The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  Why does she always have to be so ungrateful? Does she not realise the humiliation I risk by taking her in? I protect her and what precious little is left of her reputation, yet she doesn’t . . .

  There was a sharp crack on the back of his neck. The impact ricocheted along his shoulders and up into his head. He sensed himself falling and felt the hard slap of the freezing earth on his forehead. A wretched smell clung to the dirt, yet Hooke was unable to summon his body into any form of response. In the pale grey moonlight, black shapes knelt over him. Hands dug through his clothing. There was the sound of ripping.

  ‘Hardly nothing,’ a voice said.

  The shadows moved, and Hooke closed his eyes, expecting more blows. There were some sharp touches as the few coins he was carrying were contemptuously thrown into his face. Then the footsteps faded away and silence followed.

  After some indeterminate time, feeling started to return to his body, and with it, pain. His head throbbed. He touched the tender spot on the back of his head, then his forehead, and traced blood from the wound down his left cheek. Shaking violently, he struggled to his feet and looked around. The road did not look at all familiar. He must have taken a wrong turn. Fifty yards away, he could just make out people walking past the street entrance.

  Bishopsgate?

  He hobbled to the main road, where city gentlemen skipped smartly across the way as he emerged from the darkness. Hooke wanted to remonstrate that he was a victim, not a vagabond, but every time he tried to catch somebody’s eye they quickened their pace.

  Strength ebbing away, he just made it back to the apartment. He lurched through the door and blackness overwhelmed him.

  When his eyes opened this time, full green skirts were racing towards him across an expanse of floorboards. He could feel the vibration of Grace’s footsteps jarring his brain.

  She lifted him to a sitting position, and his sight cleared a little.

  ‘Let’s get you up,’ she said, helping him into a chair. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Catholics,’ he croaked.

  Her footfalls receded, then returned.

  ‘Drink this,’ said Grace.

  He fixed both hands around the proffered goblet and lifted it to his lips. The bite of the red wine in the back of his throat was comforting. He drained the goblet. The still-fuzzy outline of Grace knelt in front of him, rinsing a cloth in a bowl of caustic-smelling water before lifting it to dab his forehead. His eyesight returned to normal at the sharp sting.

  There were wet marks on his coat, and twists of blood curled in the washbowl.

  The goblet slipped from his fingers to clatter on the floor. He rocked back and forth as tears fell from his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to Grace, repeating the words over and over again.

  She slid her fingers into his palms.

  ‘I don’t mean to hurt you. I want to protect you.’ He pulled her close, leaving her no option but to shuffle on her knees between his splayed legs. He anchored himself to her, repeating his apology between sobs.

  She wrapped her own arms around him, stroking his hair and drawing him closer still. ‘It’s all right, I’m here.’

  Her warmth seeped into him. The swell of her breasts against his chest reminded him of the last time they had been this close. He tried to banish the memory but it was too powerful. It had been gnawing at him ever since he had agreed to take her in again, shameful but stimulating. He no longer had the strength to fight it. His mind returned to three years before.

  It had been another icy winter, less than a year after she first arrived. The Thames had frozen, and no matter how many blankets he piled on his bed, nothing could keep out the chill. One night, with chattering teeth, he had crept up to her room and pushed at the door.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.

  ‘No, it’s too cold.’

  ‘Let us snuggle together, combine our warmth.’

  She rose without a word and followed him to his room. He got into bed and lifted the covers for her. She slipped inside, turning away to lie on her side. He took it as invitation, and she did not complain as he stretched along the curve of her back, drawing himself into full contact with her.

  At first her warmth was a comfort and sleep beckoned, but as more of her warmth entered him, the reality of their embrace took hold. His erection pressed through the thin fabric of their nightwear, against the firm flesh of her buttocks. He knew she was awake by the tension he could now feel in her body.

  First he pretended to be asleep, then he tried to ease himself away, but the slight movement sent a frisson through his whole being.

  There was no Moon that night. Cocooned in the darkness, her soft fragrance grew overwhelming. He moved again and another shiver rippled through him. A small breath escaped him.

  The covers moved, and he felt her hand creep across his belly. She rolled on to her back and gripped him. The freezing air on his face accentuated the warmth of her hand, and within moments he shuddered with release.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘that’ll stop you fidgeting.’

  Next morning he said nothing, even though it was all he could think of. They went about their daily rituals and the milder weather returned them to their separate beds.

  He had almost convinced himself that it had all been a dream, when the cold weather returned and in shamefaced desperation he invited her to his bed again. The scene played out as before, and the pattern was set.

  Befuddled by the pleasure she seemed so willing to dispense, he persuaded himself that her nocturnal ministrations were little more than innocent dreams come to life, but then came the day he returned to Gresham and heard raucous laughter from her room.

  The sight of a greasy-haired tanner’s lad, his stained fingers probing her soft flesh, sent Hooke into a violent rage. He shouted, screamed and broke furniture that he still missed today. The boy had run for his life despite being twice Hooke’s size.

  The next day, Hooke began the arrangements to send Grace back across the Solent, thinking she could be weaned off her lascivious behaviour. Instead, her exquisite looks and London ways had attracted the attentions of Sir Robert Holmes, the island’s governor. What began as a public flirtation became a worrying courtship and ultimately a careless conception. Holmes rejected Grace on hearing the news, but agreed to take the child. However, this final act of benevolence came too late to save Grace’s father, who, humiliated, had hanged himself. With no one willing to forgive Grace her sin of motherhood, Hooke had agreed to take her back.

  As she tended his wounds, the wine and the memories bored into him. Her proximity inflamed him. His breathing started to quicken and he dared not look in her eyes. She was looking at him, understanding written all over her face. His body pulsed, the pain displaced with desire. Wordlessly, she found the catches on his breeches and worked her hands into his clothing.

  Hooke surrendered.

  Afterwards, as if it had been a part of the medical treatment, she washed her hands and smeared witch-hazel on the purple bruise she had revealed on his left hip. Then she fastened up his clothes again, dressed his head wound and peeled off the damaged coat, inspecting the tears. ‘Easily fixed,’ she said.

  Hooke wobbled to his feet and dragged the chair closer to the fire. Grace fetched more wine. They sat in the flickering light, Hooke in the chair, Grace on the rug at his feet with her head resting on his thigh.

  ‘What were your father’s last words to you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t remember; they were words of insignificance, spoken before he knew I was carrying the baby. He never came to see me after my confinement began. No one did, apart from Mother and the maid.’

  He reached down and rested his hand on her shoulder, touching her as gently as he would a piece of glass apparatus. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘After your ordeal tonight, I think I should be saying that to you, Uncle.’

  9

  Danzig, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth

  Halley was more than ready for
a drink. He lifted the pewter tankard from the maid’s tray and raised it to his lips.

  ‘Ah . . . I was to say a toast,’ said an accented voice.

  Halley froze.

  Johannes Hevelius – Jan, as he had insisted on being called at the river port – smiled. His fleshy bottom lip was almost concealed by a full black moustache that spread to each cheek. ‘As my father said, nothing should stand between a gentleman and his beer.’ He gulped a great mouthful and smacked his lips. ‘I cannot express how delighted I am to have you here, Mr Halley.’

  ‘Edmond, please. It’s been a long journey, but it’s a pleasure for me to be here.’

  ‘I think they send you to convert me to telescopes.’ Jan’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘Your accuracy without them has been raising a few eyebrows back in London.’

  There was a rustle of clothing at the door. A motherly figure, wide and round as a tree trunk, swathed in layers of olive-green fabric secured by saffron-yellow ties, filled the doorway.

  Jan extended his free hand. ‘May I present my observing assistant, calculator and wife, Elisabeth.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Madame Hevelius,’ said Halley as she entered the room.

  She returned the greeting, her voice softer than Halley expected. He looked into her plump face. She had young, unwrinkled eyes and her chestnut hair showed little sign of grey. He glanced at Jan.

  ‘Yes, Edmond, she is much younger than me. By thirty-six years! And, to save you guessing, I’m now sixty-eight.’

  Halley opened his mouth to apologise, but Jan’s eyes were creased in mirth. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself. ‘I’m only old if you count the years since I was born,’ he laughed, raising his beer again.

  Halley did likewise, unable to refrain from contemplating his host now that ages had been mentioned. Only Jan’s steel-grey hair betrayed his age. He was tall, still comparatively lean, and appeared strong. His waxy skin had relaxed its grip on his flesh but his features remained well-defined. Halley found it difficult to believe that he was talking to a man older than his own father.

  ‘I know what I have that you will like,’ said Jan, hurrying from the room.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Halley, what are dresses like in England these days?’ asked Elisabeth.

  Halley shrugged. ‘Generally they contain less fabric–’

  He broke off, cursing himself for the double meaning. Thankfully, Elisabeth just laughed.

  She stepped closer. ‘You are to be greatly admired, Mr Halley. A man of your youth, yet already so distinguished by achievement.’

  Her praise did not ease Halley’s embarrassment.

  ‘How old are you now, Edmond?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  Elisabeth’s eyes were the deepest brown that Halley could remember seeing.

  ‘I was already married at that age.’

  ‘My father is doing his best.’

  ‘Jan took me to the altar when I was sixteen. By twenty-three I was helping him every night in the observatory, but I have not sailed to distant shores, nor completed a star chart. Tell me, what’s it like on foreign lands?’

  ‘On Saint Helena the light is so much brighter, the day so much hotter, the air more invigorating . . .’

  She watched him intently as he talked.

  ‘I remember one couple who arrived – a gentleman and his wife. He was fifty-five, she fifty-two. I know because I was bold enough to ask them after an incident that occurred shortly before I left the island. Shall I tell you? Well, they were to settle on the island to live out the ends of their lives in peace. The air had such a beneficial effect on them both that word was soon everywhere that . . . that . . .’ He felt himself colour. Why did I start this particular story? ‘She, em, because of the restorative qualities of the air, you understand . . . she found herself with child, where none had been possible in England.’

  Elisabeth eyed him with a cheeky grin.

  Halley hid behind his tankard and fell silent.

  Jan returned carrying a large vellum portfolio.

  ‘Not talking?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d jump all over him, Elisabeth – it’s a change for you to have young company.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he opened the book for inspection. The parchment was covered in neat calculations that Halley saw at once were astronomical in nature.

  ‘These are Kepler’s original manuscripts,’ explained Jan. ‘I purchased them. They are the only remaining memorial to him.’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘His grave is lost. Destroyed in war.’

  Halley turned the pages. In places there were large, frustrated crossings-out and glossy stains of spilt wax. On other pages the writing became progressively sloping and lazy. Where Kepler had been working into the night to finish, thought Halley. He continued to turn the pages, marvelling at the sheer tenacity of the work.

  When he lifted his head, his eyes looked straight into Elisabeth’s gaze. She was watching him from behind her husband’s back. As they locked eyes, she fluttered her eyelashes and looked away.

  Once the night had settled itself over the land, the three of them headed for the observing platform. As they stepped on to the rooftop construction, Halley could not help but think back to Hooke’s rickety perch. This one was as spacious as the other was cramped. It spanned three buildings.

  ‘Don’t your neighbours mind?’ asked Halley.

  Elisabeth suppressed a giggle.

  ‘Neighbours?’ boomed Jan. ‘I am the neighbours. I own all three houses.’

  The wooden planking creaked as they moved, audibly more under Elisabeth. The river that had borne Halley to Danzig was just visible between the buildings, rippling in the moonlight. Jan led them towards an enormous metal wedge that pointed straight up into the sky.

  ‘I’ve never seen a sextant of that size,’ said Halley.

  ‘It’s as Tycho Brahe would have used,’ said Jan. He eased off the clamps and began to manoeuvre the metal contraption. To his chagrin, it squeaked. ‘I curse the damp here. We fight to keep things working.’

  ‘You model yourself on Tycho Brahe?’ asked Halley.

  ‘Of course. I consider him the greatest naked-eye astronomer who ever lived.’ Jan turned to his wife. ‘Let us show our young friend here how we work.’

  They took their stations at different ends of the sextant and tipped the framework into position. Elisabeth bent to look through a small slot that guided her sight along the six-foot arm of the wedge to a similar slot at the other end. She turned a crank and the instrument moved a fraction.

  Halley moved closer and indicated the eyepiece. ‘May I?’ He bent to the sights and pressed his eye to the metal. The star seemed naked without the glass of a lens between it and his eye. ‘Is it always a two-man job?’

  ‘Two-man, Edmond? Have you mistaken me for a man?’ Elisabeth’s breath was hot on his cheek. She smelled of flowers.

  Halley looked round. ‘No, I meant nothing by it.’

  Jan’s throaty laugh split the night. ‘Stop teasing the boy, Elisabeth.’

  Masked by the darkness, Jan could not possibly have seen the look that she directed at Halley. Even the young astronomer looked twice before he believed it himself. Desire glowed in her eyes. He jerked away as if stung.

  Jan was oblivious, crouching beneath the sextant, peering along the moveable armature and adjusting it into position. His long coat pooled around him on the floor. ‘Good . . . good . . . yes. Here,’ he indicated his place at the instrument, ‘all is aligned.’

  Halley took his place; another anonymous star had been caught in the sights.

  ‘Now we can read off the angle between the two stars,’ Jan was saying, but Halley was finding it difficult to concentrate. He was completely distracted by Elisabeth’s presence. ‘We use mural quadrants now,’ he said, as much to control himself as to inform his host. ‘We mount them on walls built to face north–south. They have a single telescope on an armature, and we take the altitude of the sta
r as it crosses the meridian line. We can do the rest with computation.’

  ‘I read about your mural quadrants,’ said Jan. ‘One of Flamsteed’s letters said that Hooke’s design was dangerous. The armature so heavy it nearly had his student’s fingers off. I’d prefer to lose a few arcseconds in accuracy than my own digits.’ Hevelius waggled his fingers. ‘I’m too old to change. I observe the way Tycho did, and perhaps that does make me a dying breed, but I’m as accurate as any newcomer. You have brought your own sextant, have you not?’

  ‘I have,’ nodded Halley, remembering the sailors’ complaints as they had unloaded it that afternoon.

  ‘We will have the servants bring it up tomorrow. We will observe side by side and compare results. You will see that I am as accurate as I say. Then you will take that message back to Mr Hooke and the doubters at the Royal Society.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Jan, call me Jan.’

  ‘I will, Jan.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get some rest.’ He curled a paternal arm around Halley as they left the roof. ‘The good thing about being an old astronomer is I no longer need much sleep. But for five hours, nothing can wake me.’

  An hour later, Halley was testing the softness of his mattress when the door creaked. Elisabeth. His breath caught as she slipped into the room and placed a soft finger over the question that had sprung to his lips.

  Her eyes were big and round.

  Halley’s heart pounded.

  She delicately removed her finger.

  When he said nothing, she closed the door and turned to face him.

  10

  London

  With a shudder of revulsion, Newton stepped over the litter and excrement that lined the street. He glanced down the dark alley. Yes, he was sure this was the one. He had committed the journey to memory in the dingy tavern room before dropping the map he had been sent on to the fire.