Father Antonio sighed and settled himself to wait, a frown lurking on his brow. He had not wanted to undertake this task, but it did not do to refuse the bishop; especially if you were a young and ambitious man who hoped to rise high in the Church.
Nevertheless, he was a man of principle, and was deeply disturbed, in spite of the bishop’s reassurances, about performing a ceremony that should rightly be conducted by day in front of family and friends, not secretly and in the dead of night. When the party arrived, he determined, he would have questions to ask and if they were not answered to his satisfaction, he would not proceed, whatever the consequences.
As he pondered how to word his questions, the door creaked open and four cloaked and hooded figures entered. Three of the figures moved up the stone-floored aisle of the church towards him, removing their cloaks as they came; the fourth remained in shadow by the door. He scrutinised them as they approached.
They made a very handsome trio, he had to admit. The two men were tall and well proportioned, and by their similarity of feature were probably related. The older of the two, presumably the groom, was dressed in the full and impressive garb of the Scottish Highlander. He looked magnificent; his muscular legs were encased in red and black checked hose gartered just below the knee, above which swirled the bright scarlet and black of his kilt. Belted at the waist, the surplus material of the plaid was gathered at the back and drawn over the left shoulder of his black woollen jacket. Lace frothed at his throat and wrist, and his ornate basket-hilted broadsword swung in its scabbard at his hip. He wore the plaid naturally, as though it were his everyday attire rather than a mere ceremonial costume. A Jacobite exile, concluded the priest. But that did not explain the clandestine nature of this occasion. Jacobites had no need to hide in Rome, where the Stuarts were openly accepted as the rightful claimants to the British throne. The Jacobite’s face was stern and forbidding and, looking at him, the priest wondered if he would have the courage to ask his questions after all.
And then the ferocious Highlander looked down at the slender young woman by his side, and the harsh planes of his face softened, his eyes became tender. The young woman, dressed in pale green silk, her remarkable hair loose and flowing in heavy silver-blond waves down her back, returned the man’s gaze with trusting blue eyes, and Father Antonio saw with relief that one of his questions had already been answered. It was utterly obvious that this woman was not being coerced in any way into marrying the man by her side.
Nevertheless, there were still many reasons why this wedding might not be able to take place, and the young priest now cleared his throat nervously before speaking.
“Good evening, my children,” he declared in the tone he used when about to celebrate mass. His voice resounded around the almost empty church. He modulated the volume, then continued. “Before I perform this ceremony, there are some questions I require the answers to.” He spoke in French, as he had been told the young lady understood little Italian.
The couple returned their attention to him, and waited politely.
“I assume you are not under any compulsion to marry this man,” he said. He would be expected to ask this question; as he had thought, the woman shook her head.
“And do you know of any reason why you should not be married by Holy Mother Church?”
“No, Father,” the woman answered. “We are both members of the Church of Rome.”
“And are you both free to marry? Neither of you are already committed?”
“We are neither of us married or committed to anyone else,” the Scotsman answered. Both he and the woman smiled at this, and the priest frowned.
“Why, then, do you feel it necessary to hold your wedding in secret at two o’ clock in the morning? Would you not prefer to celebrate it in the presence of your family?”
The Scot sighed. They had hoped for a priest who would accept the bishop’s authority without question. But they had clearly got a man who took his vocation and responsibilities very seriously. Commendable, but devoutly not to be wished for at present. He raised his hand to the other man, who came forward.
“This is my brother,” Alex said. “He represents my family, the rest of whom are not in this country.”
“And I have no family living,” said Beth. “My parents are dead, and my brother dead to me. My husband’s kin are all the family I need or want.”
The priest opened his mouth again.
“We have the required witnesses, Father,” Alex interposed before the man could speak, “and need no horde of well-wishers to witness our union. The people present, and the Lord himself, are sufficient for us. The reasons we are marrying here, and at this time, do not concern Mother Church.” The Scot’s voice had a distinct edge to it. But the priest was not comforted. There was some mystery here, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.
“All things are the concern of Mother Church, my son,” he replied haughtily.
There was a muffled expletive from the figure by the door, which now moved to join the others, throwing off his cloak as he came and dropping it carelessly in the aisle.
“I wish to enjoy the nuptials of two of my dearest friends, in private, without the resultant fuss that inevitably attends any official ceremony I am present at,” said the man. “I assure you, Father, that every word they have spoken is true. If you wish me to obtain a letter from the Holy Father himself to confirm this, I shall. Although it will take some days and will result in the great displeasure of myself and my friends, one of whom is your bishop. Now do you have any more questions, or can we proceed before dawn breaks and this does become a public affair?”
The priest knew this man. Everybody in Rome knew this man. He had been baptised by the pope himself, and was on extremely friendly terms with the current incumbent. He could indeed obtain a letter if he chose and thus bring Father Antonio’s name to the attention of Benedict XIV himself.
On reflection, Father Antonio wisely decided that there were indeed no more questions. Without further ado he proceeded to join in holy wedlock Alexander Iain MacGregor and Elizabeth Ann Cunningham, which happy event was witnessed by Angus Malcolm Socrates MacGregor and Charles Edward Louis John Sylvester Maria Casimir Stuart, by the grace of God heir to the throne of Great Britain, or upstart Young Pretender, depending on your point of view.
The event was followed by a very quiet and stealthy return to the Palazzo Muti, where the door to the prince’s private apartment was firmly locked, the shutters closed, and a merry and very liquid celebration took place. Speculation arose as to whether there was another woman in the world who was bigamously married to the same man, and there was some hilarity over the revelation of Angus’s middle name, which that young man took in good part, lamenting that he had unwittingly chosen to make his entrance into the world whilst his father had been deeply engaged with the Platonic dialogues.
Angus did however maintain his credibility, and win twenty scudi off his prince, by succeeding, as Alex had predicted, in drinking that royal personage, quite literally, under the table.
* * *
The following day, Sir Anthony Peters, his wife and servant said goodbye to their new friend, leaving him to surreptitiously return the plaid he had ‘borrowed’ from Murray of Broughton the previous night, and they set off for Florence. Alex’s priority now was to get to Paris as quickly as possible, and to that end he hoped to deliver his report on the Stuart prince to the fanatical anti-Jacobite British envoy Sir Horace Mann immediately, before leaving the city at the earliest possible opportunity.
“It’s a shame,” he said, as they shook out their travel beds in the somewhat dubious inn they had elected to stay at a few miles south of Florence. A heavy scent of lavender permeated the room. “Florence is a beautiful city. You could stay here for weeks and not see everything. Had we the time, I’d love to show you the sights. But I expect we’ll be at Mann’s for most of tomorrow, and I’d like to set off the following day if possible.”
Beth, due to her concerns over
Angus’s conscience, which she had not discussed with her husband, instinctively appreciating the confessional nature of the conversation, was imbued with the same sense of urgency as Alex, and raised no objections.
“I think that after the whirlwind tour of Rome I was treated to, the only way I want to see any more sights is either slowly and leisurely, or not at all,” she asserted.
In view of their hurry, Sir Anthony and his wife were not a little disappointed on arriving at Sir Horace’s palazzo to be effusively greeted by the British envoy in person, who, after inviting them to several receptions to be held over the next week, assured them that they did not need to seek accommodation in Florence for a few days at least, as rooms had been prepared for them in the Palazzo. Angus was quickly recalled from his search for a hotel, and the reluctant couple were shown to their quarters and given an hour to refresh themselves before joining Sir Horace for tea.
The rooms were beautifully furnished in cream and burgundy, the bed spacious and comfortable. Fires burned in every grate and warm water and towels had been provided. All their needs had been catered for. As soon as the door closed on the smiling servant, Alex scowled blackly at the portrait of George of Hanover hanging over the fireplace and let forth a torrent of low-voiced invective in three languages. He could not have felt more trapped had he been accommodated in the darkest dungeon of Newgate Prison.
“We cannot stay, Beth,” he said urgently. “We must think of a reason to leave, and quickly.”
An hour later, washed and brushed but no nearer a solution to their dilemma, they descended the sweeping staircase to the salon, where Sir Horace Mann bustled about pouring tea, and assured his honoured guests of their welcome.
“Really, there is little in Florence to detain the tourist,” he said. “Once one has seen the Duomo and the Baptistry, oh, and the treasures of the Uffizi, of course, there is little social life to be had for the English visitor, as, unlike in other parts of the country, the nobility here are remarkably reluctant to extend hospitality to foreigners. In spite of that, you will no doubt have noticed a profusion of English people in the city, and will be wondering why this is.”
It was clear from Sir Anthony’s expression that this had indeed been his main preoccupation since arriving in Florence.
“If I may be so bold, my dear sir, as to hazard a guess,” he said, relaxing back and extending his buttercup-yellow legs to the hearth, over which frowned a plaster bust of the duke of Cumberland, “I would say that it is due to the exceptional hospitality offered by yourself. It is renowned the length and breadth of Europe.”
“Really?” said the envoy, colouring with pleasure and curving his full lips in a smile of genuine warmth. “I must confess that no one has ever complained that my modest entertainments are tedious. The Palazzo Masnetti is looked upon as a little England. You will feel at home here, I am sure.” He offered his guests a plate of small pastries. “Now, what do you say we dispose of business matters, and then we can devote the rest of your stay to pleasure? Do you have your report on Rome about your person, Sir Anthony?”
Sir Anthony looked deeply flummoxed. “Oh!” he cried. “I did not realise that I was meant to produce a dossier on the Pretender’s son. I thought I would merely be expected to answer questions. I am sorry, but as you know, of course, I am new to the exciting business of espionage, and unfamiliar with its routines. If you will provide me with paper, pens and ink, sir, I will set to work immediately.” He made a move to stand, clearly upset. Sir Horace waved at him to be seated.
“Did the duke of Newcastle not tell you to submit a report to me of your findings?” the envoy asked a little impatiently. He was a slender man, whose face was nevertheless heavy-featured, the eyes dark, his nose aquiline, his lips thick and fleshy.
“Well, yes, but he did not specify that it should be a written report,”
“Do not distress yourself, sir,” sighed Sir Horace, ringing a bell by his side. A young man appeared so quickly that Beth surmised he had probably been listening at the door. He took a seat at the escritoire by the window and sat silently.
“Philip here will take notes of all your observations, Sir Anthony. Now I already know that you were successful in cultivating the friendship of the Young Pretender, for which I congratulate you, sir. What did you discover about the boy?”
“Well, I am ashamed to say it, Sir Horace. I am afraid you will be angry with me, and I could not bear to upset such a delightful host as yourself.” The baronet smiled ingratiatingly at the man sitting opposite, and Beth raised her eyes to heaven, a gesture which did not go unnoticed by Sir Horace.
“Are you trying to tell me you spent three days in the constant company of Charles and formed no opinion of him?” he said incredulously.
Sir Anthony was shocked.
“No, not at all,” he replied. “What I am afraid you will find distasteful is that I found him to be an excellent fellow! A man quite after my own heart! Why, we talked for hours about our tailors, and he recommended me to several good suppliers of silk in France and Italy. He is also a superb dancer, and although I am only moderately accomplished in that art, he was too well-mannered to criticise my performance. We did not attend any formal dances of course, but there was that night in the taverno de, oh, something-or-other. We had imbibed a considerable quantity of brandy. Had I not, I would never have agreed to attempt a balletic performance on the table. Quite an impossible endeavour, I assure you,” he tittered. “I truly thought that I had severely injured myself at one point. Really, there are positions the human body is not designed to achieve. Now, what was the name of the tavern? It has quite slipped my mind, but I am sure your observers can supply it later. If you just leave a space for the name, Philip, my dear,” he called to the young clerk. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, he informed me that he plays the cello quite well, although he did not actually honour me with a performance. I assure you though, that he can tell an excellent bawdy tale! He also recommended me to several high-class houses of ill-repute, although of course I would not dream of frequenting them, being as happily married as I am.” He seized his wife’s hand and pressed it passionately to his breast, a gesture to which she responded by withdrawing her hand as quickly as possible. Philip scribbled away quietly in the corner.
“What did you think of him, Lady Elizabeth? You also spent time in his company, did you not?” Sir Horace asked unexpectedly.
“Yes. He insisted on showing me the sights of Rome, waxing lyrically and at stupefying length about its many attractions. He seems to have made himself entirely at home there. He is very Roman,” she said disapprovingly. Sir Horace waited for her to elaborate. “He is very free with his hands,” she added after a pause, blushing slightly, and casting a pleading look at the envoy not to insist on details.
“Ah. Yet many ladies find him a handsome man, I believe, with his height and his blue eyes, added to the accomplishments your husband has just outlined.”
“Perhaps they do,” replied Beth indifferently. “I am not overfond of dancing, myself, or the scraping of a cello. As for Charles himself, it is true that he is tall, but very thin and pale, and I am sure his eyes would be his best feature if they did not lack expression. His face is a little long and sharp for my liking,” she said. “And he is quite insufferable in his arrogance, insisting on being called ‘Your Highness’ all the time, and spouting on about how he has been deprived of his throne, without showing the slightest inclination to do more than grumble endlessly. Which, of course, is a good thing,” she added.
Sir Anthony looked at her.
“You did not tell me this, my dear,” he said, astounded. “I was under the impression that you liked Charles. He certainly thought you did.”
“Well of course he did! The insufferable fool thinks everybody likes him, merely because he is of royal blood,” Beth replied, exasperated. “I hardly think we would have been able to deliver any report at all to Sir Horace, had I declared to the Young Pretender that I detested him from the outs
et!”
“Ah, yes, I see your point, my dear. But you really should have told me if he was making free with your person. I am quite disgusted with the duplicity of the man. I should have called him out, had I known. After all, it is my job to defend you, my dear.” Sir Anthony shook his head in astonishment that he could have thought well of such a scoundrel.
The disbelieving expression on Sir Horace’s face said clearly that he was fully aware of Beth’s altercation with the guard and Sir Anthony’s marked lack of interest in defending her on that occasion.
“Did he speak to you at all of his plans to invade England, Sir Anthony?” Sir Horace asked hopelessly. This mission had been a waste of time. The lemon-clad idiot had clearly not asked any pertinent questions of the Young Pretender at all.
“Well, no, not at all. We spent most of our time, when not discussing fashion and so on, talking about his prospective marriage to Louis’ daughter.”
Sir Horace, who had been expecting a lengthy comment on Charles’s well-documented love of the opera, or some other triviality of this sort, suddenly froze.
“What?” he said. “Louis? Do you mean the king of France?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Sir Anthony, puzzled. “Did you not know? He is hoping to marry the princess, has said he may even travel to France before long to negotiate in person, as things are going very slowly due to the delays in the mail, and he grows impatient. The plague, you know,” he added, misinterpreting Sir Horace’s stunned expression.
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 19