'Upon the stroke of four.' .
'Thank you.'
A dismissive flick of the hand sent the servant backing out of the room. Sir Clarence lifted his lids and read the passage that he had been studying. Closing the book gently, he put it under his arm and made his way out. He now felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.
The hall was a large rectangle with oak panelling along three walls and a series of high windows along the other wall with leaded panes. Gilt-framed mirrors and family portraits broke up the monotony. A moulded ceiling gave a sense of grandeur. Furniture was all of prime oak and tastefully arranged. In the vast, stone fireplace at the far end of the hall was an iron fireback bearing the Marmion coat-of-arms. Iron firedogs stood beside an iron basket piled high with logs.
When Sir Clarence entered, they were all waiting and their murmured conversations stopped at once. He looked at them all with an amalgam of pride and sorrow and then opened his arms in welcome. The whole family came across to greet him and he exchanged pleasantries with them all. Then came the moment when the baby was placed into his arms. It was a boy, barely three months old, yet strong and lusty, waving his tiny fists at the world with Marmion defiance, wriggling in his white lace robe as if anxious to be about more important business.
Sir Clarence raised the child up to plant a kiss on its forehead and almost got a box on the ear for his temerity. With a soft half-smile, he handed his first grandchild back to his daughter-in-law then led the way across to the most recent of the portraits on display. It was a painting of his father, hanging above them with a look of stern purpose and showing all the qualities of character associated with dynasty. It was a source of the utmost regret that he was no longer alive to share in family celebrations.
'Give us your blessing, Father,' said Sir Clarence.
Then he reached forward and felt behind the lower edge of the frame. There was a click and a small door opened in the panelling on oiled hinges. A narrow passage was revealed. Stone steps led downwards. .
Sir Clarence indicated his tiny grandson.
'Let him lead the way.'
Carried by his mother, the child went through the entrance and down the steps. Candles provided light all the way. The rest of the family followed with the head of the house bringing up the rear. As he stepped through the door, Sir Clarence pulled it shut and it clicked tight behind him. The odour of frankincense drifted up towards him. He was drawn down the staircase and along a dank subterranean passage until he came to the room in which all the others had now gathered.
It was a chapel. Sir Clarence had commissioned die building of it and the place never ceased to give him comfort and joy. Small, cold and necessarily secret though it might be, it was as inspiring as York Minster to him and he let its wonder work on him once more. The others took up their places in the pews, then they knelt to pay homage to their maker. Sir Clarence joined them, kneeling between his wife and his grandson, crossing himself as lie did so.
The altar was ablaze with candles. Standing on its centre was a large gold crucifix that reflected the fierce light and glowed as if on fire. As the little congregation looked up, their eyes were transfixed by the sight. A steel door opened beside the altar and a figure entered in the vestments of a Catholic priest. Everyone stood up at once to show their respect. The priest moved quietly into position beside the stone font and glanced benignly at the child. From his calm and assured manner, nobody would guess that the man was about to commit a heinous crime.
Robert Rawlins began the service of baptism.
'Truly, you do him wrong to put such sayings upon him.'
'I must obey the word of God.'
'But it was God who joined you in holy matrimony.'
'He has other work for me now, sir.'
'Your husband is wounded most grievously.'
'We must all suffer in the service of the Lord.'
Miles Melhuish shook his head in frustration. He was standing in the vestry beside Eleanor Budden, deeming it wise to remain on his feet so that he had the option of flight in the event of some emergency. He could not be too careful. The woman was quiescent now but he had not forgotten the overwhelming passion of which she was capable and he was anxious not to touch it off while they were alone together on consecrated ground.
He moved behind the chair on which she sat.
'I will put a question to you, Mistress.'
'I listen in all humility.'
'You tell me that you have been chaste since the voice of God whispered in your ear.'
'That is so, sir.'
'Then here is my question...'
Melhuish groped for the words. It was not a matter he had ever raised with a woman before and it tested his resolve. When he spoke with other female parishioners in the privacy of his vestry, it was usually to scold them for not attending church or to advise them on the proper Christian upbringing of their children. Duty was now compelling him to climb into bed with a married couple and effect their union. It was a foreign country to him and he did not know the language.
'Here is my question, Eleanor,' he said nervously. 'If there came a man with a sword who would strike off your husband's head if you did not take that worthy fellow back into your bed, tell me, in all conscience, for you say you will not lie, what would you do?'
'I will answer you true, sir.'
'Would you let Humphrey Budden commit the act of love with you--or have his head cut off?'
'I would rather see him being killed.'
'That is cruelty itself, woman!'
'I cannot help it, sir,' said Eleanor calmly. 'We must turn our back on all uncleanness.'
'God has ordained love between man and wife.'
'I have submitted to His purpose three times.'
'Is that all?' said the vicar in surprise. 'Yet Humphrey spoke of daily indulgence.'
'I mean that I have shared my bed with three husbands, sir. They did not find me wanting in love.'
'Until now, sister.'
'Times have changed.'
Miles Melhuish was losing control. The aim of his examination was to put sufficient pressure on Eleanor Budden to make her see the error of her ways but she was blithely unconcerned when he chastised her. What she always came back to was the word of God and it was on that subject that he must confound her. Countless years of unremitting prayer had given him his own privileged access to divine command and he felt that he knew the timbre of the
Lord's voice more intimately than any lacemaker's wife, however much she might protest her devotion. 'When did God first talk with you?' he said.
'This se'n night since.'
'And where were you at this time?'
'Buying fish at the market, sir.'
Miles Melhuish started. 'The Lord spoke to you amid the smell of mackerel?'
'I heard Him as clear as day.'
'And what words did He use in that marketplace?'
'He said: 'Put aside your husband and follow me.' God called me by name and I obeyed Him straight.'
'What did you then do?'
'Return to my house and go up to the bedchamber. We have a crucifix on the wall so that Jesus may watch over us. I then proclaimed my mission.'
'How was that done, good lady?'
'That is the wonder of it,' she said with a shrug of her shoulders that made her breasts bob invitingly. 'I do not know what befell me next. But when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor and you were standing over me with my husband and all was blissful peace.'
'Yon recall nothing of a great noise you made?'
