They met again, this time with another, Streuvel of Münster. Brought in by Farnese, he was a quiet, respectful man who’d shown an interest in what he’d been doing.
With all feeling confident to talk, the ideas came. It was exhilarating.
A chest was to be kept, not merely for those fallen on hard times but so that if a new idea came from a member there would be funds available to try it for the benefit of all. Communications and meetings would be between all chapters of the guild such that successful discoveries and inventions could be passed on. And flowing from that, a system of the sharing of profit if one member assisted another to fulfil a big order.
It was taking shape, and they met again the next night.
This time it was the guild itself – to be a clandestine fellowship of the mysteries of fire and iron, with all proper oaths and ceremonies, feast days and signs.
And to be known provisionally as ‘The Guild of Master Gunners’ with a prime warden wearing a chain of office at a central lodge in a city, to be elected.
On the third night the main point of discussion was whether a list of names and terms be drawn up to bring into line everybody’s notion of what their fire-breathing devices were to be known as, the parts thereof and what to call their operators.
The quiet Streuvel held up his hand to be heard. ‘It is a fine thing, it must be declared,’ he said in his broken Italian. ‘But I ask, where is the money at the back of this? A guild asks a hall at least, I’m thinking.’
Jared was vaguely aware that if this was to be a main regulating and organising centre it would need to have clerks and officers to run it and no doubt there would be other expenses. Until there was some sort of revenue flowing they simply could not have it. But without it they couldn’t make the guild work.
It was a reality that he had to deal with and his spirits fell. It was not enough to have these soaring dreams – a good sound practical head better than his was needed to bring it all down to earth and devise ways and means to make it work.
He flinched at the thought of approaching Rosamunde. She had lost an unimaginable sum by trusting him and he couldn’t go back to her with another foolhardy scheme.
A rush of warmth came as he remembered her standing cool and poised as he left, wishing him well of his venture. Did she mean anything more when she gave him the ring? No, of course not. She was a great lady. Jared dismissed the notion – but the warmth remained.
What wouldn’t he give to have her here, next to him, now … She would know what to do. He felt the wish sharpen to a need – a strong desire to see her, to have her by his side, hand in hand as they faced things together and … and …
He coldly buried the thought. This was no time for fantasy. He was now next to penniless and needed to make something of his life. He was over forty now, and his blacksmith’s strength would not last indefinitely.
Therefore he had to make the guild happen.
And like a betraying temptress his mind led him directly back to Rosamunde. She was the only hope of raising an investment, and he trusted her in whatever arrangement or conditions she might demand – if in fact she still believed in him. There was no other course left than to put his fate in her hands.