I was just about to withdraw in the direction of All Saints’ Church, desperately hoping to remain unobserved, when the little drama unfolding before me took a totally unexpected turn. Patience Marvell had just handed her companion a purse which she had withdrawn from beneath her cloak — a very weighty purse by the look of it — and was saying something more to him, probably in the way of information which he might find useful. But then, suddenly, he was violently shaking his head and trying to thrust the purse back into her hands. Patience, plainly as astonished as I was, refused to accept it, and from where I was standing, rooted to the spot, I could hear her voice raised on a high, shrill note of enquiry. Her protestations did no good, however, and the Irishman, having flung the purse at her feet, vanished around the corner into Marsh Street without a backward glance.
I waited no longer, and made my way back to the church as quickly as I could, but not quickly enough for my absence to have gone unnoticed by Adela. In answer to her whispered demand to know where I had been, I pleaded an urgent call of nature.
‘Rather a long one,’ she accused me suspiciously, at the same time thrusting Luke into my arms.
I offered no defence. I was too preoccupied trying to interpret what I had just seen. It was apparent — at least it seemed apparent to me — that Briant of Dungarvon had agreed to some transaction with Patience Marvell, the preliminaries of which had probably been argued out two nights ago in the Green Lattis, only to renege inexplicably on the deal at the last moment. But why, I could not begin to guess and, judging by the lady’s expression when she re-entered the church a few minutes later, neither could she. She was looking angry, confused and more than a little frightened and, touching her maid on the arm, left the church again almost at once, as the Shepherds’ Mass was drawing to its close.
I was still pondering the riddle when we arrived home just as the early morning sun burst forth in all its Christmas splendour over Small Street. There was now no hint of snow, the air being crisp and cold and the roofs of the houses sparkling with frost. By this time, Luke was asleep in Adela’s arms and Adam in mine, while the two older children could barely put one foot in front of the other. Indeed, all four were far too tired to eat any breakfast and my wife immediately took them all off to bed so that they could get some much-needed rest before the third and final Mass of the day — the Mass of the Divine Word — for which we had arranged to walk over to Redcliffe and join Margaret Walker at her parish church of St Thomas.
But when, two hours later, we met my former mother-in-law (and Adela’s cousin) outside her cottage door, it was my suggestion that, instead of St Thomas’s, we go only a little further on, to the church of St Mary Redcliffe.
‘Why?’ Margaret demanded bluntly. ‘The children look exhausted, and anyway I’ve arranged to see Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins at Saint Thomas.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘You mean you haven’t already seen them twice this morning? I know you, Mother-in-law. You’re not one to shirk your Christmas worship.’ She looked pleased and flattered, so I pressed home my advantage. ‘I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Marvell family to make sure that they were all present, because Lady Marvell and her maid favoured us at All Saints for the Shepherds’ Mass earlier this morning.’
This was as much news to Adela as it was to her cousin as, in her usual devout way, she had been concentrating too hard on the service to notice what had been going on around her. I mentioned no more of what had happened and what I had witnessed in Corn Street, but I had said enough to intrigue both women and to win their approval of my suggestion. So, in spite of some grumbling from the three older children, we arrived at St Mary’s in good time for the impressive entrance of the entire Marvell family.
Sir George, resplendent in a fur-lined russet velvet cloak over a knee-length tunic of yellow brocade and boots of the very finest Cordovan leather, embroidered gloves clasped in one hand, led the way to places reserved for them at the front of the congregation. The two women were also dressed in their best attire. As befitted their estate, jewels glowed on their fingers, flashed on their wrists and winked among the gauze of their headdresses. Furs and silks gleamed in the candlelight and, from where I was standing, I was able to get a good look at Joanna, Cyprian’s wife. My first impression of a thin-faced woman of about forty, with dark eyes and eyebrows was confirmed, and I could see now the thin-lipped mouth set in a discontented, almost straight line.
Cyprian Marvell was plainly dressed with no ostentation of any kind, but the two younger men more than made up for this lack on his part. Both wore tight, particoloured hose, shoes with pikes so long that they had to be chained around the knees, and tunics so indecently short that the elaborately decorated codpieces were well displayed. I saw a number of elderly ladies hurriedly and modestly avert their eyes as James and Bartholomew passed them by, their velvet cloaks flung well back over their shoulders.
‘Disgusting,’ Margaret Walker hissed to Adela as she forcibly turned Elizabeth’s head away from the interesting spectacle.
But there was still more to come. The Marvell family had scarcely taken their places when there was a fresh disturbance at the main door. It was again thrown open, this time to admit the astonishing figure of Sir George’s older sister, the eighty-five-year-old Drusilla Marvell.
She wore the high, double-horned headdress fashionable many years earlier but no longer, or very rarely, seen. Her cloak, which was held up by a diminutive page boy, was made of rich purple velvet — probably prohibited by the sumptuary laws to all but royalty — and lavishly trimmed with sable. Her face was thin and deeply lined with a sharp beak of a nose and dark, glittering eyes that darted from side to side as her steward, wearing the same red and gold livery as the page boy, forced a passage for her through the interested crowd of worshippers. She leant heavily on an ebony stick.
But it was the quantity of jewels adorning her skinny person that commanded attention. Rubies, sapphires and emeralds sparkled in the candlelight and turned her into a veritable rainbow of colour. Every arthritic finger and both thumbs displayed a magnificent ring of heavily chased gold supporting a gemstone the size of a walnut. Diamonds hung in clusters from her earlobes and encircled her neck and wrists, while the front of her silk gauze gown — most unsuitable for both her age and the winter weather — shimmered with silver medallions. If she had had a herald walking before her crying, ‘This is a woman of very great wealth and importance,’ her message could not have been more plainly delivered.
Her steward having conducted her to the head of the congregation, she ostentatiously ignored her brother and his family, taking up a position immediately opposite where she could look right through them as though they didn’t exist. Whispered details of this highly entertaining comedy were passed from front to back of the assembly and resulted in so much inattention that the priest was forced to reprimand us in no uncertain terms and to remind us that it was Our Lord’s Nativity, one of the holiest days of the Christian calendar.
Sir George, it was reported later, had turned scarlet with mortification and rage, and even, after the service, attempted to remonstrate with his sister. This had been a mistake, giving the lady a chance to show yet more disdain by informing him, through her steward, that she had no wish to bandy words with him.