace for Westminster until they found him on Primrose Hill, five days after he went missing, face down in a ditch, run through with his own sword.’

She looked unimpressed. ‘There are always murders in London.’

‘Not like this. You see, the wound hadn’t bled. Sir Edmund must have been long dead when the sword was driven through his ribs. The doctors took the body and discovered a bruise around his neck.’ With relish, he reached under his chin to grip his own neck. ‘He’d been garrotted with a silk scarf. Later, the killers rearranged his neckcloth to hide the bruise, took his body to the ditch and skewered him to the ground.’

Grace stopped sewing. ‘Why?’

‘They say he’d taken an affidavit from Titus Oates . . . ’

‘Ah, now him I have heard of.’

‘Don’t interrupt. Oates said he had word about a Catholic plot to assassinate the King and return England to the Papists. He named more than five hundred people spread through the court, parliament, the regional manor houses – all of them secret Jesuits, just waiting for the Pope’s order to begin the killings. You see, it wasn’t just going to be the King; other prominent men were on the assassination list, too. Sir Edmund was murdered because he knew too much.’

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I hardly think we’ll be in mortal danger going to a tailor to buy you a new jacket. I could do the final alterations like I used to. Besides, you go out all the time, it’s only me who’s stuck in here.’

Hooke huffed again. ‘What do I care for fashion at my age?’

‘You’re not as old as you think.’

‘I’m forty-four, that’s old enough.’

‘Exactly, you’re not as old as you think.’ She returned to her work.

Hooke stared at her. He managed a rather half-hearted ‘Just stay in your room’ before closing the door.

There was a chorus of polite greetings as the gentlemen straggled into Hooke’s apartment, sank into the mismatched chairs that pinned the rugs to the floor and complained in unison of the cold weather. In years gone by the pre-meeting conversation had been about inventions and hypotheses; Hooke’s fingers would tingle with the possibilities on offer and he would work late into the night, sometimes through to the next morning, in his fervour to manufacture the experiments needed to prove some point or other.

Springs, pulleys, balances: he knew how to make them all, relished making them as he imagined a master painter must enjoy being at the easel. These days, however, there were just the usual grumblings about the weather and the question of whether the Society’s President would appear. Sir Joseph Williamson had been conspicuously absent these past weeks, no doubt consumed with his duties as Secretary of State, but still, an absentee President was not a good omen for any society.

Hooke’s gaze was drawn to the grey metal cylinder on the hearthstones. Muted sounds of bubbling came from within its belly. In construction, the cylinder was not unlike an alchemist’s furnace. At the base was a roaring firebox that heated an upper chamber. That morning, instead of chemicals, the contraption’s owner had loaded it with a trivet and a dozen prepared pigeons. As the man had been fixing down the lid by turning a large screw assembly, he had stopped suddenly. ‘Idiot!’ he scolded himself in a heavy French accent, pulling out a muslin packet of herbs and a bulb of garlic. He wafted them beneath his hooked nose. ‘I nearly forgot these.’

‘You do know this is only a demonstration, Monsieur Papin; an experiment,’ said Hooke.

Papin’s brow creased. ‘Of course, but how can you cook a pigeon without garlic?’

Now the contraption shuddered and rumbled, filling the room with an admittedly delectable smell. Papin squatted in front of it, feeding more wood into the firebox. As the roar of the flames increased, so did the shaking of the metal body.

‘Is that thing all right?’ Hooke asked.

‘Of course. Without the pressure, the bones will not be soft enough to chew. We will all eat well tonight, I think,’ Papin said, flashing a grin. ‘In the name of science, of course.’

Hooke returned to his secretary’s ledger to record the names of the arriving Fellows.

The towering figure of Christopher Wren walked in, resplendent in a chestnut jacket trimmed with golden braid. Hooke noticed that the low waistline emphasised Wren’s slim torso.

‘Kit, I’ve been waiting for you. Gracechurch Street is at least two feet narrower than on my plans . . . ’

‘And good evening to you too, Robert,’ said Wren genially. ‘We changed the plans in committee – needed the extra space in the adjacent streets. Sorry, I thought you had been informed.’

‘No, I was not . . . ’

There was a commotion at the doorway. A wiry man with bulging eyes and a misaligned grey wig leaned on the doorframe, gasping from exertion.

‘Mr Fisher, whatever is the matter?’ asked Wren.

Hooke grabbed an armchair and swung it into position.

Fisher collapsed into the chair, the stiff fibres of his attire ballooning around him. ‘I was followed on my way here tonight, I swear,’ he said in a thin, frightened voice. ‘A pair of men kept to the shadows behind me, speeding up and slowing down when I did. They were biding their time, I tell you. Lucky I was heading here and no further – they’d have had me for sure if I’d turned off the main street.’

The other Fellows crowded around him. A stout gentleman pulled out a short truncheon with a leather wrist-strap. ‘I’ve taken to carrying this.’

‘Mercy, Mr Banbury,’ said Wren. ‘What do you intend to do with that?’

‘Defend myself. Any of those Catholic devils come near me . . . ’ He slapped the weapon into his other gloved hand with a satisfying thwack.

‘Come, do you really think there’s evidence for these Catholic murder gangs?’ asked Wren. ‘It seems little more than rumours to me, all started by Oates.’

‘The King must think there’s something going on; he’s housed Oates at Whitehall, presumably to protect him,’ said Banbury.

‘None of it makes sense to me,’ said Wren.

‘The papists are capable of anything,’ said Papin, clapping his open hand to his chest. ‘Why do you think I’m in England? We Huguenots are being driven from our mother country.’

‘Well, I’m convinced. Especially after tonight. The danger’s real,’ wheezed Fisher.

Hooke fetched wine and the Fellows went back to their chairs. It became clear that their President was going to miss this meeting, too.

‘I think we’d best start, Monsieur Papin. Don’t you?’ Hooke asked, lifting his quill to take minutes.

Papin bowed his head, regarded the Fellows and opened his arms with such vigour that he set his extravagant cuffs rippling. ‘Distinguished Fellows of the Royal Society, it gives me the greatest of all pleasures to present you with my invention, the steam digester . . .’

‘An invention based on my air-pump,’ Hooke chipped in.

‘Quite so,’ said Papin. ‘Where was I? Never again will the poor struggle to extract nourishment even from bones.’

There was an almighty ripping sound and the room filled with steam. Hooke instinctively closed his eyes as something hot spattered his face. When he opened them again, a boiling mist was rolling across the ceiling. The Fellows, many having jumped to their feet, were looking from one to another in varying degrees of shock. Fisher’s wig – which had never been a good fit – was even more askew, and Wren’s beautiful jacket was covered in pulverised pigeon.

Papin was on his knees, staring at the ruptured steam digester, covered from head to foot in dripping gravy.

‘Tell me, Monsieur Papin, is this how they serve dinner in France these days?’ grinned Banbury, licking his jelly-smothered fingers. ‘I confess it is good, though.’

‘I think we need to talk about fitting a steam valve, don’t you, Monsieur Papin?’ said Hooke, wiping his face.

Later, after the Fellows had drifted homewards, with Banbury insisting on escorting a tremulous Fisher, Grace appeared from her room. Her hair was bound up with strips of muslin, and she was clad in only a linen nightgown, apparently immune to the cool of the gathering evening. Hooke was on his knees, still cleaning bits of exploded pigeon from the rugs and floorboards. He tried to ignore the shadow of her figure underneath the fabric as she drew close. His buckled spine felt tighter than ever.

‘Let me help you,’ she said, crouching beside him.

She took the cloth from him, her nightdress gaping as she leaned forwards.

‘For pity’s sake, go and put something on.’ Hooke struggled to his feet and slung one arm across the mantelpiece as if it were an old friend offering support. Blood thumped in his temples.

‘Do you want something to eat? There’s some cheese,’ she said.

‘No, I do not. The last meal you cooked kept me awake all night.’

‘You never did sleep well.’

‘My head fairly spun on the pillow.’

‘There was only ever one remedy for your insomnia,’ she said.

Hooke froze. He made to glare at her but found he could not meet her gaze. Instead he turned for the door, desperate to escape.

5

Cambridge

Huddled outside the weathered city walls and covered only in scrubby plants, the plague pits welcomed Newton home to Cambridge. Although fifteen years had passed since they had been filled, the mass graves still made him recoil. Inside the city gates was little better.

Whatever goodness may once have been found in the city’s streets had fled as far as Newton could see, washed away on the sea of alcohol that flowed from the taverns and inns. The places to drink outnumbered all the other shops put together. Scabby children ran through the streets while drunken parents lolled against barrels and wasted the day. Market traders shouted their prices and foisted the poorest vegetables on those too intoxicated to see straight. Everywhere there was decay, and Newton shuddered even though his fascination kept him glued to the scenes.

They’re damned, he thought, every single one of them.

From the carriage window Newton caught sight of the array of chimneys outlining Trinity College. Next, the four towers marking the corners of the gatehouse appeared. The magnificent sandy building rose from the squalid surroundings just as Newton towered over the beggars when he strode through the streets.

He rapped on the carriage roof, and the driver pulled the horses to a stop even though they were well short of the coaching inn. Newton wasted no time in disembarking and set off along the cobbles to where he could already see the college’s unlikely herald waiting. Lurking in the shadow of the garden wall was a boy, dressed in sackcloth, with a shrivelled right arm. Newton guessed he was perhaps five or six. This seemed to be his patch. The steward would shoo him away periodically, but soon enough the urchin would be back. The boy nodded at Newton, who lifted his head to look at the college’s gothic gates.

Choosing the smaller of the two wooden entrances, Newton still had to push with all his weight to make it open.

‘Welcome back, Mr Newton,’ said the chubby steward, offering the register for him to sign. ‘Back for long, sir?’

‘I sincerely hope so.’

Newton hastened to the quadrangle and paused to take a breath before slipping the latch of his door. ‘Wickens?’ he called.

The room was still.

‘John Wickens, come out from wherever you’re hiding – I’m home.’

There were neat piles of papers and books on the desk. The bookshelves were dust-free; the beds were freshly made. Newton’s collection of prisms was perched on the top of the bookcase. The order made him uncomfortable, as if he had walked into someone else’s room. He pushed a small pile of papers, sending them sprawling across the table, then he stepped through the hole that he and Wickens had made in the wall to provide access to the wooden shed where they performed their experiments.

All was neat in there too; the crucibles were stacked inside each other and looked as if someone had scrubbed them. The tin furnace sat in the centre of the room, lifeless and cold. The glass flasks were lined up in rows, and the alembics, with their pointed glass snouts, stood to attention in ranks.

It was too tidy. More than tidy, it was immaculate. Newton fought the urge to smash a piece of glassware. Returning to the main room, he saw his favourite cushion had been plumped and perfectly positioned in his chair, like a cat basking in a sunny spot. He ran his fingers across the scarlet velvet so gently they left no impression.

On the table was a small collection of accumulated letters. Newton leafed through them, grimacing from time to time. Unless he was terribly mistaken, one was covered with Robert Hooke’s handwriting.

The latch sounded. He dropped the letters and turned to the door.

‘Isaac!’ John Wickens was a slight man with delicate features and a smile every bit as mischievous as Newton remembered. The dark waves of his long hair curled into the hollow of his neck.

Newton embraced him. That was when he realised something was wrong. Wickens was tense, his usual ease gone from his body. Newton stepped back and waved his hand at the room. ‘Did you stop working in my absence?’

‘I have completed the notes for everything you did before you left. The notes are . . . ’ He stopped when he saw the toppled pile of papers. ‘Well, you seem to have found them already. Everything is up to date.’

‘Excellent. I have new ideas. We must start at once.’ Newton shrugged off his jacket.

Wickens turned away. ‘I cannot help you.’

‘Why ever not? We’re close; I know it. I have new stirring patterns in mind. I think that seventeen clockwise rotations of the spatula, followed by a single turn widdershins–’

‘I’m leaving the college.’

Newton stared at his companion. ‘This is very inconvenient. Whom are you visiting? When will you be back?’ Newton saw that Wickens’s eyes were glistening.

‘You don’t understand, Isaac. There’s a rectorship available at Stoke Edith in Monmouth. I want to get married. Start a family.’

Newton cupped one hand within the other and began to run his thumb across the ragged nails. ‘When did this . . . this strange desire take hold of you?’

‘It has always been in me to have children. I’ve made no secret of it.’

‘Yes, but we’ve chummed for twenty years now. You haven’t mentioned it recently. It’s a whim.’

‘It’s no whim, Isaac.’ Wickens turned to face him. ‘Time’s passing. You and I, we’ve had an extended springtime. I don’t want to find myself suddenly in the grip of autumn.’

Newton’s jaw began to tighten. ‘Monmouth is far away.’

‘I will always write.’

‘Save your ink. I’ll have no interest in hearing from you.’

‘How can you mean that?’ Wickens moved closer.

‘Leave me, Wickens. You try my patience with your sentimentality.’ Newton turned his back and held his breath, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

There was a whisper of movement, then the creak of the door opening and the bang of it slamming shut. Newton continued to hold his breath.

6

London

It was the fifth of November, and London was in flames. Orange tongues twisted into the night from bonfires built on street crossings and patches of green. Cinders drifted upwards into the chilly air like freed souls racing to heaven. The people were supposedly commemorating God’s deliverance of James I from the Catholic plot to blow up Parliament back in 1605, but to Edmond Halley something darker was permeating the revelry.

He tried to dismiss the thought as prejudice. He had been just ten years old when the Great Fire of London had raged across the city – a tragedy sparked by Catholic incendiaries, according to some. Despite the thirteen years since, unpleasant memories were still easily kindled. Halley recalled being bundled into the night, unsure yet excited by the atmosphere. He had been entrusted with a bundle of clothing and relied upon to walk alone while his mother carried his younger sister and gripped his little brother’s hand. His father had led the way, laden with a chest of hastily packed possessions.

Swept along in a tide of people, Halley’s nervousness had resolved into a sense of duty. Although there were noises all around – the occasional shout or sob, the barking of a dog or the whinny of a horse – he snatched only momentary glances in their direction. Mostly he concentrated on marching in step behind the broad expanse of his father’s back, determined to keep up.

When the family squeezed past an empty cart being pushed towards them, into the city, its owner made a brusque offer to carry them to safety. Halley’s father shook his head. A panic-stricken man carrying a frail old woman rushed in to ask the price.

‘Twenty pounds to Moorfields.’

Two hundred times the normal price! thought the boy.

Above them there was a roar of thunder and orange sunbursts as first one roof then another caught fire. Cries of alarm went up as the flames took hold.

‘Let’s hurry up. No time to dawdle today.’ Halley’s father winked at him over his shoulder, and Halley found himself smiling back, insulated from the panic.