The Vizard Mask (95 page)

He was rescuing her. It would have been impossible to succeed without male authority in this bastion of maleness. Still, if she could only get Aphra honoured as she should be honoured, the female sex would have won a victory. And you'd have liked Henry, Affie.

What it says,' he was saying pointedly, 'is that the King expects the Chapter of Westminster Abbey to honour the promise of its Dean and bury Mistress Behn in the South Transept.'

'Does it?' asked the Archdeacon.

Did it? She hadn't read it, but she was damned sure it didn't.

'It does,' said Henry. 'Perhaps you would inform the Chapter.'

'Don't do it, Archdeacon,' yelled the soberer prebendary. 'The King can't dictate to us.'

Penitence was sick of him. 'Yes he can.'

Henry placed his sword-tip against the prebendary's spine and bowed to the Archdeacon. 'Lead the way.'

The battle in the Cloisters was going badly for Aphra's side. The Church had brought in reinforcements in the shape of beadles and adult choristers. The street-walkers and beggars had wisely disappeared. The actresses were inflicting damage, though running out of ammunition; nearly all the men had been forced to surrender. Creech and Benedick still struggled with three Yeomen and John Downes, panting with age, was fencing beautifully with a beadle. Betterton's sword, however, lay at his feet as he displayed open palms to two muskets aimed at him and Dogberry. Payne had been wounded in the leg. Sam Bryskett's arms were being held behind his back by assorted prebendaries.

The most interesting situation was Nat Lee's. His brown paper hat had unravelled and hung in folds round his head which was the only part of him to be seen, the rest being down the hole dug for Aphra, and he was flinging up stones and earth at anyone trying to get near him. He looked like an angry rabbit.

'Pax,' shouted the Archdeacon. He didn't have the voice.

Henry did. 'pax.'

All bodies stilled, all heads turned. After one look, Nat Lee scrabbled on.

The Marquis gestured to the Archdeacon. 'Your scene, Venerable Sir.'

The Archdeacon rose to it: 'Bury the bloody woman,' he said, 'King's orders.'

There were protests from the Church's army.

And one from Aphra's. 'She's going in P-pp-poets' Corner.'

But at this the enemy ranks raised their weapons again with a chorus of 'No'. The Archdeacon shook his head: 'Here or nowhere.' The soberer prebendary said: 'Over my dead body.'

The Marquis rescued him just in time by standing between him and those from the theatre prepared to take the man up on his offer. 'Look around you, Boots,' he pleaded. 'If you go on somebody's going to get killed.'

She looked around and saw that her years of accumulated fury at women's wrongs had sent her sufficiently insane to believe she could right them, reducing her and Aphra and Aphra's friends into fools. Colours which had illumined the last few minutes muted into the grey shadows of a stone passageway where bruised and tattered misfits stood in the grip of eternal authority.

I'm proud of them. They couldn't win. Would never win. It was only because they had spent their lives in illusion that they had even dared to try. Henry was right. The play was over; the audience hadn't appreciated it - to the point where it was prepared to kill them. Already she and Neville Payne were bleeding, nearly all the others hurt.

'Boots,' said the Marquis, 'you've got her this far. Settle for it. Learn to compromise, for God's sake.'

She looked at him. He was proffering medicine that he'd already had to take. Even now he wasn't reconciled to her past; he never would be. He had compromised with it to gain their future. In her turn she would have to overcome her resentment of his resentment. She would have to compromise, not just over Aphra, but over the rest of her life. Well, there were worst fates than a compromise. England itself had just made one. Extremists had held back from killing each other for the first time and instead had agreed to put on the throne that narrow-chested, coughing little Dutchman. William, the compromise king. If England could do it, she could. Actually, she was too tired to do anything else.

She nodded.

Eventually they found the coffin skewed under a pew in the Chapel of St Faith. Creech's shoulder was dislocated so they needed another pallbearer. Penitence wanted it to be the soberer prebendary but he'd been sick and gone home.

The Marquis went into earnest consultation with the Archdeacon, receiving assurances, paying out moneys. The Abbey's chief organist was sent for and came gladly - Purcell had been fond of Aphra.

Elizabeth Barry tore a piece off her already torn petticoat and bandaged Penitence's wound, then together they wandered into the South Transept to look at the memorials of Poets' Corner until everything was ready. 'Who's Thomas Triplet?' Barry asked.

'I've no idea.'

'I'm glad Affie's not going in with him.' Idly drawing a moustache on Abraham Cowley with a finger that had been dipped in Aphra's inkwell, she said: 'Chloe says Affie left you The Widow Ranter.'

'Yes.'

'It's a wonderful part.'

You're too young. The girl was beautiful; she'd only been sixteen or so when she'd become Rochester's mistress. He'd taught her how to act and made a fine job of it according to Betterton who'd told Penitence: 'Next to you, she's the best Desdemona I've ever seen.'

No. It's me who's too old. Penitence said: 'You can play her if you like.'

Barry twirled round. 'Can I?'

'Yes. This was my last performance. I'm getting married.'

The funeral party had gathered itself and put Chloe's hat on straight. They lifted Nat Lee out of the grave so that Aphra could be put into it. He cried on Betterton's shoulder all the way through the interment.

The wind of Purcell's Te Deum reached them even here, in this far, dark corner, and the choristers sang like angels. 'I heard a voice from heaven,' declaimed the Archdeacon, 'saying unto me, Write; Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; from hencefourth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours.'

They sprinkled the Abbey's dust on to the coffin and held Nat Lee back from following it. Since there were no gravediggers, Creech and Dogberry filled in the hole and when the earth was level there was a rush of prebendaries to help them tamp it down.

The churchmen went first and one by one the mourners followed until only the Marquis and Benedick and Penitence were left. The son winked at his parents and ran to catch up with the retreating form of Elizabeth Barry.

Penitence looked down at the earth. 'People will tread on her,' she said.

Henry took her good arm and led her back into the nave where a prebendary was snuffing the candles. She turned towards the Henry VII Chapel. 'I ought to go and say goodbye to Rupert.'

He tightened his grip. 'You've said goodbye to him.'

She considered. 'I have, haven't I? I'm going to marry you.'

'Wait until you're asked, woman.'Together they stood in the great doorway, looking at the green where Aphra's army was finishing the wine. They saw John Hoyle emerge from the direction of the Abbey Arms and rejoin it. 'He deserted.'

Henry said: 'If the King hears I lied about his permission, I'm not likely to get my ambassadorship.'

'Did you want it?'

'Not really. I thought I'd settle down and spend the rest of my old age in Somerset.'

She put her hand on his. 'I thought I would too. We've done enough. We'll leave the rest to William and Mary. Theirs should be a sensible reign.'

As they crossed the road to join the revelling mourners, he said: 'But duller.'

'Oh yes,' said Penitence. 'Thank God. Much, much duller.'