Warrior

The vicar-general came at once, a pleasant-faced man not much older than Hervey, with an easy manner and ready smile. After due introductions (in which it was explained that Hervey was 'not of our faith'), he declared he was entirely at his visitors' disposal, making much of seeing Mr Keating again so soon after arranging the printing of the recent apostolic letter. 'Mr Keating, as his father before him, is a publisher of most particular standards, Colonel Hervey.'

'You are very gracious, sir,' replied Keating, who turned to Hervey with a look of some pride. 'My father had the honour of printing the bishop's loyal address on the occasion of the victory at Trafalgar.'

'Indeed, sir?' replied Hervey respectfully, but with a note of mystification.

The vicar-general began rummaging in one of several cupboards, until he found what he was looking for. 'Here, sir. Here is a copy of the Trafalgar letter. Keep it, Colonel Hervey. You will find that it speaks eloquently of the loyalty of those of our faith.'

Hervey took it, somewhat abashed. 'Sir, I do not doubt – nor have had any occasion to doubt – the loyalty of His Majesty's subjects.'

The vicar-general smiled disarmingly. 'Well, Colonel Hervey, perhaps you will tell me how we may be of further service.'

They sat, and Hervey explained Lord Holderness's intention that the regiment should parade for the funeral.

The vicar-general nodded approvingly. 'Well, Colonel Hervey, may I first say how gratifying is the commanding officer's intention. I foresee no difficulty with the obsequies: solemn requiem in St Mary's church in Moorfields for the soul of the late departed, praesente cadavere, followed by interment in the churchyard of St Pancras, which is the new cemetery.'

Hervey noticed the appreciative raising of Mr Keating's eyebrows. Evidently this was a proposal of some distinction. 'And this might be arranged for . . .'

'I believe it could be arranged for Friday next, the fourth.'

'Thank you. May we fix now upon a time? At eleven, say?'

'That would be meet.'

Hervey rose and made to leave. 'Thank you, reverend sir. With whom should the adjutant communicate in respect of the . . .s details?'

The vicar-general rose. 'I beg he would communicate with me. In the circumstances, the bishop – if you will permit the word – would wish it so. Indeed, I believe His Lordship would wish to receive you now, before you take your leave. You have no objection?'

Hervey smiled. 'It was my intention in coming here. But I understood the bishop was not at home.'

'Of the London district, no. I meant his coadjutor, the Bishop of Lydda.'

'Lydda?'

'In partibus infidelium. You will understand he could have no English title.'

'Mission' . . . 'in the regions of the infidels' . . . words that set these men apart, the suspicion of allegiance elsewhere than to the Crown (for all the fine words, no doubt, of the Trafalgar address). But Hervey did not bridle, for he was convinced that he met here with sincerity (and, no doubt, Lydda was in Ottoman hands!). 'I am honoured, sir.'

The vicar-general conducted his visitors upstairs to an oldfashioned wainscoted room. On the walls, smoke-darkened, were oils of various English martyrs, and over the fireplace a portrait of Pope Leo, with a crucifix prominent at the centre of the inner wall. Hervey examined each as if he were admitted to an exhibition of curiosities.

The outlandishly beneficed bishop, a man of about fifty, and wearing black day clothes, came in soon afterwards. Hervey at once recognized him – the spare, fervent features, the eyes that pierced to the soul, though the face was even more gaunt than when he had seen it a decade ago.

'My Lord, this is Colonel Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons.'

His Lordship smiled. 'I believe we have met, Colonel Hervey, have we not? In Rome?'

'Your Lordship has a good memory,' replied Hervey, returning the smile. 'There must have been many visitors to the college.' He bowed.

The bishop, formerly rector of the English seminary in Rome, held out a hand.

Hervey saw the episcopal ring, and wondered if he were meant to kiss it (he had once observed the custom in Spain). But the hand was held at such an angle as to suggest a more English fashion of greeting.

'I recall that you had left the service at that time,' said the bishop, motioning him to resume his seat.

'I had indeed, but I rejoined immediately on returning from Rome. Are you yourself long returned, sir?'

'Only lately, Colonel Hervey. In point of fact I was ordained bishop but a week ago.'

'And I myself was married but two weeks ago.'

The bishop nodded. 'We are each of us blessed in our respective sacraments.'

'I remember well your kindness that day, Father. I would not have explained, I am sure, that I had then only recently lost my wife.'

'Then you are doubly blessed in the sacrament,' the bishop pronounced gravely.

Hervey bowed again. 'I am.'

The bishop placed his hands together to indicate a change of direction. 'But now, the purpose of your visit . . . most admirable. If there are no objections, I myself will attend the obsequies.'

Hervey looked surprised. 'I am certain I may say, sir, that far from there being any objections, your presence would be an honour. The widower is my own serjeant-major, who is at this time at the Cape Colony. I believe it will be of great comfort to him when I inform him on my return.'

'We shall pray for him as well as for the soul of the faithful departed.'

Hervey nodded. 'I am truly grateful, My Lord.' (He made to rise.) 'And now I think I must detain you no longer.'

The bishop insisted on seeing him out.

As they came downstairs to the hall, a woman of about Hervey's age, in a day dress of fine brown cotton, with a length of white lace draped loosely about her head and shoulders, curtsied deep.

'Ah, Reverend Mother,' said the bishop. 'I am so very gratified you were able to come.'

The reverend mother looked enquiringly at Hervey as she rose.

'A gentleman from the army come on an unhappy but by no means unrewarding mission,' explained the bishop.

'Mr 'Ervey?' She pronounced his name as would a Frenchwoman.

'Sister Maria?'

'I perceive that introductions are not required,' said the bishop, curious.

Hervey was considerably animated. 'My Lord, my regiment was billeted in the reverend mother's convent after the battle of Toulouse.'

There was a deal more that he might have explained had the circumstances been more propitious.

The reverend mother smiled – an easy smile which spoke of the confidence of both her rank and calling. Maria Chantonnay's father was, or had been (Hervey had no idea if he were alive still), the Comte de Chantonnay, a royalist from the Vendée. Sister Maria, of the Carmelite Order, whose convent had been spared on account of the evident piety and charity of its sisters, as well as its seclusion, had nursed him in his temporary prostration which a French spontoon had occasioned. And, indeed, had helped him sift official papers left behind by Marshal Soult, a convalescent labour imposed on him by the authorities on account of his excellent French.