The music was on the organ stand, lit by tallow candles, and Nat smiled at the ink-blots in the copying. This was precious and expensive printing meant that copying of key pieces was usual and the church organist would treasure his copied collection. Well, he’d leave it here then, of course, much as he’d have loved to have possession of it, he doubted that he’d have need for sheet music once he’d gone.
Nat had briefly amused himself with images of playing Bach’s Toccata and Fugue to announce Florence’s arrival but she deserved better than his derision. And so, tentatively, he stretched out his fingers and placed them on the bone keys, instinctively finding the pedal keyboard beneath his feet. As the first sounds puffed out of the instrument, he relaxed into the notes and lost himself in the playing. Piped notes quivered in the air and grudgingly, the music master’s expression changed from contempt to respect and even grudging pleasure as Nat began to bathe in the cadences of the complex piece, smiling at his captive’s brusque nod of professional acknowledgement – one professional to another - as he built, layer upon layer. It was impossible to remain angry whilst Tallis was playing, his music born for the echoing acoustic of churches, echoing with angels’ voices and an ethereal fragility. Soft treble notes quavered and were underpinned by woody basses blended into exquisite harmonics. The bound music master closed his swelling eye and would have smiled had the gag not prevented him from doing so. Tallis was the balm between them.
Vaguely conscious of the gathering congregation, Nat felt them stir when Florence – and Denzil appeared at the porch. Even here, he would not leave her alone. He was able to peak through the pipes and almost missed his notes as he saw her. The crowd audibly gasped with appreciation. Every bride deserved to be beautiful on her wedding day and Nat acknowledged that she was. Denzil had spared no expense.
Nat turned and settled once again into the music. Never had the notes meant so much to him nor bruised him so profoundly. He hoped that she heard them and felt them too. The last few soft chords reverberated in the sacred space and he bowed his head and lifted his hands gently and slowly from the keyboard. Of course, he couldn’t leave until the ceremony was over but he’d be damned if he’d play an uplifting tune as they left as man and wife. At that moment, Nat’s plan collapsed. He’d had dreams of rescuing her and running away like the sequence in The Graduate but then he looked at the serenity of her face as she came into the light of the church and it told him that he was wrong; she wanted to marry Denzil and Nat’s last gift would be to let her be.
Eventually, he was aware of the captive sharing the organ loft nodding furiously at him and he believed that he understood. ‘I free you and you let me leave? Say nothing, yes?’ he whispered. The organist nodded, met his look and gave one short not. Nat decided to risk it since he’d no desire to stay for the rest of the ceremony. He untied the man who then slathered the grubby gag from his mouth.
‘Get out of my place while you may, fellow and I’ll not call out,’ he said hoarsely, spitting out fragments. ‘She is a beauty that you have lost but I am paid to play for them.’ Nat left the church through the vestry door, unseen. The brilliant sunshine after the cool, dim church only blinded him for a moment and then he wiped his leaking eyes and walked away.
33
Exchanged Vows
Florence knew why the English oak was the wood of choice for doors of substance throughout England. The high tannin content made it resistant to moulds and bugs and its durability ensured that it lasted for more than a thousand years. She knew that it had to be at least a hundred years old before it was of any use as timber. The Oak spanned human history; Nelson’s fleet was built with trees planted in the thirteen-hundreds. In York Minster, the doors to the Chapter House were a national treasure; so perfect were they, that they were almost as pristine as the day they were hung. She looked up to the timbers arched into the vaulted ceiling of the chapel, which were already five hundred years old as Florence walked beneath them today. She was pleased to see them. By her own time, they had been long gone.
The day started dim and misty so that everything was wet with spider-webbed dew. The sun had given up on burning through the cloud and was a distant orange glow behind the shroud of grey sky. Florence’s slippers and the hem of her skirt were soaked with the dankness of the day as she neared the small church on Denzil’s arm. Unlike the man she walked with, she had loved this place from the moment that she’d seen it, glad to see it in its glory before the ruins that she’d recalled. It had the squatness of its Norman heritage, with a short, square tower and a simple nave with two small apses bulging from the east end. The windows, high in the walls, were narrow and rounded with expensive plain glass which let as much light in as it could and the rounded arches, heavy with their own weight, were solid and time proofed. Florence loved the fat pillars of the building, supporting the barrelled vault.
She thought that the design was a testament to the craftsmen and women who’d built it and, surprising herself, she’d often found sanctuary there in its peace – guarded by Holless or an armed thug. She had no hope of that peace now, knowing that Nat might be watching her. Denzil had made it plain. She was still to convince her erstwhile lover that her heart was no longer his but Denzil’s. Any doubt, any attempt to signal to him and he would send the armed men to hunt him down. These men would not fail again. Even as they progressed to the door, he was pinching her arm to remind her. Prudence had insisted that she’d had a glass of wine to calm her nerves and Florence felt unusually distant from the whole proceedings.
They halted as they reached the porch, her sodden skirts dragging to a halt and her feet squelching uncomfortably in her slippers. This heavy Norman, greying oak door of the church, with its iron banding pinned to it by iron nails, was framed in the rounded stone arch of simple dogs’ tooth carving above it, and, despite being fully open, very little could be seen, other than the faint yellow flicker of candles. Florence heard the soft piping of the organ within, and the sonorous chords and the simple melody of sacred music was so soothing that she began to suspect that there was something more than wine in that glass. The organist had a light touch on the piece; she wondered what it was. It was beautiful – ethereal, comforting.
Even with the candles, the light was low. Her vision adjusted and she was able to take in her surroundings. Bedecked in thick tangles of holly, ivy and various greeneries, the church’s nave was awash with the pungent scent of tree balms and resins. Garlands of fir, yew and holly looped between the tall high windows and interwoven into these garlands were strands of yellow and white winter brooms lighting the swathes with jewels of colour - rather like fairy lights, Florence smiled to herself. It really was quite beautiful in the glow of more candles than she could count. All of this brilliance was reflected from the absolute white of the walls, newly whitewashed, as they had to do periodically, to cover the sinfulness of the idolatrous decorations of popish murals. She wondered who had had the foresight to preserve those paintings for future generations behind the whitewash, reluctant to scrub off that sacred iconography. She felt just a little tipsy, she realised, but it was not unpleasant; it just meant that she found herself grinning rather inanely. The congregation were pleased with the effect their decorations had had on her. She looked serene.
Florence was hollow. She’d never expected to have to get married but now she wanted the comfort of her family, her friends but they were a million miles away, a trillion light years mourning her probable death. Only Pru, she counted as friend. This was Denzil’s wedding. His showpiece. She was relieved that he’d agreed that the armed men would be staying outside. Surely, if Nat had been watching, that would convince him – that, and her performance. He would be far away by now – she hoped. Already, Denzil had shown her how easy it would be by denouncing him as a thief. The hiring of mercenaries showed how much Denzil felt threatened. Good.
All were dressed in their Sunday best. The women and girls had made headbands and garlands of greenery and the men and boys had pu
t sprigs of broom in their collars and coats. Florence inhaled the perfumes as she paused at the door. Had she known it, she was framed in a halo of winter light with a gentle breeze wafting the folds of her fine lawn sleeves and the loose wisps of her hair. There was an audible, pleased gasp and she smiled at them, strangely warmed by their response to her. Perhaps she had friends here after all.
Looking towards the altar, the stark outline of Holless was silhouetted against the east window like a black hole in space. Today he wore a fresh, broad, white linen collar on his shiny black coat, and a newly shaven chin showed freshly staunched bloody nicks which she hoped were sore! Denzil, beside her, was equally resplendent in beautiful blue-black damask with brilliant gold lace collars and cuffs picking up the candles’ glittering light. His shining blonde hair was loose over his shoulders and he turned his face to her and smiled without a trace of his deceit. For a man of this era, he had remarkably good teeth, she thought.
The nave wasn’t very long, as they stepped forward between the aisle of the people of the estate, walking slowly and inexorably towards the alter rail. In 1644. In a stately home, south of Birmingham! In this glorious chapel so gorgeously dressed, wearing this fabulous, if uncomfortable and rather soggy gown, Florence Brock was to be married to this monster of a man.
As if hearing her thoughts, Denzil whispered into her ear, ‘You are carrying yourself well, Florence. Remember that his life rests on your responses now.’ To the congregation, it looked like a lover’s exchange.
Her eyes, becoming accustomed to the dim flickering light, began to see the detail of the small congregation. She was touched by the effort they had made to bring their pride and joy to the occasion. They honoured her. Not for the first time, she deepened her understanding of how occasion and ceremony marked the stages of life here. Society was pegged on these pivotal points and these people were defined by them. She came from a world where you defined your own life. As they neared the minister, her peripheral vision, spotted the small razor cuts that peppered Holless’ face. Good, she thought.
Holless stood before the altar, hovering in his inimitable black, as though he was trying to shield Denzil from her and this mistake he was making. Denzil brushed him aside with some irritation and reached his hand out to her from the depths of the gold cuff. She stretched her own cold hand back to his through the billowing sleeves of her gown. His hand was warm and dry and she thought hers rather clammy. He squeezed it firmly in his own, pulling her near to his side.
The perpetually nervous minister, dependent on Denzil for his living, tried to be congenial and the ceremony progressed swiftly. She’d been to very few church weddings but who wasn’t familiar with the traditional vows from films and literature. Holless gave her to Denzil. She was handed over from one man to another. There was only silence when the congregation were asked if they knew of any reason why they might not be legally joined.
She confirmed everything: she would take this man; she would love, honour and obey him. She would forsake all others. Irony lay upon irony. It was all she could do not to laugh.
‘Till death us do part’ she heard herself pronounce the dell knell.
And then it was all said. Denzil had taken her as his wife. Everything that she had now promised was legal and binding. It didn’t matter that it was under unbearable duress. It didn’t matter that Denzil had abused and threatened her. She was legally his wife in the eyes of the church and state. Once their marriage was consummated, it really was till death us do part. There would be no annulment, no divorce, no separation. Now, she understood why Denzil had not bedded her. He wanted there to be no doubts that all was proper and that she was his. Forever. Devious bastard.
He was leaning towards her to leave a tender and chaste kiss on her dry lips. Her eyes sparkled with tears and Denzil smiled warmly at her on seeing this. ‘Mistress Moorcroft. My wife. My love,’ he said loud enough for all to hear. The minister had pronounced their union, ‘Those who God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’ And they turned to face the congregation but there was no Nat, brandishing a sword and cutting down all who faced him to reach her. She must not hope.
Broad grins lit up the faces of the congregation and Cook clutched her hands together. Florence thought that she’d never seen the woman emotional before – although that could have been the prospect of the feast to follow. Securing her hand through his arm, Denzil clamped his bride to him and they walked together between familiar faces, acknowledging their smiles and nodding in greeting.
Florence caught a glimpse of Prudence wedged next to Cook. She was smiling too but it was a wavering smile which twitched as she found Florence’s eyes, and her own round eyes were wide. Held by that look Florence momentarily snagged her slipper in the uneven rushes and would have tripped had she not been firmly supported by Denzil’s linked arm. He caught her and, turning to her, followed her line of sight to Prudence, now suddenly busying herself for departure. Denzil patted Florence’s hand and then took it in his own and brushed his lips across the thin gold ring that adorned her finger. She gave him a look that only he could see as they reached the light of the porch and stepped in to the low, sunshine. As they left the church she had a passing thought that the organ music had been far sweeter earlier.
The wedding breakfast was sumptuous and Florence entered the Hall as mistress, acknowledged as such as she received the bows and curtseys of the servants, with grace. At least she might try to make their lives a little better, she promised herself. She sat next to Denzil at the high table, hardly eating and noticing that Denzil also picked at the food. Perhaps he was nervous! His small army had also joined the feast and were eating and drinking like pigs. Looking at the faces in the hall, she was saddened that she’d never had the chance to share this day with those she loved. The closest here to her was Prudence and she looked like she was at a funeral tea.
Despite the dampening nature of Holless’ righteous miasma, the servants enjoyed the feast. After a while, loosened by the free-flowing ale rather than the small beer which was their usual fare, a few of the lads began to sing, softly at first, until they saw no reproof from their master, and then with considerable gusto and the girls joined them. Holless was appalled but saw that his rule had been over-ridden. The room was lively and Cook had outdone herself with the food. Florence was very surprised to see small sausage rolls as part of the feast. Not that she had any appetite. No one bothered about that; she was expected to be anxious. She drank steadily and Denzil partook equally freely so that it seemed quite natural when several of the boys and girls, accompanied by the singers, stood to dance – a traditional pattern with lots of skipping and making of arches which they threaded through. They were emboldened to call to their master to join them and despite her reluctance, Denzil pulled her firmly to the centre of the hall to join in the lusty dance.
He felt her aversion. ‘My dear, it is traditional to dance at a wedding – our wedding. Join with your husband in celebrating, I implore you.’ It was a threat.
‘I don’t know how,’ she sulked, hoping that it would be enough.
‘How interesting. But come, Florence. I shall guide you and your loyal household will teach you quickly.’ His hand held hers tightly as he dragged her into the grid of people. Hands were joined and partner passed to partner as they moved through the pattern of the rustic dance. Florence was dizzy with the energy of it but all she had to do was to allow herself to be passed along and copy what the other girls did. She was out of breath and flushed with wine.
Knowing that the wedding bed awaited, she assessed her husband. He was a little taller than Nat and as fair as Nat was dark. Denzil’s blue eyes were quite startling pale. Healthy and fit, his powerful physique rippled beneath the fine cloth. He had removed his doublet, dancing freely in the fine linen shirt which billowed about him as he moved, conscious of the effect on those who watched him.
If he had not been a devil, he would have been an attractive man, Florence thought. At the crescendo of th
e dance, some of the lads followed tradition and thrust the bride and groom together and Denzil caught her and kissed her enthusiastically. Everyone fell about laughing. Holless took his cue and brought the celebration to an abrupt halt.
‘Rise for the Master . . . and Mistress of Montebray.’ The frenzy stilled in anticipation of the denouement of the whole event. Randomly, sniggers erupted amongst the girls and lads who grinned broadly, and she blushed, immediately irritated at her coyness.
Denzil made a show of putting down his goblet, yawning theatrically and standing up slowly from the table. The company were excited, drawn to their master, nudges and whispers ceasing as he began to address them.
‘Good people of Montebray,’ he declaimed with a hint of a slur, ‘it has been a fine – if tiring day – and my wife . . . ’ and there was a hearty cheer and renewed lusty laughter, ‘and her eager husband,’ more ribald cheers, ‘will now retire to our bed.’ Another bellow of laugher. ‘I wish you well and entreat you to enjoy the remainder of our victuals,’ he joked with them, bowing at the jeers and the laughter, nodding to Holless who, in turn, glared at the servants. They understood that they were to conclude the revels quite promptly as far as he was concerned.
‘And so . . . to bed!’ Denzil cried, playing to the gallery. Another cheer as he bowed to Florence, offered her his hand and utterly unexpectedly swept her up into his arms and carried her from the great hall to even more cheering and one or two vulgar encouragements. Florence was horrified but this only made the crowd laugh more as Denzil made his way through the centre of the great hall, with her aloft in his arms and that’s when the table banging and the whooping and calling began. Denzil grinned at them all as the noise increased, despite Holless’ scowl. The mercenaries stood as best they could and she saw Denzil glance at their leader and nod once. They had done their work today it seemed. If he didn’t recognise her, Florence knew him: William Spofforth. She wasn’t surprised.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 32