At the end of the interminable Discourses, with the sun still high and the market only now winding down, the lads packed up their books and made for the buttery. A welcome sight met them in the entrance – Kit Marlowe. The three hugged each other silently, Parker weeping all over Marlowe’s doublet.
‘Kit . . .’ he began.
‘I know,’ the older scholar said. ‘We need to talk.’ He caught the eye of Gabriel Harvey sweeping the hall in gown and cap. ‘But not here.’
Benjamin Steane was annoyed. Very annoyed, in fact. His main aim in life was to ensure that everything ran on oiled wheels, that everything that happened happened both when and how he planned it. But, Goad, the old fool, had inadvertently pushed him down a path too soon. He had been forced to tell him of his impending elevation to a See of his own and then, the next day, of his marriage. He had taken the coward’s road in sharing his second secret and had sent a note. He had instructed his Mercury, an unfortunate sizar too slow to get away, to wait for a reply, but there was none. He wasn’t sure when he wrote his note, and now never would be, but he thought that of the two, his marriage plans would have shocked the Provost most.
During Steane’s time as priest and Fellow, priests and celibacy had been very much a moveable feast, depending on who was currently occupying the throne and most of his calling had found it easier to stay celibate for public consumption at least. The maelstrom that was faith in England over the last few years had left the clergy, as well as the laity, shocked and bewildered. Under the boy-king, Edward, some priests had been allowed to marry. Under his sister, Mary, they could not. Some had taken ‘housekeepers’, who kept all parts of the household warm and comfortable, including the bed. Others frequented ale houses of a certain sort, in heavy if often inept disguise. Fellows were always celibate, no matter who wore the crown and Steane doubted that Goad even noticed women. After all, the only ones he ever came across were serving girls and bedders and as such they were probably not even visible to him.
Steane had no vanity and didn’t really know whether he was attractive to the opposite sex or not. His Fellow’s robe more or less ruled it out. But he had met his future wife at the house of his sponsor for higher office and he had no doubt that purple was a very attractive colour to a certain woman. That she was a widow with lands and money of her own but no real status had suited him. A Bishop’s Palace could be a cold and lonely place without some serious gold to line the walls and keep out the draughts.
The wedding was to take place very soon, in the Church of St Mary Magdalene at Madingley. His wife-to-be was Ursula, a sister-in-law of Francis Hynde and had been married for the first time there and was eager to repeat the experience. Steane hoped that the marriage venue would be the only thing this union had in common; his beloved’s husband had dropped dead of an apoplexy within the first year of their marriage. Since then, she had been hunting for a replacement and she had found Steane just in time. The desperation was only written on her face for an experienced man to read; Steane had missed the signs completely.
He stumped crossly over cobbles towards the choir school. His dearest had asked, or some may say insisted, that the full panoply of King’s College Chapel be brought to Madingley, choir and all. Francis Hynde’s social climbing father, the bookbinder, had installed a small pipe organ and in Ursula’s ignorance she assumed that Dr Falconer, the King’s organist, would delight in playing it. Thomas Tallis and William Byrd, already approached, had sadly been busy on her wedding day. In fact, they were sure they would be busy on every day for the next few years, such was the pressure on the Masters of the Queen’s Musick. She had fetched Tallis a playful whack around the ear and told him he should rest more. The temporary deafness certainly slowed him up for a while.
So now, Steane was on his way to try and persuade Falconer and Thirling to provide some music for his nuptials. Steane was not a sensitive man by most people’s standards, but he was beginning to feel a slight snarl of unease deep in his gut. It was as if a buried thought were tugging lightly at some deep sinew, trying to remind him of something which he had once promised himself but had now forgotten. Fortunately for his beloved, though, Steane’s ambition was stronger and stifled the little niggle before it could be properly heard.
As he entered the choir school, the ringing silence echoed through his head. Falconer and Thirling were together in one corner, heads together and the ghost of Thirling’s laugh hung in the air. The boys and men of the choir were sitting, all leaning towards them as if in a high wind, trying to hear the gossip, as had been the way of choristers since a voice was first raised to praise God. Steane knew that he had been the subject, but was senior enough and fierce enough to stamp out any ribaldry at his expense.
He raked the room with his eyes and the choristers all fell to studying their anthem for the day with a will. ‘Dr Falconer, Dr Thirling. If I may have a word with you outside for a moment?’ He stood in the doorway of the School and waited for them to cross the room. Just as they were about to go through the door, he swept in front of them, leaving Thirling quite literally wrong-footed. ‘I would like to ask you a great favour,’ he said, in tones that said that they had no choice but to comply.
Thirling, leaning heavily on his cane, was the first to recover his poise. ‘Of course, Doctor. What would you like us to do?’ His smirk was well-hidden.
Steane studied their faces and decided that if he watched for every nuance, he would be here all day and he had other fish to fry. ‘As you may know, I am shortly to be married . . .’
Falconer and Thirling proved themselves to be a loss to any troupe of players one cared to name. Innocence spread across their faces, arms were outstretched in mute amazement. Falconer went so far as to pat the Fellow lightly on the back.
‘You may wonder how I am to do this, as a Fellow of this College?’ Steane felt the conversation would be incomplete without this rhetorical question. They raised their eyebrows and smiled in unison. ‘I am to become a Bishop,’ Steane said. ‘I have not shared this with the College Convocation as it has only just been confirmed. Upon that confirmation, I asked Mistress Ursula Hynde to become my wife and she has graciously accepted.’
Falconer raised a quizzical eyebrow, hastily lowered before Steane could see. He himself had been the unwilling recipient of Mistress Hynde’s attentions one summer’s afternoon in the organ loft and had been lucky to escape virgo intacta. It had brought on an extra virulent visitation of his old trouble. She could block a lot of exits, could Steane’s intended, most of them at one and the same time. He patted the man on the back again, in overt congratulation, in covert sympathy.
‘So, to my request. My intended bride would like there to be music at Madingley, where we are to marry. I wondered if you gentlemen and the choir could provide something. An anthem, perhaps. A psalm, always nicer sung, I think.’ He smiled encouragingly.
Falconer didn’t hesitate. He knew the organ at Madingley would fit nicely in the ophicleide of the King’s organ, but the sight of Benjamin Steane being joined in holy matrimony to Ursula Hynde was not something he would willingly forego. ‘I would be delighted!’ he cried. ‘Richard -’ he turned to the choirmaster who thought the organist had taken leave of his senses – ‘it will be such fun, don’t you think? A small choir, quite select, I feel, would do the Chapel at Madingley the most justice. Tobin’s nephew . . . he must come along.’ He turned again to Steane. ‘Such a sweet voice, the boy has. In fact, perhaps just trebles? Hmm, Richard?’
‘Oh, no,’ Steane said. ‘I’m afraid my bride is set on a full choir.’