‘Ora pro nobis, Ora pro nobis, Pray for us,’ the faithful repeated.
Gervase Bentley Moreton, one-time Anglican Bishop of Compton, about to become the Catholic Bishop of Compton, had strips of cloth, anointed with oil, wrapped around his forehead. He was lying prostrate on the ground while the roll call of saints continued.
‘Omnes sancti Pontifices et Confessores, Sancte Antoni, Sancte Benedicte, Sancte Dominice, Sancte Francisce, All you holy bishops and Confessors, Saint Anthony St Benedict, St Dominic, St Francis’ and the reply rising up from the kneeling multitude, ‘Ora pro nobis, Pray for us.’
The Compton Yeomanry had not kept to their timetable. Two of the young officers Colonel Wheeler wanted in the expedition could not be roused from their beds. Only a terrible dressing-down from the adjutant brought them on to the parade ground, ten minutes late.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about the delay.’ Powerscourt said diplomatically to their commanding officer as they finally rode out, the troopers side by side along the road. ‘Mass is at twelve. It shouldn’t be over till one at the earliest. We’ve got plenty of time.’
The Colonel snorted. ‘Disgraceful behaviour, disgraceful. Damned good mind to confine them to quarters for a month. No more balls and parties then, what?’
Johnny Fitzgerald was riding right behind the Colonel on a borrowed horse. He remembered the time, early on in their career, when he and Powerscourt had nearly missed a parade altogether owing to overstaying their welcome at the Viceregal Ball in Simla.
‘Tell you what, Powerscourt,’ said the Colonel, the ride restoring his spirits, ‘do I get to bag the Bishop? That would be the nearest thing in this campaign to capturing the enemy colours, I should think. What chance of that?’
‘Nothing is impossible,’ said Powerscourt, wondering what exactly was going on in the cathedral at this moment. He had no idea what form the consecration of a cathedral would take.
Patrick Butler was watching the spectacle, mesmerized. He was writing almost continually in the small notebook hidden inside his missal. Anne Herbert beside him was thinking that her first husband would be turning in his grave. Hands were now being laid on Moreton’s head by the Bishop sent from Rome. There was a prayer of consecration. Then the congregation stared at Moreton as he kissed a copy of the Gospels and fresh clothes were brought for him.
‘What’s going on now?’ Patrick whispered to his next-door neighbour, a white-haired old lady from Southampton.
‘He’s only wearing an alb and stole at present,’ she muttered, pleased to be able to explain the intricacies of the service to an unbeliever. ‘They’re going to clothe him in dalmatics that a deacon wears and a chasuble, a priest’s vestment over the top of that.’
Patrick Butler wondered if dalmatics came from Dalmatia, wherever that was, but felt it better not to ask. The choir were singing an anthem now, the long litany of the saints sent back to their eternal rest. A pectoral cross was now hung round Moreton’s neck, white gloves were put on his hands and the Bishop’s ring was placed on the index finger of his right hand. The crozier or Bishop’s staff was handed over. It was a few minutes after eleven o’clock.
The Colonel’s cavalcade was now about eight miles from Compton. One or two villagers had come out of their houses to stare as they passed, the red uniforms and the gleaming horses a spectacular sight on Easter Sunday morning.
‘Powerscourt,’ said the Colonel, ‘please forgive me. Never at my brightest first thing in the morning. Attention has to be devoted to breakfast. Did you say that all these bloody parsons had defected to Rome? Every last deacon and prebendary?’
‘I’m afraid so, Colonel,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘Even the cathedral cat can now recite the Mass in Latin.’
‘God bless my soul.’ The Colonel was shaking his head as he trotted along the country lanes. ‘One of them going mad I could understand. Two at a pinch. But all of them!’ The Colonel stopped suddenly and looked back at his little column. ‘It’s as if,’ he said, slapping his horse firmly on the thigh, ‘all of my officers’ mess were to defect and join up with the wretched infantry, the damned foot sloggers! It’s not just treachery, it’s damned bad form!’ And with that he rode on to arrest the renegades.
Patrick Butler felt they must be nearing the end. The Bishop was seated now and the zuccheta or purple skull cap was placed on his head, followed by the mitre. Lady Lucy, sitting on the other side of Anne Herbert, felt the whole thing was a bit like a coronation though she doubted if Britain’s new sovereign would be crowned with quite so much incense. And though the cathedral was packed with the faithful she doubted if the streets of Compton would be filled with loyal subjects of the new administration in the cathedral. Almost all these people at the service were visitors. The citizens of Compton had stayed at home again, waiting for time and officialdom to give them back their cathedral. Now Bishop Moreton had made the sign of peace to his fellow Bishop and the attendant clergy and was moving down the main aisle, blessing the congregation as though he were the Pope himself. When he had been led back to the sanctuary by the Bishop from Rome he was formally seated on his cathedra. Gervase Bentley Moreton, until twenty hours before the Protestant Bishop of Compton, was now the Roman Catholic Bishop of Compton. As the choir began to sing Mozart’s Coronation Mass the Chief Constable slipped quietly out of the west door. He paced up and down the paths that criss-crossed the Cathedral Green staring at the roads that might bring reinforcements. Was Powerscourt coming? Had the cavalry refused the mission? Without them the Chief Constable simply did not know what he was going to do.
The Compton Horse were now a few miles from the city that bore their name. Every now and then the Colonel would look back to check that his little troop were in their proper formation.
‘Don’t suppose you know how long the campaign will last, Powerscourt?’ he said as the spire of the minster came into view. ‘Short engagement, or long siege? Bloody boring things sieges, so they tell me.’
‘I doubt if it will last more than a couple of days,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But without your assistance the whole affair would have been a complete fiasco.’
‘Never thought we’d end up guarding a flock of treacherous parsons,’ the Colonel continued. ‘Don’t suppose we’ll be adding it to the regimental colours.’
‘I’m sure that your role will be recognized,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if they would be in time. Johnny Fitzgerald had ridden ahead to find out how long before the service would end.
‘I’d better detach a couple of fellows to sort out the commissariat,’ said the Colonel. ‘I feel as though I could manage a bite of luncheon quite soon.’
The Bishop was addressing his congregation. Anne Herbert was feeling deeply irritated that all these men, who had cared for her so well after the death of her husband, were now desecrating his memory. Lady Lucy was wondering where Francis was and if he would arrive in time. Patrick Butler was trying to hear what was happening outside. Once he heard the horses’ hooves rattling on the stones outside, he said to himself, he would slip out the side door. He checked once more the spot where the Chief Constable and Chief Inspector Yates had been sitting. They were not there.
The Bishop was holding up the box containing the words of the monk of Compton, recently serialized in the Mercury. ‘This casket,’ he told his congregation, holding it well aloft above the ornate pulpit, ‘contains the link between Compton’s past and Compton’s future. It was discovered in our crypt earlier this year. It contains what I believe to be the last writings of a monk who dwelt here in the days before the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 1530s. Those of you who live in or around Compton may have read my translations of the earlier sections of the document in our local newspaper. For the visitors to our cathedral on this special day, our one thousandth birthday, I would merely say that it is like a diary, the fears, the reflections, the last words of this monk, whose name we do not know, as his end approached and he went to the scaffold for his faith.’