by J. D. Davies
'Tall lad, that Matthew, but a shame his hair's going—'
'God knows how he'll get it up—'
'You mean this isn't the Kendrick wedding?'
I should have been looking cheerily from side to side, giving a smile here and a wave there, a step or two behind my brother as our ranks dictated. Even men walking to the gallows have been known to manage such levity, but I could not. Nor, if truth be told, could the earl. Charles was ever uneasy when he was the centre of attention, and he strode forward as purposefully as his ancient wounds would permit, his eyes seemingly fixed on the high altar far ahead of us. At least I managed to glance to the sides and upwards, to take in some of the sights of the building; it was as good a way as any of avoiding the eyes of any of those who stared upon me.
We passed the once-glorious Beauchamp tomb to our right, sadly shattered by those who called themselves 'the godly'; this man, Sir John de Beauchamp, had been Admiral of England in King Edward the Third's time, and I gave him a little nod of salute, as one king's sailor to another. A little further away was the simple memorial to Sir Philip Sidney, the famous poet-hero of Queen Elizabeth's time. My grandfather, who had no time for poets, knew and detested Sidney, and contended that a poet slaughtered in leading a pointless cavalry charge on behalf of the iniquitous Dutch had no right to national veneration; poor grandfather, whose own poet son died a very similar death and was accorded very similar veneration as a result. Ahead and to the left, at the entrance to the north aisle of the quire, stood the tomb of King Ethelred, named Unready in our history. I recalled something of the memorial that had so fascinated me in childhood and shuddered, for it spoke of a conspiracy against that king's elder brother by his 'infamous mother', whose sin would only be expiated by a dreadful punishment. Does history truly repeat itself? I wondered, as I continued my way down the nave.
So we came to the crossing, and my heart lifted not a little at the sight of the unusually long and beautiful transepts, sweeping away to either side. As we climbed twelve steps and passed through the fine carved stone doorway into the quire, I could see my close family waiting before the altar, clustered around my infamous mother like the Praetorian guard around some ancient Caesar. Rosemary, myrtle, holly berries and the like were fastened to every conceivable place, their smell finally driving out the lingering odour of horse-dung. Light streamed through the vast rose window in the east end, above the heavily defaced altar screen. Alas, the light only made it easier to see where the original stained glass had been smashed or—higher up—shot out by the musket-balls of brutal iconoclasts. All in all, it was probably an appropriate setting for the event that was about to take place: for like the building itself, this marriage would be at once glorious and desperate.
We came before the high altar, bowed, and turned to acknowledge our family. Mother, bedecked in much of the unpawned Quinton jewellery and clad in a quite astonishing scarlet jacket that might have been fashionable for half a season forty years before, was serene. Cornelia was radiant in a splendid new dress of black silk taffeta with pearl earrings, all bought specially for the occasion, and torn between her pride in being able to show herself off and her anguish over what was about to take place. Despite myself, I smiled and felt proud, for she was a sight to gladden any husband. Elizabeth pointedly wore the old yellow gown that she had worn to our wedding in Veere, and unlike the other women, she had made little effort with her hair, which resembled the nest of a discontented crow. By contrast, Sir Venner had evidently purchased a formidably expensive new green frock-coat in the French style and was the only man present wearing that highest of the season's fashions, a periwig. Tristram, who had reluctantly forsaken his magisterial gown, glowered and avoided my mother's gaze. Those of our distant cousins who had been invited, and who had been solvent or sane enough to travel to London from France, Berkshire and other such grim fastnesses, grinned inanely at Charles and myself, for they, poor innocents, had no reason to believe that this marriage would be anything other than an occasion for rejoicing and unspeakable drunkenness, as has been the case at all weddings since Christ provided the libation at Cana.
We stood, and waited. At last the trumpeters sounded a fanfare and the choir struck up a great hymn of old Tallis. I turned, and saw the Lady Louise emerge through the stone doorway into the nave, accompanied by a great wave of murmuring and clucking from the congregation beyond. For she was magnificent: clad in a gown of shimmering silver moyre, cut as low as an Anglican wedding permitted, and a delicate headdress with biliments of gold, her hair billowing out behind in the traditional symbol of chastity. Before her, she carried a bouquet of snowdrops, as demurely as the most innocent of country maids; how she obtained those blooms so late in the year was a mystery known to herself and, no doubt, the royal gardeners. Behind her came a peculiar little procession consisting of a little gaggle of blue-accoutred page boys, young Venner and Oliver Garvey among them at their grandmother's insistence, but no young lasses at all. Now, at this moment in almost every wedding I have known, the eyes of the congregation should be upon the bride alone. But this was one of the many oddities at the marriage of the tenth Earl of Ravensden, for the eyes of every man and woman were torn between looking upon the bride and upon the tall man in a plain grey coat who walked at her side; the man who would shortly give her away, and the one man within that great church whose broad black hat could remain upon his head with impunity. For the King of England to attend a subject's marriage was rare enough, but for him to play such a prominent part in proceedings was doubly unusual. Charles Stuart being the man he was, of course, he revelled in it all, nodding vigorously to right and left, smiling broadly and exuding an overpowering sense of contentment. Thus he and the lady finally came before the altar, and Louise De Vaux exchanged the most ambiguous of glances with my brother. At last, the nuptials could commence.
Barwick, the sick old Dean of Saint Paul's, began the litany of weary inevitability. 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate—' An honourable estate? Christ in Heaven, what was honourable about any of this? I heard only snatches of Barwick's words thereafter, mightily troubled as I was by my own thoughts. '...not be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding—' As if this had anything to do with my brother's carnal lusts, such as they were! '...duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained. First, it was ordained for the procreation of children—' Aye, and what guarantee was there of that, given how poor my brother's prospects of fatherhood must have been? So unlike our sovereign lord standing by, who seemed to need only to brush the skirt of a woman for her to be birthed nine months later...
Lost in my fevered thoughts, I almost missed that most delicious and yet most dreadful moment in any marriage service. Dean Barwick looked out to the congregation and proclaimed, 'If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace!'
The cathedral, the greatest enclosed space in all of London, suddenly seemed very small and very silent. I sensed the presence of Cornelia, knowing full well that she was perfectly able (and willing) to lecture the congregation for at least two or three hours on the full gamut of reasons why Charles Quinton and Louise De Vaux should not be joined together, but I had made her swear on the sanctity of our own marriage vows that she would remain silent. Instead, I glanced at Tristram. He opened his mouth, but in that moment his eyes moved from my mother at his side (whose own glare was forbidding enough) to the King, standing beside the Lady Louise. I, too, shifted to look upon our sovereign lord again, and saw that his face was now fixed in a cold, vicious mask of prohibition. His eyes and my uncle's seemed to fight a battle of wills, but in that contest, there could only be one victor. Tris covered his mouth, coughed, and the moment passed.
; The dean nodded contentedly, and proceeded with the words of the marriage service. 'Wilt thou,' he asked my brother, 'have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?'
Charles seemed far away. Almost inaudibly, he said, 'I will.'
Barwick turned to the Lady Louise, whose eyes were downcast and demure. 'Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?'
'I will,' said Louise De Vaux, with all apparent sincerity and meekness. I wondered if she had been equally sincere and meek on the two previous occasions when she had sworn the same oath.
'Who,' asked Barwick, 'giveth this woman to be married unto this man?'
Charles Stuart smiled broadly, and all but thrust the Lady Louise's hand into the Dean's. He, in turn, brought my brother's hand over to take hers. And so it proceeded to the peroration. Then it was my moment. Barwick beckoned for the ring, the same plain band that had adorned my grandmother's hand, and although every instinct in my body directed me to throw the cursed thing through one of the holes in the rose window, I produced it and placed it without demur into my brother's hand. The Earl, in turn, placed the ring upon the lady's fourth finger, and spoke with an unexpected confidence: 'With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' Barwick delivered the prayer of blessing before joining the right hands of the bride and groom, proclaiming loudly, 'Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder!' And then the final knife into my heart: 'Forasmuch as Charles and Louise have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth to each other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.'
They be Man and Wife together. In that moment, Louise Quinton, Countess of Ravensden, glanced toward me, and smiled.
It was done.
***
Ravensden House was too small to accommodate the veritable legion of wedding guests, and was in any case far too humble (and unsafe) to receive the Lord's Anointed. Fortunately the hall of the Worshipful Company of Thatchers stood nearby, and both the cunning negotiating skills of Phineas Musk and the promise of royal patronage had made it available for the wedding feast of the Earl and Countess of Ravensden. Resplendent in the flower-bedecked Ravensden state coach, my brother and his bride made a triumphal procession from Saint Paul's to the hall, cheered by curious passers-by. Fiddlers and pipers went before them, and the entire congregation followed behind, some now bearing torches against the cold and the gathering dusk; I suspected that not a few were already some considerable way into their cups, having come to the cathedral in that state to begin with. Cornelia and I travelled in the Garvey coach, but it was a tense journey with little of the cheery banter that families are meant to make at weddings; my wife and my sister were increasingly at odds on the matter of our new sister-in-law, and I did not relish the role of umpire. Cornelia and Lizzie did essay a few venomous remarks about the dress sense of some of the guests, but neither of them had their hearts in it. Venner Garvey and I had nothing to say to each other; my good-brother's thoughts were as inscrutable as ever, but for my part, I could simply think of nothing suitable to say to a man whom I half-suspected of ordering the destruction of Deptford Dockyard and my ship.
It was a blessedly brief journey, but as we decamped into the Thatchers' Hall, Cornelia murmured to me: 'I think I am in hell, husband. And we have worse to come, of course. The bedding of that slet, that smerige heks—'
Her tirade was thankfully drowned out by the crescendo of noise that greeted us within the hall. Musk informed me that the pipers and the fiddlers seemed to have fallen out with each other, and now seemed to be engaged in a war to see which could be the loudest and most discordant. With many of the guests already so far agitated by drink, the ribaldry that ever attends a marriage was increasingly prevalent. A wench was roughly deprived of one of her garters, which was then hawked around some of the ruder young men. A disquieting number of maidens already wore clothing rather looser than it had been in the cathedral. Even my mother was disconcertingly jolly, seated on a large oak chair at the centre of proceedings, bestowing bonhomie on all around her. Phineas Musk was imbibing ale at a prodigious rate—as he said, what are weddings for, if not a heaven-sent opportunity to eat and drink enough for a week? There was a moment's relative sobriety when the King appeared. He passed through the throng like Moses through the Red Sea, the men bowing low, the women curtsying even lower to ensure that their bosoms were fully exposed to the expert royal eye. Charles Stuart was relatively temperate himself, but he seemed to inspire—indeed, actively encouraged—the most intemperate behaviour around him, and after that briefest pause to give due reverence to Majesty, the hubbub commenced anew.
In the midst of it all stood our earl and countess, receiving the congratulations of all and sundry. My brother was as diffident as ever, but the Countess revelled in it all, dispensing her radiant smile upon one and all. As we looked upon the spectacle, Tris came to our side. 'So the deed is accomplished,' he said. 'Alas that we failed to prevent it.' His opposition to the union remained undiminished, whereas, distressing though I found the whole sorry business, my hostility had been somewhat moderated by the words that Charles had spoken in the abbey ruins. In truth, my mind was in a ferment upon the matter, clarity eclipsed by endless clouds.
In those days, one of the great delights of our English marriage custom was the bedding: the bride and groom escorted to their chamber by the entire bridal party, given possets of sack, undressed of their stockings and garters which were then gleefully thrown at the married couple, all accompanied by much mirth and lewd advice. Although ours took place in Veere, the wedding of Cornelia and myself was attended by enough English exiles to enable a passable imitation of the ritual to take place; indeed, it took some considerable time to eject from our chamber the last of the bridal party (Harcourt, this, who claimed never to have witnessed a consummation in all his days). Nowadays, of course, in these mean and prudish times under our Hanoverian masters, it is increasingly common for bride and groom to skulk off alone to their chamber once the wedding feast is done—as if their bedding should be a private business! Thus far is old England decayed. Back in the year sixty-three, though, such mean-spiritedness was unheard of. Consequently, there had been not a little disquiet at the news that Charles and his lady were to be bedded privately, and in an apartment of the Palace of Whitehall, no less. It was given out that this was merely for convenience: it was said that it would be physically impossible to get the entire bridal party into the earl's bedroom at Ravensden House without risking the collapse of the building. However, I also suspected that my brother's craving for solitude, and the profound embarrassment that the lewd ceremony of bedding would have caused him, might have contributed not a little to the decision, which was causing much grumbling within the Thatchers' Hall. How little I then knew.
The King came over to us. Tris and I bowed, Cornelia curtsied. Charles Stuart was in the highest of spirits: he enjoyed weddings, primarily because they guaranteed the presence in one building of a significant amount of young female flesh, yet paradoxically, of course, he took the marriage vows themselves perhaps more lightly than any other man then living. Poor Queen Catherine, who was naturally nowhere to be seen on such a day.
'Matt. Mistress Quinton. Doctor Quinton,' said the King, cheerily. 'Damnably excellent day, don't you think?'
As Your Majesty says,' Tristram replied. 'Your very presence brings rays of sun through the winter cold to warm the House of Quinton.' In that age of dissemblers and hypocrites, Tristram Quinton could stand his own with the best of them.
'Quite, quite,' said the best of them, seemingly accepting the words at face value; but then, the King spent every waking hour listening to flattery of the most sycophantic kind. Alas, it seemed to me that he was increasingly inclined to believe it. 'The bride looks splendid, does she not? Quite splendid. And Matt—the Seraph is almost ready to sail, I gather?'
Women and ships in one conversation; that must have been very close to Charles the Second's idea of heaven.
'I hope in a week or so, sire. When I left her, we awaited only our guns and the remainder of the victuallers' stores.'
'Excellent, excellent. You know the importance of this voyage to me, Matt.' He turned to Cornelia. And Mistress Quinton—we realise, of course, that your husband's absence for so many months upon our royal service will be a sore trial to you. You must come to court. Your presence will be an ornament to it, and we are sure we can find ways to while away your time.'
My face fell, for I knew full well how King Charles preferred to while away the time of women. But as our sovereign lord passed on to a nearby gaggle of eager maidens, Cornelia kicked me on the ankle. 'Husband!' she chid, to Tristram's amusement. 'You know me so little that you think I would jump into bed with another—even with the King? Sweet Christ, I would rather bed Musk than him! Besides, Tristram and I will have business enough, these next months.' She smiled wickedly. After all, that injunction about no man putting asunder what God has joined together makes no mention of a woman, does it?'
My heart sank; for God alone knew what mischief my wife and uncle could make without me to restrain them.
***