He put his hand on hers. “We’ll leave it at that one.”
“If you want.” She smiled at him, happy. They kissed, then lay with their arms about each other.
The Seal of St. Luke lay discarded with their clothes, forgotten for this moment, as far away as the war from this private, warm place. She tasted his skin with her tongue. “Will it always be like this?”
“If we want it.”
“I want it.”
The stream ran clean beneath a flawless sky and Campion knew peace.
Twenty-eight
“The rain,” Lady Margaret announced from the window, “will delay itself until tomorrow.” This was not an opinion, rather an order to Almighty God who, from Campion’s sleepy view in bed, had different plans. The sky over Oxford was gray. September had started with bleak weather.
Lady Margaret stood over the bed. “Do you intend to lie there all day?”
Campion shook her head. “No.”
“It is a quarter past six, child, and I have delayed breakfast till half past.”
“I shall be there.”
Lady Margaret looked down at her. “You’re looking much better, child. Whatever my son did to you a week ago was obviously long overdue.” With that she swept from the room, shouting for Enid, calling downstairs to the kitchens, stirring the household into what would be its busiest day. She left Campion amused and a little astonished. Amused because Lady Margaret so obviously approved of her son prematurely deflowering his bride, and astonished that she herself had been so transparent. She had tried to hide the shadow across her life, and now she knew that it had been observed all along by both mother and son.
The shadow was gone, and that was proper because today should be a day of no shadows. Today was the day that proved even the wildest dreams could come true, today she would marry.
Lady Margaret at breakfast, was less optimistic. “He may not turn up at church, dear. I ejected him from the house last night and I have great doubts as to his sobriety this morning. He’s probably fallen in love with a tapster’s daughter and eloped. I had a third cousin who once fell in love with her father’s chief stable-man.”
“You did?”
“I just said so.” The Roman nose sniffed at the birch tea and decided it was drinkable. “They married her off to a particularly dull clergyman in the fens. I suspect they rather hoped she would drown, but she had nine children and became a thorn in the ample flesh of the Bishop of Ely. Do eat, child.”
The wedding dress was the most magnificent that could be made in Oxford. The petticoat was of white silk, worked all over with small flowers in pale blue silk thread. Enid, under Lady Margaret’s directions, laced the petticoat tight and then picked up the wedding dress itself from the bed.
It was mostly of white satin, brilliant white, the skirt folded back at the front to show the petticoat, and the two folds held in place by rows of blue silk roses. There were no hooks or laces on the dress. Instead Enid tightened it by threading blue ribbons into the holes at the back of the dress, tying each ribbon in a large bow. The sleeves of the dress were also attached by bows to the bodice, each bow would yield to a single pull. The collar of the dress, heavy and stiff, was of silk brocade, white and cream, the weave expensive and beautiful.
There was more. The shoes, that daringly showed under the hem of her petticoat when she walked, were covered in silver satin and each had a blue flower on its toe. Her earrings were sapphire, the fillet in her hair was silver and from it hung seven yards of lace that Lady Margaret had worn at her own wedding. Lady Margaret twitched the lace into place. “One more thing.”
“More?”
“Try not to be impatient, child.” Lady Margaret went to her workbox. “Here.”
The lace gloves, edged with pearls, were in Lady Margaret’s hands. Campion looked at them, remembering the night she had found them in Matthew Slythe’s hiding place in his great chest, and she knew that these gloves had been her mother’s. Kit Aretine, doubtless, had given them to his “angel,” and perhaps she had hoped, against hope itself, that she would wear them at her own wedding. They had been sent to Werlatton, the only possessions of Agatha Prescott that still survived. Lady Margaret sniffed. “I brought them from Lazen when that odious little man evicted me. I can’t think why you’re crying, child.”
“Oh, Lady Margaret!” Campion wondered if her mother could see her from heaven now. She pulled the gloves on, delicate and fine. “How will he put the ring on?”
“You still assume he’ll be there? He’ll just have to shove away, won’t he. You don’t want to make things easy for men, dear. Now. Let me look at you.”
Lady Margaret, who was proud that her son had found and was to marry such a beautiful girl, and even prouder of the fact that Campion wore her beauty lightly and not as a weapon, stepped back and looked her up and down critically. “You can change your mind, of course.”
“I can?”
Enid laughed. “I’ll have to call you Lady Lazender in two hours, miss.”
“Enid!”
“Of course she will!” Lady Margaret came back to join in the unnecessary twitching of perfectly draped clothes. “You’re entering the aristocracy, child, and you will find polite respect a small recompense for your responsibilities.” She stepped back again, satisfied. “You look remarkably beautiful, Campion. It’s surprising what a good dressmaker can do for a girl. You may go downstairs and meet your gentleman.”
“My gentleman?”
“Did you think you were to walk up the aisle alone?”
Campion had thought precisely that. She knew that Mordecai Lopez could not be in Oxford, a letter had arrived just two days before, and she had no relative to give her away. She had steeled herself for the lonely walk to Toby’s side. “Who is it?”
“It is hardly polite to call him ‘it.’ He’s gone to a remarkable amount of trouble to do this service for you and I’ve no doubt it’s a trial to him. The least you can do is go downstairs and be pleasant to him.” Beneath Lady Margaret’s tartness, as ever, was warmth, but Campion suspected that the older woman was hiding more emotion than usual.
The gentleman waited, one hand smoothing his small moustache, the face questing toward the sound of her feet on the stairs. “Who’s that?”
“Colonel Washington!”
He beamed, looking as proud and happy as if she were his own daughter. Over his eyes, but not hiding all of the terrible scar, was a velvet mask. He was quite blind.
She kissed him. “Colonel!”
“You remember me, my dear!” He preened himself, drawing himself up to his full height which was still an inch less than Campion. He held her hands and smiled. “It’s not too late to change your mind, my dear. I’m at your complete service.” He smiled. “I’m sure you look beautiful, you always did. I hope I don’t disgrace you.”
“You look wonderful, Colonel.” Washington was in brown velvet, the material slashed to show red beneath, while round his waist was the King’s sash. In one hand was a hugely plumed hat, while at his side, only decorative now, was his sword.
Lady Margaret came down the stairs. “Ah! Sir Andrew!”
“Sir Andrew?” Campion asked.
Washington nodded. “The King rewarded me for my blindness. A pension might have been more useful, but these days titles are cheaper.” He turned his face toward Lady Margaret. “The carriage is waiting, your Ladyship. It will return for us.”
“But not too quickly, Andrew. Toby’s had things entirely too easy. It’s time he was given a little waiting and worrying.” Lady Margaret said it as though Toby had not waited and worried while his bride was in the hands of their enemies, yet it was not that which alerted Campion. There was a hint, perhaps more, of affection in her voice. She looked from the tall woman to the short man and smiled. Lady Margaret saw the smile and sniffed. “You just hope my son is sober, child, which I very much doubt. He’s probably drunk in some tavern cellar.”
Sir Andrew Washington added to the gl
oom, “I hope the rain stays off.”
Lady Margaret scoffed at the thought. “It will not rain! Come, Enid!”
When Lady Margaret had gone, Campion looked at the colonel. “This is kind of you.”
“Not at all, my dear. Very proud, very proud. I’m just sorry it has to be me and no one closer to you.”
“Dear Sir Andrew, I can think of no one I would rather have by me.”
He liked that. “Still, you’ll have to guide me up the aisle, my dear. I’m not used to this darkness.”
“How do you manage?”
“Oh, I get along.” He smiled. “I have a small house in Wiltshire and the servants are kind. They read to me and I can garden very well by feel. I find that I enjoy conversations more than I used. I listen, you see.” The velvet mask was turned up toward her. “Lady Margaret was desperately worried for you. I was in Oxford during your ordeal, I wish I could have been more help.”
“I survived, Sir Andrew.”
“We prayed you would, indeed we did. My knees are still sore! Now, are you all ready for parade? Anything you have to do before we go?”
It was not far to St. Mary’s Church and Campion, blushing at the admiration of the crowd that gathered to watch Colonel Washington hand her into the coach, thought of the journey that had brought her this far. It had started with one seal, St. Matthew, and it had taken her from the dull, coarse, black clothes of the Puritans, from their tight, bitter, envious rules, to this morning of silk and satin, of splendor and marriage. One casual meeting by a stream had led to this altar, and she thought of the one thing that had never altered in all the months. Through war and fire, through imprisonment and wounding, she and Toby had not faltered in their love.
The wedding was popular in Oxford. As the summer’s campaigning drew to a close the Royalists could look back on a spring and summer of frustration and defeat. Their enemies grew stronger, the King’s cause weaker, yet Campion was a symbol of defiance. She had been tried as a Royalist, as a witch, and she had escaped to the King’s capital where she was reckoned as a heroine. The crowd was large outside St. Mary’s and, as James Wright opened the door, she faltered. James smiled at her. He had come to Oxford as Toby’s soldier-servant, yet he guarded Campion whenever she stepped outside of the house without Toby.
Colonel Sir Andrew Washington took her elbow. “Courage, my dear!”
She had not expected the church to be so full. As she warned Sir Andrew of a step at the entrance, so the music began, triumphant music that filled the church, music that soared from organ and choir, and Campion seemed to be swamped by the sound and the sight before her. The congregation had come in their Royalist finery; lace, silver, velvet, satin, silks and jewels, all lit by the candles which Mordecai Lopez’s money had purchased. She turned Colonel Washington into the main aisle, feeling the nervousness on her, smiling shyly at the faces that turned to look at her, and then she saw Toby.
He seemed tall at the choir steps. He was dressed in silver velvet, his sleeves and breeches slashed to show gold satin. He wore tall gray boots, turned lavishly above the knee to show a scarlet lining. He grinned impishly at her and for a second she thought she would laugh, such was the joy in her, but it was a joy fraught with nervous excitement. She doubted if she would be able to raise her voice to respond to the bishop, resplendent in embroidered vestments, who watched her walk toward the altar.
The bishop married them. Campion surprised herself by the firmness of her voice, even when she said the words that seemed to blend her life and her dreams. “I, Campion Dorcas Slythe Aretine…”
Sir Toby, as nervous as his bride, forced the ring over the lace glove. The words of the service hardly penetrated her excitement, though she felt her heart leap when Toby repeated his vows. “‘With my body I thee worship.’” That would not have been Matthew Slythe’s way, the Puritan way, for they saw nothing worshipful in the human body. They might call it “the temple of the Holy Spirit,” but Campion had learned in childhood that they saw that temple as an excreter of filth, a fleshly bag of temptation, a burden that brought sin to the soul and was well sloughed off at death. Matthew Slythe had been fond of the text that in heaven there was neither giving nor taking in marriage, but Campion was sure that there must be meadows by clean streams where lovers could love.
The Reverend Simon Perilly gave the blessing, his face beaming with joy, and then the bishop preached a mercifully short sermon before the organ thundered out again, and Campion walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm. She was Campion Lazender now. She would never again be Dorcas Slythe. She had, as lovers must, made her own fate.
The first sunlight of the day greeted them as they left the church. The light dazzled from the ceremonial broad-bladed pikes of the King’s Halberdiers whose scarlet uniforms made a corridor away from the church. The shadows of the pikes were sharp on the petals strewn at their feet.
The pealing of the city’s bells carried them to Merton College which, until a few weeks before, had been Queen Henrietta Maria’s residence in Oxford. It was still the queen’s temporary palace, even though she was abroad, and Toby had been given permission to hold the wedding feast in the great hall. He had demurred at spending so much on a wedding, but Campion had wanted them to have a ceremony worthy of the Lazenders, she wanted to defy the enemies that had tried to make her new family poor. They would have, she had insisted, a wedding to remember, so she had insisted on using part of the money Lopez had lent her.
Lady Margaret had abandoned mourning for this day. She was resplendent in scarlet, lording it over the hall where music played and where friends and strangers came for the food and wine. People eyed the bride with admiration and asked Lady Margaret where the girl had sprung from. “She’s Aretine’s filly. You must remember the family? Quite excellent stock. There’s a McClure strain, but well Englished.”
Campion was introduced to more people than she could hope to remember, had her hand kissed four score times and more, and even her lack of dancing skill did not matter for few people were sober enough to do it well. They danced old English dances; “Cherrily and Merrily,” “The Friar and the Nun,” and, as the afternoon turned into evening, it became more riotous as the men insisted on doing “Up Tails All” and Campion was forced into leading the ladies in “Petticoat Wag.” Caroline, who had come to Oxford for the wedding, shouted instructions at Campion, “Pull it higher! Higher!”
It rained briefly at dusk, enough to give cobbles and walls, archways and bushes, a sheen of reflected light from the torches that showed Toby and Campion home-ward. Toby’s closest friends were now their escort, friends who were rowdy, happy and expectant. This was the one part of the traditional wedding to which Campion did not look forward. She smiled at Toby in the doorway of Lord Tallis’s house. “Must we?”
“Of course! It’s always done!” He laughed.
It was for this moment that the dress was tied only with ribbons. The girls who had brought Campion home jostled her up the stairs, their hands reaching out to pluck the ribbons away. They half carried her and the men, who watched from the hall below, cheered as each pale blue ribbon was tossed over the banisters. Her right arm was naked first, then her left, and the men crowded up the stairs demanding more. The dress fell away from her as she was pushed into the bedroom, and they laid her on the bed and pulled at the petticoat laces.
The shouts of the men were close now as they pulled out the ribbons which held Toby’s breeches to his coat. Caroline tugged Campion’s petticoat off, leaving her naked, and Campion laughed as she struggled to get the heavy sheets and blankets over her body.
The laughter of the girls turned to shrieks as Toby was pushed through the door. He was quite naked, except for the glove on his maimed hand, and he grinned at the girls, bowed to them, as the men pushed him toward the bed. Caroline helped Campion hang on to the sheets as the men put Toby into bed with her. Sir Toby, safe with his bride, yelled at them, “You’ve done your duty! Go!”
Most decided to stay
, settling themselves with bottles of wine and grinning at the naked couple beneath the sheets. This was hardly a Puritan wedding, but it was a traditional English wedding, and Campion blushed when the guests said they might leave if she kissed Toby. She kissed him.
“More! More!”
They left after twenty minutes, the laggards pursued by a naked, capering Toby who locked the door when they were alone and turned to grin at her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She smiled. “No.”
“And they’ll all be waiting for us downstairs. Listen.” He knelt on the boards and thumped the floor loud and rhythmically. A huge cheer sounded from below. He grinned at her. “What have you got on?”
“Nothing!”
“Show me.”
“Toby!”
He came and sat beside her on the bed. “Hello, Lady Lazender.”
“Hello, Sir Toby.”
“It’s time we got married in God’s eyes.”
“I thought we already were.”
“That was just practice.” He pulled the bedclothes from her, bent to kiss her, and Campion, at last, was married.
Oxford was unbearable by late October. The King’s army had returned, King Charles with it, and the city was crammed beyond endurance. Lady Margaret hated the crowded, stinking streets. It was decided that all of them would move north to Woodstock, close to the city and with its own small garrison of Royalist troops. Toby never forgot the danger Campion was in. If Sir Grenville could engineer her death, then the Covenant would be his forever, yet Toby believed she might be safer in the small, guarded village than among the crowded anonymity of the city’s streets.
They had one duty to perform before they left. They were summoned to an audience at court and the three of them went one windy, wet day to the crowded quadrangles of Christ Church. The crowd was bad-tempered, the soldiers who had to keep order frustrated, and it was with slow difficulty that Toby led his wife and mother through to the great hall and to the end of the long, shuffling queue of people summoned to greet the King.
A Crowning Mercy Page 41
