Her uncle shook his head. “There’s no Twelfth Night in the Bible,” he said. “And no call for one in a godly church.”
“And that’s too soon!” Alinor protested. “We’ll never get anything like the money in that time.”
Alys shrugged. “A later day in January then. Or February. A day without a name.”
“Then you’ll have to spin faster,” Ned told her. “Or spin gold, like the lass in the story.”
“What’s the hurry?” Alinor asked her. “In bad weather and dark afternoons? Why not wait for spring?”
The pretty girl showed her most mischievous smile. “Because I want a warm bed in bad weather and dark afternoons.”
Alinor gave a little frown and a nod towards the girl’s uncle to remind her to mind her tongue.
“Marriage is a serious contract, to be taken in hand for the glory of God,” Ned said solemnly. “Not at the whim of the lusts of the young. You’d do better to be the Lord’s handmaiden, ask in your prayers, till He says the time is right.”
“Yes,” Alys agreed, her pretty face grave. “But how long would you have me wait, Uncle Ned? For there you are on your own, and there is Ma all alone here. I know we’re a family as cool-blooded as fish, but even so . . .”
Despite himself her uncle laughed and bent to pat his dog on the head.
“We’ll never get the dowry in time, if you bring the wedding forward,” Alinor warned her.
“We will,” Alys said confidently. “Because Richard’s going to make it up for me.”
“What?” Ned demanded. “The bridegroom pay the dowry to himself?”
Alys glowed with pride. “He loves me so much,” she said. “He doesn’t want me to worry.”
“Has he got his own savings?” Alinor asked. “Has he got that sort of fortune?”
“From his grandfather Stoney. Willed to him. It’s all his. And he’ll give it to me. He’s promised to make up, if we’re short.”
Alinor moved her shoulders as if a weight of anxiety had slid away. “Thank God,” she said. “I’ve been so—”
“I told you it would come out all right.”
“You’re very sure of yourself,” Ned remarked.
Alys peeped up at him. “I’m sure about this,” she said.
DOUAI, FRANCE, SEPTEMBER 1648
James woke just before Prime to the chiming of the great bell, La Joyeuse, and knew himself to be safely home, where he had been raised and educated, where he was known and loved. Here he could use his God-given name, he could speak of his parents; here he could pray for his king. Here he was part of a community, passionately religious, fiercely patriotic, a community of spies ready to return at any moment to their English homes, to bring their country back to God. His waking thought was one of glorious relief: that he had survived his mission to England, where so many young men, educated, known, and loved just like him, had not. Even before he opened his eyes, he thanked God that he had been spared, neither denounced by false friends nor inadvertently betraying himself. He had not faced a court, or death by burning. He could admit to himself now how very afraid he had been. That made him think of Alinor and her unthinking protection. She decided to hide him at the very moment that they met; she had risked her life to nurse him. He thought that she was guided by God to do the right thing, and though she was a heretic, she had served God in saving him.
As soon as her grave dark gaze came into his mind, every other thought was gone and he was lost for long moments in the recollection of her profile, and how she turned her head, and the fall of her hair. At once he was back in the stable loft, feeling her lips against his skin, but then the pale walls of his cell suddenly reflected the passing candle of the brother who tapped on his door and called “Pax Vobiscum,” and all down the corridor came the reply: “Amen,” “Amen,” “Amen,” as the brothers and the scholars sat up in their little beds and welcomed the gift of another day.
Only James felt that the blessing was not for him, was not given to him knowingly. His brothers and his superiors at the university and the abbey did not know how he had failed, and if they had known, they would not have blessed him. He feared they would blame him and he knew that they would be right to do so. His waking joy faded, and his confident thanks to God. He rose from his bed barefoot onto the cold stone floor, and washed his face and hands, his armpits and crotch in a bowl of cold water with a cake of best Castille soap. He pulled on his linen shift, his robe, he tied the rope belt at his waist. He pushed his damp feet into his new leather sandals, opened his cell door, and joined the line of young men, hoods over their heads, eyes down to the floor, going to the service of Prime in the abbey. Absorbed in their own prayers, none of them looked at him, or greeted him, and James felt a gulf of separation from these who had been his childhood companions.
“God forgive me,” he whispered as he walked, surrounded by young men praising God, confident in the world that they would enter, certain that they would restore it to the true faith. “God forgive me, God forgive me, God forgive me my sins.”
He seemed to pray with true penitence throughout the service, murmuring the familiar responses, singing the psalms. But he knew that he was not penitent, he knew that he was at war with himself. He had failed in his mission, he had failed his king and he had failed his vows. He would not list Alinor among his sins. With her, he had been truly himself, as he had never been since childhood. With her, he had a glimpse of a godly life in the world, not one in the cloister. He thought he might be a better husband than a priest; he knew at any rate that he despaired of his vocation. His passion for her gave his life meaning, where otherwise he was lost. It was a revolutionary thought for a young man who had been dedicated to the Church from childhood, but he could not help himself. He had a conviction that he had never felt before: that he did not want to be here, hiding behind high walls in northern France; that he did not want to keep faith with a king who was unable to rule; that he did not even want to restore the true religion to England. The only thing he truly wanted was to go to his family home in Yorkshire, take the woman that he loved to his house, and live there as an Englishman, at peace on his own fields.
As soon as the liturgy was over, the brothers went to the dining hall to break their fast in a silence emphasized by the quiet reading in Latin of the gospel for the day. Then one of the senior brothers rose to his feet and announced the duties of the day, the work expected of the novices, the names of those who would study, garden, farm, clean and cook, or serve in the church workshops. James was ordered to attend the senior professor in his chambers. A few of the young seminarians glanced enviously at James, wishing that they too might be sent to England, to go into hiding to spy and serve the hidden Roman Catholic faithful. He did not acknowledge them. He thought they were fools to long for martyrdom. They would not wish for it if they knew what it was like to stand on a darkened quayside and watch for a light and not know if it were a friend or an enemy. They would not wish for it if they had ever got within a second of the most triumphant victory of the war, only to see it thrown away for a whim. But he avoided their glances, bowed his head in obedience, and went on his own to the professor’s rooms.
He was admitted by a clerk and found Dr. Sean seated behind his table, his stole of office scarlet against the black of his gown, a black cap of office on his head, his thin face pale and drawn. He rose from his chair and skirted the table to greet James, and hugged him, kissing him on both cheeks in the French way, and then made the sign of the cross and blessed him. “Sit down,” he said warmly. “Sit down, my son, and tell me everything.”