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?’