Peter followed him into the back room, where a large, wooden printer sat in the middle of the floor.
A young man had rolled up his shirtsleeves and wore an apron over his breeches.
“Ole, open the window,” the master printer said. “It certainly is warm in here today.”
He waved at Peter. “Come closer. This is an older press we brought up from Germany. You can see it’s well used, but it still functions perfectly.”
Peter looked around the room. “I’m surprised by how many apprentices you have.”
“We have a full schedule, and I need a man at every post in here.”
He showed Peter two slanted boards situated on a chest of drawers. “Here, we prepare the printing blocks.” He opened and closed several of the narrow drawers. “In these drawers, we keep the small metal letters. See all the letters in here—A, B, and so forth?
“My compositor places these letters upside-down on this stick.” The master printer held up a narrow, wooden board. “He arranges words and sentences and adds punctuation marks, just like it will be on paper later. The different tong-looking instruments there are to transfer the sentences onto the frames.”
He took a couple of steps to the next workstation, where a man arranged the sentences inside a large form.
“See here, wooden side sticks secure the sides of the block, and dividers like this make margins on the sides.”
Peter nodded. “You seem to be in demand. Your men are hard at work.”
“They are. And we have received documents and texts enough to keep us occupied for weeks to come. Our customers usually keep the original and give us a written copy.”
Peter hoped for a chance to be alone and poke his nose into drawers and cabinets. If Angus Hill had his manuscript here, Peter had to find it.
“Come,” the master printer beckoned. “Let me show you our printing press.”
The wooden construction was as tall as a man, and several apprentices were working it. The finished frame was placed on a table extension, and then another apprentice, an ink ball in each hand, dabbed ink onto the type.
“Are the ink balls made of skin?” Peter asked.
“Sheepskin. These are stuffed with wool, and I have another pair stuffed with horsehair. They work just as well. The wooden stick-handle makes an ink ball a simple and effective tool.”
Peter watched with great interest. The ink was applied thoroughly, enough to make a proper print but not too wet. He stepped aside as another man placed a large, slightly damp piece of paper onto the inked type frame. A pressman pulled a lever, lowering an iron plate onto the paper and type to make the impression.
Peter tilted his head. “The thing resembles a wine press.”
The master printer laughed heartily and patted his belly. “I have heard that’s where Gutenberg found his inspiration. Fortunately, wine presses are still in use.”
Peter smiled back. “Gutenberg. The German goldsmith? That was a long time ago.”
“And because of his invention, I have a profitable establishment here.”
A bell rang in the front room. “Ah, excuse me. I need to attend other customers. Have a look around if you wish.”
Peter had enjoyed the introduction to printmaking but was eager to get on with his reason for being there. The master printer being called back to the front of the shop was the opportunity Peter had waited for.
He took in every detail in the room. Several long, wooden poles stretched out like laundry lines to dry the large sheets of printed paper. Another table held a pair of scissors, a measuring tool, and had plenty of space for cutting the dried papers into book-size sheets on one end, and sheets of fresh paper of different thickness were stacked at the other.
He counted eight men working. They were young, barely twenty. A bushy dog lay sleeping in front of a wood-burning stove next to a table holding papers, books, and pamphlets. A couple of younger men stitched and trimmed the folded papers into books. Handwritten papers were spread in neat piles, and a couple of tall candlesticks stood on the edge of the table.
Suddenly, Peter’s jaw dropped. Angus Hill’s original manuscript lay right in front of his eyes. The script was scribbled down in uneven handwriting. Mistakes with lines through and ink blotches covered the pages. Yes, this had to be the original text.
Peter closed his gaping mouth and looked around. The apprentices were all engrossed in their work. They had seen their master bring Peter in. No one seemed to worry about him wandering about the shop. The only handwritten copy of the witch-finder’s manual and a stack of newly
printed booklets were spread out on the table and within Peter’s grasp.
Next to a door in the back of the shop, a window stood ajar. It was sizable enough to let in a good amount of working light. Peter could easily climb through that window. He walked casually across the room. There was a key on the window shelf, and in the shelf’s dusty corner lay another key with the same pattern. Peter grabbed the spare key, exited into the back alley, and turned the key back and forth in the lock from the outside. It was a match. He would return after dark, complete his mission, leave the key, and climb back out of the window. Hopefully, the master printer would think one of his apprentices had forgotten to close it properly.
Outside, in the alley next to the side wall of the shop, his horse waited patiently. All Peter had to do was wait until after hours and then he could return to the empty establishment. He untied his mount, climbed into the saddle, and rode off, losing himself in the crowded streets of Fredrikstad.
CHAPTER 8
✽✽✽
CLARA TRIED ON four different gowns before deciding what to wear to the dinner at Ivershall. Many women only had two outfits. Some changed their apron and underclothing but once a week. Cloth was costly and an extravagance only the privileged could afford. Clara had brought a trunk with clothes for the various seasons, not knowing how long she would stay in the village. A few of her gowns were suitable for an elegant gathering, so she had several choices but was having difficulty making up her mind.
She eventually decided on a pale-yellow gown with puffed sleeves edged with venetian lace at the elbows. Around her neck, she wore her mother’s pearls. Siren helped pin Clara’s hair up and arranged ringlets tied with narrow ribbons that flowed softly down Clara’s back.
Clara kept twisting her hands in her lap. “I don’t think I have ever been this nervous about going to a dinner party before. I woke up two hours earlier than normal this morning.”
“But why? You’ll be with friends, won’t you?”
“Yes, and they are lovely people. I am excited to meet the author Dorthea has invited and wonder what knowledge he will share.” Dorthea had not said much about Ady. Who was he? But then there was…
Siren put her hands out and interrupted Clara’s thoughts. “Then what’s going on?” She gave Clara a playful nudge and grinned. “It’s a man, isn’t it? I have seen Christian of Ivershall. He is fine looking.”
Clara fiddled with her skirt. She stared out the window to avoid Siren’s gaze. Why did that girl have to ask so many questions? “I have met him a few times. He is very nice.”
Siren giggled. “Nice? Come now, Clara. According to your reaction here, you think he’s more than nice.”
A flush crept across Clara’s cheeks. How embarrassing it was to reveal her thoughts and feelings. She was certainly not used to speaking about such things. She fanned herself with her hand. “Have you finished?”
“Yes, you are ready to go. Stand up so I can look at you.”
Clara stood and twirled around.
“You look lovely,” Siren said. “Go and enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you.”
As Clara walked out the door Siren followed.
Standing in the doorway, she called out, “And don’t worry so much, Clara.”
Clara waved and walked out to the gate where David waited with a horse and carriage.
“Good evening, Miss Dahl,” He took her hand a
nd assisted her up into the seat.
The view along the road to Ivershall seemed new this evening. Fields of golden grain were an uplifting sight. Meager growing conditions and poverty in much of the country had created a need for Norway to import grains. Denmark had that monopoly. It made her happy to see ripening fields of oat grown in her own land. Their florets resembled bells, swaying on thin stems in the summer breeze.
Who was Thomas Ady? She had asked Peter, but he had little knowledge about the man. No doubt, there would be an interesting discussion around the table at Ivershall.
As she stepped out of the carriage in front of the large house, she realized she had not thought about the witch hunt all afternoon. A flurry of joyful thoughts had filled her head, especially the thought of seeing Christian again, which overshadowed the excitement of meeting the English author. She straightened her gown and pinched her cheeks then walked to the front entrance.
Marna opened the door. “Hello, Clara. Come in. Dorthea, Christian, and the other guests are in the parlor.”
“Am I late?”
“Not at all. Mr. Ady came a little earlier, as he wanted Christian to show him around the grounds and woods…on horseback.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I am sure that was nice. The weather has been most pleasant today.”
A servant came by, carrying a tray with silver goblets. “Would you care for some elderberry wine?”
“Yes, please.” Clara helped herself to one and walked toward the parlor.
Dorthea stood in the doorway and resembled a queen in her deep-blue gown and matching feathers in her hair. “Ah, there you are, my dear. My, you look lovely.” She motioned for Clara to follow her into the room. “Since you speak English, you will not have a problem conversing with Mr. Ady and his friend and associate, Mr. Norton.”
Crossing the threshold to the parlor, Clara saw a lively man who looked to be in his sixties standing over by the window. Was that him? She had read dozens of books but had never met any authors. She had tried to envisage Ady. Would he be strict and serious or talk incessantly about philosophy and the end of the world? If so, he was nothing like she had imagined. She sipped her drink and observed from a distance. The gentleman wore his white hair chin length and made gestures and grimaces to the enjoyment of Christian and another man. Clara could not help herself and chuckled as she watched them.
Dorthea leaned in to Clara. “He is showing them his new cravat. Thomas likes to follow fashionable trends, and from what he told me, the adornment around his neck is the latest style in England. He laughed when he showed me it was just a piece of cloth tied in a bow knot.”
Christian turned, and his gaze met Clara’s. He smiled at her, set his glass on a nearby table, and strode across the room to her. “Good evening, Clara.” He bowed. “Welcome. I hope you are well.”
Clara curtsied and smiled back. His courteous elegance was appropriate for the setting. Clara thought of how they had sat on her front steps the day before and had talked about what mattered. She was glad he was a man who listened.
Dorthea waved at the lively man by the window. “Thomas, come over here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
As he approached, Clara noted he had a dimple in his chin and droopy eyes that reminded her of a small hound.
Ady swung his arm in a circular motion, bent forward, and kissed her hand. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dahl.” He pulled his shoulders up and grinned. “Dorthea has told me about you already. I expect we will hear from you tonight?”
Clara lifted her eyebrows. What had Dorthea told the man?
“You will sing for us?”
“Oh, no, sir. I do not sing. Only to myself and the children I teach.”
His roaring laughter filled the room.
Dorthea nudged Clara’s shoulder. “Oh, Clara. He is only teasing you. You will get used to it.” She clapped her hands. “We are all here. Let us go into the dining room.”
Ady paused in front of a painted portrait of Konrad Ivershall. “Konrad, my good friend. As students, we were inseparable… I miss him.”
“Did you know his name means brave advisor?” Dorthea lifted her glass and slowly sipped the wine.
“No, I did not. It suits him well. He was just that. He counselled and guided me on numerous occasions. I was young and somewhat uncompromising. Konrad was steadfast and courageous.”
The long pine table was laid with earth-tone stoneware. Two tall candelabras gave ample lighting to trays and plates filled with pheasant, grouse, and hare. In the middle of the table was a pot of soup. Loaves of bread had been lined up on a board, along with pieces of flatbread.
“What a rustic, homey feel, Dorthea. This looks delicious.” Ady rubbed his hands together.
A maid came around and poured ale into his pewter cup.
“Very Nordic,” he added. “It is as if we are sitting in the woods having a grand meal.”
“But we are, Thomas. This place—our home—is in God’s nature. And we are blessed to have enough to eat every day.”
Clara agreed with the author. The Nordic look was clean and warm. She had seen many styles of decorating during her travels. The meal and the elegant table setting brought back memories from her childhood and how her mother had taught Clara and her brother proper table manners and behavior.
“Do you miss the city, Dorthea?” Ady asked.
She shook her head. “Life in the country suits me perfectly. I arrived here as a young bride, and here I will stay.”
Christian sat at the head of the long table, Dorthea on the other end. Clara was shown a seat on the side opposite the two English guests.
After grace, Christian broke a piece of bread and dipped it into his soup. “Tell us, Thomas, what news can you give us from England?”
Ady waved his finger. “One must be careful when speaking bluntly about politics in England. Many have been charged with treason for expressing views not agreeable with our royalty or leadership. I trust I can speak freely here among friends and not weigh my every word?”
“Of course,” said Christian.
“England has experienced civil wars and battles with neighboring countries. Our long line of monarchs was interrupted when someone with political and military expertise and power changed our land.”
“Oliver Cromwell?”
“First, Cromwell led through Parliament for years, then he became Lord Protector and dictator.”
“He died about three years ago?” Christian held out the board with the bread for Ady to take another piece.
Ady nodded.
How interesting it was to listen to the discussion. Clara had always learned much from paying attention to stimulating conversations. She and Peter had spoken a little about the state of affairs in England, but she did not know the details. Now she wanted to lean forward, put her elbows on the table, and rest her chin on her hands. But she maintained a proper posture and sucked up every bit of information shared around the table.
“A difficult time, I am sure,” Christian continued. “Our country has experienced similar wars and struggles. England has had, what, two civil wars and the war with Ireland under Cromwell?”
“Right you are. Cromwell was a military talent…smart and practical. But it was not a joyous period in our nation’s history. The man was a strict Puritan and kept an iron grip on the people. He banned our holidays, closed many of our inns and theaters, and cut out most athletic games. The English were not free to dress as they pleased, and Sunday activities were strictly observed.”
Clara leaned forward. “Sunday activities are observed here, also.”
Ady turned to look at her. “How, may I ask? Are your Sunday activities statutory, as well?”
“Not so much by law, but rather by traditions and customs. There are those who notice if you go to church or not, and I am not referring to people who are concerned with a person’s welfare. Some continually look for faults and flaws in other people’s lives. What you choose to do or not to do o
n the Sabbath can easily cause gossip and misconceptions.”
Clara sat back a little. The topic of persecution and witch hunting was sure to come up during the conversation. Even though Dorthea had been secretive about why Clara should meet the author, she must have had that in mind.
Ady rubbed his chin. “You are right. Even the Lord himself was chastised for doing good on the Sabbath.” He folded his hands and rested them on the table. “Men in power will stop at nothing to punish others, regardless of what their own lives are like. But it’s often the little folks like you and me who give them the information they need to make such decisions. And there’s gossip for you.” He took a few spoonsful of soup and wiped his chin with a napkin.
Clara cleared her throat. “Do you know what your current king, Charles II, believes about witch hunts?”
Ady raised his eyebrows. “Ah, that’s a question worthy of note. I have heard he is milder than his father, a man who even wrote a book on witchcraft. Charles II seems to understand that older women who ramble on and do funny things are not necessarily witches.”
“That is good to hear,” Dorthea said, “which leads us to something I would like us to discuss. Please tell us about the books you have published, Thomas.”
Glancing up from his food, Ady put down his spoon. “Certainly. I wrote my first book five years ago and only recently finished a second one. I originally wrote A Candle in the Dark because of the confusion—and in my eyes, error of judgment—concerning the nature of witches and witchcraft. My goal was to enlighten sheriffs and judges. The problem is that many ascribe power to witches. I aim to show how the foolish imaginations of men cause them to wrongfully accuse people of witchcraft.”
Clara kept her gaze on Ady. “There is a witch-finder here in the village, an Englishman.”
“An Englishman? What’s his name?”
“Angus Hill.”
Ady smacked his lips as if he was tasting the name. “No, can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“How about Matthew Hopkins? Hill claims he was tutored by Hopkins.”
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