by M. J. Trow
‘I am packing up my bed, mistress. I must move my things up to the attic.’
‘Why must you move your bed?’ Ursula Hynde was confused. ‘What will happen if I need you in the night?’
The maid blushed. Surely, after all the rushing about, the stupid woman had not forgotten she was to be married today? She looked at her feet, stuck for an answer and yet her mistress seemed to be waiting for one. ‘Tonight . . . well, you will be married, mistress.’
‘Yes.’ The woman looked down her not-inconsiderable nose at the maid. ‘I know that. What I wanted to know was . . . ah, I see.’ She drew herself up and spent a moment tidying her bedclothes to hide her confusion. Memories of her previous nuptials spread over her face in a crimson tide. Then her head snapped up. ‘Get on with it then, girl. We don’t have all day.’
The maid let out the breath she had been holding for what felt like years. ‘I have done now, mistress. I thought you might like to break your fast in bed this morning.’ She tried a small smile. ‘As a treat. On your big day.’
Ursula Hynde allowed herself to smile back. The girl was right. It was a big day. She inclined her head. ‘That would be nice, Dorcas. Thank you. That was a kind thought.’ Then, to make sure the girl didn’t think that her mistress was going soft: ‘Run along, then. And make sure on the way that the bride’s maids and men are up and ready. Tell them to eat a good breakfast; they won’t be getting anything else once they have their wedding clothes on, I can assure them of that.’
Anne turned on her heel and trotted out of the room. In her opinion, the clothes they would all be wearing wouldn’t show if anything dripped down them, so encrusted were they already with everything the dressmaker could inveigle to stick there. Her tastes were simpler and when it was her turn to marry – and she had her eye on a very handy looking lad who worked in the stables – she wouldn’t be got up like a dog’s dinner. Just her best clothes, some friends in their best clothes, the man she loved and a few flower petals would do her fine. And she knew she would be happier than all the bishops and their wives in all their palaces. She smiled to herself and skipped off to hammer on bedroom doors and annoy the cook with requests for breakfast in bed.
Benjamin Steane had, as his beloved was starting to surface, been up for hours. His final Evensong at King’s had left him feeling rather rootless and so, from habit, he had attended Matins and had watched the dawn light fill the windows of the Chapel as the service unwound itself in its time-honoured fashion. Standing in the chancel instead of in the choir had seemed odd at first, but he had derived comfort from the words echoing through the carvings and corners of the building which had been his home, almost literally, for years. As he left through the west door, he was stopped by more people than he knew he knew. By the time he had reached the foot of his staircase, he had been reminded, if he could ever have forgotten, that this was a Big Day.
Francis Hynde was happily eating breakfast at the head of the enormous refectory table in the Hall at Madingley. He gazed benignly down the length of the enormous board and was happy to see that Ursula was not present. She made him feel uncomfortable for many reasons, first and foremost because she had an expression permanently on her face which said clearly, if my husband had not died, I would be mistress here and then we’d see what’s what! Well, soon she would be a mistress of a house far, far away and then he would probably never see her again. Francis Hynde heaved a happy sigh and took a huge bite of bread, smiling as he chewed.
‘Francis looks happy,’ Manwood remarked to Dee, further down the table.
‘He has every reason to,’ Dee said. ‘With the wedding today, he can see the day when he is Ursula-free. He doesn’t need a showstone for that. Perhaps he will cut back on the drink when he waves the happy couple off to their palace.’
‘Palace?’ Manwood looked dubious. ‘Surely . . .’
‘Don’t forget, Stead, or whatever the man’s name is, is to be a bishop. I doubt Ursula would have married him otherwise.’
‘Any idea where of?’ Manwood asked anxiously. ‘Not Canterbury, surely? We’re not talking about an Archbishopric by default? I’ve heard of such things. And Whitgift’s an idiot.’ The idea of the dragon who had been making his life a misery for the last week as a neighbour made his blood run cold.
‘Bath? Somewhere with a B anyway.’ Dee had done a divination the night before and, throw it how he may, the apple peel had always made the shape of a B. Or an R. As he always told people, it was as well to keep an open mind in these matters.
‘Not Bromley?’ Manwood had dropped his spoon.
‘Is there a Bishop of Bromley?’ Dee asked. There had been changes over the years, he knew that, but surely . . .
Manwood picked up his spoon again and shrugged, smiling. ‘No, no of course not. I just . . .’
Dee patted his shoulder comfortingly. Manwood had had a particularly unpleasant time with Ursula Hynde, who had thought that he was a touch too tall and possibly an ell too wide to fit in with the wedding party. She wanted him to sit at the back. ‘Don’t fret, Roger. They’ll be gone soon and it will all be back to normal. We can see Master Marlowe tonight and see if he has any more news for us. He won’t let this matter rest until he has brought the murderer to book, you know that.’
Manwood smiled into his oatmeal. ‘You’re right there. He was always tenacious, even as a boy. I well remember . . .’
Dee saw the light of reminiscence kindle in the man’s eye and changed the subject by causing the bread in the centre of the table to burst into flames.
‘God’s teeth, Dee,’ Manwood said, as a manservant doused the loaf with a pitcher of water. ‘Do you have to do these things?’
Dee flicked his fingers and gave the resulting rose to one of the bride’s maids sitting on his right. ‘A rose for a rose, my dear,’ he said to the startled girl. ‘Got to keep limber, Roger,’ he whispered to Manwood. ‘If I don’t behave like a conjuror, they may see through me.’
Manwood looked confused. ‘What does that mean? You are a conjuror. Pure and simple, I know that.’
Dee looked down modestly. As long as even his friends thought him a simple conjuror, he was safe from the flames.
Across in the church of St Mary Magdelene, Doctors Falconer and Thirling were spying out the lie of the land.
‘It’s no good, Richard,’ Falconer said, lounging at the end of one of the choir benches. ‘It just isn’t possible for the choir to process in. Look how small that chancel is; they’ll have to elbow everyone aside just to get to their seats. Let’s have them already in place when the congregation start to arrive.’
Thirling started to rock back and forth, testing his leg, a sure sign he was feeling fretted. ‘No, no,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘The boys, the boys won’t behave. I know boys . . . they will secrete mice and frogs about their persons. They’ll push and shove. They’ll . . .’
Falconer got up and walked over to his friend and colleague. He really didn’t feel quite up to snuff himself this morning and the last thing he needed was for the choirmaster to work himself into a frenzy. The sheer act of leaving college after the riot had unnerved them both and they had made sure their carriage doors had been secured fast. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pushing on the man’s shoulder as he did so. ‘It’s true that boys will be boys, but really, Richard, I doubt that they can do much in the scope of the service here. And, with this rood screen in place, who’s going to see them, anyway?’
‘I will,’ mumbled Thirling.
‘And so will I,’ Falconer said, gesturing to the tiny organ, its loft at ground level. ‘We’ll tell them in advance that any misbehaviour, any at all, will result in instant dismissal from the choir. None of them want to be sent home with their tail between their legs. Hmm?’
Thirling shrugged, with just one shoulder.
Falconer leaned in. ‘Pardon? I didn’t quite hear you.’
‘Yes,’ Thirling said, giving himself a shake. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. But . . . where
shall I stand? I can’t stand here.’ He took up his usual position at the top of the chancel steps. ‘The priest won’t be able to get to the altar without squeezing past and you know how my leg . . .’ He didn’t have to finish. When he was carried away with his music, the slightest touch could have him toppled into the font.
‘Simple!’ cried Falconer. ‘Stand facing this way.’ He turned and faced down the church from the altar rail. ‘Then, you can just step out for the music and then tuck yourself back afterwards, out of the way. You’ll have somewhere to sit, as well,’ he added, as a final temptation.
‘It isn’t really done, though, is it?’ Thirling said, dubiously.
Falconer spread his arms wide. ‘Richard,’ he said, ‘the people here will never have seen such pomp, will never have heard such music. If the choirmaster is standing facing the wrong way, what of it? They’ll never know. And also, you will be able to tell me when the bride is approaching, so I can begin my voluntary.’ Personally, Falconer thought he would probably feel the ground shake as she approached, but it didn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes helping out.
Thirling took up his putative position and practised stepping in and out. It seemed to work and he turned to thank his friend, who he saw to his horror, was doubled over on the bench, with his head between his knees. ‘Ambrose!’ he cried. ‘Whatever is it?’
Falconer flapped him away with one hand. ‘A spot of my old trouble,’ he muttered, his voice muffled by cloth. ‘I’ll be quite all right in a minute. Why don’t you go outside and see if the choir is in sight yet?’
‘But, Ambrose . . .’
‘Please. I’ll be perfectly well in a minute. I just need some quiet.’
Thirling limped off down the church and Falconer gave a groan. What a day to have this happen. With luck he would get through the service. With a lot of luck he would get through the day. He wasn’t sure whether crossing of fingers was allowed in church, but he did it anyway.
As the cart carrying the choir lurched towards Madingley, Marlowe amused himself by trying to identify the treble who would be sick first. His internal competition became null and void when two of the boys leaned over the side and parted with their breakfasts simultaneously. Marlowe comforted himself with the knowledge that at least this time he had not had money on it.
The cart was pulled by two elderly horses, who seemed unable to get into step with each other. Marlowe, despite being a Man of Kent had not spent much time at sea and fervently hoped he never would have to – the motion of the cart was beginning to make him feel queasy and that was without looking at the boys’ green faces. It was not a moment too soon that the church of St Mary came into view. Richard Thirling was standing at the lychgate, his hand raised theatrically to shield his eyes from the sun, already bright on this perfect wedding day.
‘Master Marlowe,’ he said, stepping forward as the carter pulled his horses in. ‘Umm . . .’ he nodded to Colwell and Parker. Parker was sporting a glorious black eye. He had more things on his mind than remembering names today. He didn’t even care whether the bruise would show; in other circumstance he would have moved Parker from decani to cantoris, to hide the blemish, but sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and what was a black eye between friends? The two boys who had been sick and the ones who almost had stood wanly in a row, leaning against the rough stones of the low wall skirting the churchyard. ‘Good journey?’ A couple of dozen eyes swivelled in his direction, but that was all the answer he would have. ‘Good.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Very good. This church, as you see, is rather smaller than we are used to, so I think we should go inside and let you get your bearings.’
‘Are there benches?’ the tiniest chorister asked.
Thirling bent down in an avuncular fashion and patted the child on the head. ‘Yes, yes, there are benches.’
‘Are they hard?’ The cart had not been over-endowed with cushions and everyone had taken rather a bouncing.
Thirling was in a cleft stick – he knew that the seats were hard, and it was not in his nature to dissemble. But he also knew his schoolboys. ‘Softish,’ he said. ‘As these things go.’
Muttering and grumbling the remnants of King’s College choir shambled in to the church. From the lychgate, they could be heard greeting the organist and complaining about the hardness of the seats. Then, they went quiet. Thirling took a deep breath and stepped forward to go in. Before he could reach the door he stopped, hackles rising, as three voices rose in song. He instantly recognized Libera me Domine, set by Byrd. It was beautiful. It was in tune. It was taken from the Office for the Dead.
Ursula Hynde sat on her bed, looking out of the window. Smoke billowed fitfully from the direction of Cambridge. People were wandering about, looking aimless and in the case of her brother-in-law, rather the worse for drink. One of the bride’s maids appeared to be eyeing up the shrubbery with the connivance of one of the bride’s men. But Ursula Hynde didn’t even see the flies in her ointment. She was getting married today and was suddenly scared out of her wits. She had spent so little time with her husband-to-be and none alone with him. She wasn’t even sure she could pick him out of a crowd. She hardly knew him, let alone love him. Her other marriage had been long ago and far away and when she remembered her brief married days, she seemed to be standing off to one side, watching it happen to two strangers.
She leapt to her feet as the knock came at the door. She spun round, to see her bride’s maids standing there, garlands of flowers in their hands. She stood rooted to the spot as they wound them around her neck and pinned one in her hair. She walked as one condemned down the landing and the magnificent staircase, as the girls prattled and sang. She was outside, crossing the park, she was nearing the church. She hung back, but the maids were relentless. Slowly but surely, Ursula Hynde approached her doom.
Benjamin Steane arrived at the church with only a few minutes to spare. The play and the riot which not so much followed it but took its place had made Cambridge a very difficult place to leave. He had no groom’s man to accompany him; he was moving into a new life and could take no one from the old with him. Friends and colleagues were at the church of course, having come by carriage, cart, foot and horse. They were all seated when he arrived, and he had just a moment to tweak his unaccustomed finery into place. Adopting his new stately walk, he stepped down into the church porch and paused. A young girl of the estate plucked his sleeve and he turned to her for a moment while she pinned a sprig of honeysuckle to the shoulder of his gown. He blessed her solemnly and swept on to take his place at the front of the church at the foot of the chancel steps to await his bride.
Without making it too obvious, he looked around to see who was there. Goad, of course, seated to one side. Johns, such a nice man; when he had settled into the palace, Steane half thought he might offer him a post. Norgate, various scholars and people he had met but could hardly remember. Ah, Roger Manwood, he knew him. And a strange, grey clad man by his side with singed whiskers on one side of his face who was probably an alchemist of some sort. Winterton, sporting a sling and the look of a man who had no right to have survived the previous two days.
He raised his head to look at the altar. There was the priest of St Mary’s looking imbecilically welcoming. Richard Thirling, facing down the nave, rubbing his eyes. A small choir, tucked round the edges of the Rood screen. A small frisson passed through him. Where was the organist? In fact, where was the organ?
But he needn’t have worried. Thirling looked to his right and gave a small nod and music filled the church. There was a shifting of the air behind him and Benjamin Steane turned to find his bride beside him, covered in flowers and as white as a ghost, leaning on, or being leaned on by, Francis Hynde.
‘Dearly beloved,’ began the priest, and the marriage service had begun.
The rest of the day went by at breakneck speed for Ursula Steane. Taken back to her room by her bride’s maids to change her clothes for something rather less crackly and more comfortable
, although still glorious in crimson velvet, she sat down in the window seat whilst they brushed their hair and primped and preened for the dancing ahead. She had never felt her age as much as while she sat there, cooling her forehead against the glass, watching with unseeing eyes her guests walking the grounds of Madingley. She saw her husband, walking in the knot garden talking with Roger Manwood and John Dee. A little of her old self rose enough to the surface to remind her that she would not be welcoming either of them to the Bishop’s Palace when she became its chatelaine.
She raised her hand to tap on the glass and felt a roughness on the pane. She looked closer to see what it could be and saw that it was a message scratched into the glass, long ago with a diamond ring. It was a message from her young self, or so it seemed; ‘Ursul Black Sep 1555’ it said, in shaky letters. ‘I pmise to be a good wife’. She remembered the tears she had shed as she painstakingly scratched the message, so many years ago. But she took the message to heart, gave herself a shake and turned to her ladies.
‘Where’s my dress?’ she barked. ‘Come along, I have guests to greet.’
Anne, the maidservant, bent her head and whispered to whoever was listening. ‘She’s back! I knew it wouldn’t last long.’ Then, louder: ‘It’s here, mistress. Will you step into the frame and we’ll have you downstairs in the shake of a lamb’s tail.’
After some lacing and squeezing and upholstering, Ursula Steane was ready and, like a galleon in full sail, she went out to meet her husband.
He was still in the knot garden, standing in the centre by the sundial, but was now talking to some much more congenial people. His wife didn’t know who they were, but she was pretty certain that they were more congenial, as they were not Roger Manwood or John Dee. Her skirts brushed the lavender bushes that lined the paths of crushed shell in the garden and the sun beat down. Steane either heard or smelt her arrival and turned to her.
‘Dearest,’ he said, extending an arm and drawing her into the group. ‘May I introduce Dr Goad, Provost of King’s College, who I believe you may already know.’