The spell broke.
Panic and confusion reigned. People screamed and wailed. Some ran from the cathedral, whether in pursuit or to spread the news was not clear. Others ran to help Grim rise to his feet. Tears ran down his face. He was covered in blood. His own and his archbishop’s.
I could hear a voice in my ear, dutifully reporting the knights’ departure. I saw Evan nod and speak. They’d all kept their heads. Tim exhaled with relief. I rubbed his shoulder and said, softly, ‘Good job, Tim.’ He nodded but before he could speak, people ran forward and began to tear off pieces of the archbishop’s robes. At first I thought they were attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but they dipped the rags carefully in the red pool and stowed them away.
Already the legends had begun.
Tim went off to speak to Evan while I stood still, collecting my thoughts, letting others mill around me.
When they came to prepare his body for burial, they would find he wore both a hair shirt and hair breeches, both garments stained with blood as they irritated and chafed his skin. They would also find his body riddled with worms. He must have been in constant pain. I could not help comparing this emaciated man, suffering gladly for his faith, with the hard-drinking, hard-riding playboy companion of the king. He hadn’t played at being Archbishop of Canterbury. He hadn’t used his office as an excuse for high living as so many did and would do in the future. He had found a purpose in his life. I felt a slight sadness at my own lack of faith.
Tim and I stood back as Evan collected his team together, checked them off, and we made our way softly through the crying people, outside into the brilliant, star-studded night and back to St Mary’s.
They were ready.
And so to our Last Night Fancy Dress Party.
I knew Peterson would go as Robin Hood. He always did. Guthrie usually went as a Viking, complete with historically inaccurate horns on his helmet. I’d been so busy organising my departure I’d forgotten to sort out my own costume until Mrs Partridge brought in the most gorgeous golden gown and hung it on the back of the door.
I gasped. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Wardrobe,’ she said, smugly. ‘It was commissioned for a series about the Borgias. They didn’t like this one.’
‘Why ever not? It’s wonderful.’
‘The actress playing Lucretia Borgia claimed it made her look sallow.’
‘And did it?’
‘Oh, yes. But her bad complexion is your gain, Director.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Partridge. I confess I’d forgotten all about it.’
She nodded. ‘I thought you had.’
I wondered briefly if she had ever performed similar services for Dr Bairstow. It seemed unlikely. Firstly, Dr Bairstow never forgot anything and, secondly, at similar events in our time, Dr Bairstow always went as the Director of St Mary’s. He’d found his look and he stuck with it.
‘And you? What’s your costume?’
She just raised an eyebrow and I kicked myself. Of course, she’d be going Greek.
I never gave a thought to what Leon might wear.
The first thing I discovered was that the dress was so low-cut that the wearing of any underwear at all – anomalous or otherwise – was not even to be considered. Theoretically, the dress was boned and so tightly laced that any additional load-bearing garments should be superfluous. That’s all well and good, but even after I’d defied the laws of physics and fastened it all up there was still a horrifying amount pushed up and out, apparently defying gravity. Modest ladies could insert little lace or muslin fichus, to prevent early-onset blindness in their male escorts. I did my best, but even a tablecloth the size of the plain at Marathon wasn’t going to cut it. I bundled my hair up in a jewelled net, slapped on some make-up, and made an entrance.
I had two energetic dances with Evan and instructed him, as Senior Historian, to dance with every member of his department.
‘Even the girls,’ I said, nastily and left him spluttering. He was such a product of the previous regime.
I saw Leon across the hall. I don’t know who he’d come as. He was wearing a loose linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, tight breeches, and leather boots. He looked like every 19th century hero come to life – Mr Darcy, Heathcliff, Mr Rochester … all distilled and poured into a pair of skin-tight breeches. They were cream and very, very tight. I had always thought he had a nice bum anyway, but it wasn’t just … they fitted him well … really well … he had good, strong legs … they really were quite tight … things were … outlined …
I walked into a table.
‘Good evening, Director,’ he said, calmly and I knew he was laughing at me.
‘Good evening, Leon,’ I said, vowing future vengeance.
‘How did Thomas Becket go?’
‘Without a hitch,’ I said, proudly.
‘Well done,’ he said, failing to make eye contact.
‘Hey. I’m up here.’