London - Edward Rutherfurd [365]
The parish might be small but, thanks to a new endowment given by Silver Ducket fifty years before, it was now a rich little living, not to be bestowed lightly. It was only because of the request of the bishop and a word from the court that Sir Jacob was seeing Meredith, of whom he strongly disapproved; and it was his intention to make short work of him. Dispensing with all courtesies therefore, as soon as Edmund was standing before them, he began:
“Are you still writing plays, Master Meredith?”
“No, Sir Jacob. Not for many years.”
“Verse?”
“Some religious meditations. For myself only.”
“But no doubt,” Sir Jacob’s smile was so terse that it might have been a bite, “you keep a mistress.”
“No, Sir Jacob.” Edmund by now was pale.
“Come, sir,” Ducket snapped, “we know what kind of man you are.”
“You mistake me,” Edmund protested, shaking a little.
“Oh. What, then, has led you to take holy orders?”
Now, thoroughly rattled at seeing his only chance of preferment slipping through his fingers like mercury, Edmund, casting about desperately for something to say, accidentally blurted out the truth: “Because I saw no other way to turn.”
It was one of those rare occasions when the truth sounded better than it really was.
From the gentleman on Sir Jacob’s right there came a faint and unexpected murmur: “Repentance.” The draper, also, was nodding approval. Ducket saw that he had gone too far. He collected himself.
“The question we ask,” he said more mildly, but with a quick, admonishing look at his colleagues, “is whether this reformation is sincere.”
But Meredith had had a chance to collect himself too. Pausing for a moment, therefore, to look down thoughtfully at the floor, he then raised his head and, gazing soberly at the three men, addressed them very quietly.
“My grandfather, Sir Jacob, was a gentleman at the court of King Henry. My father followed him; and I have never heard it said that my condition was other than gentle too. Even if my word will not suffice you, therefore, I ask you plainly, upon what possible grounds would I take holy orders if not from conviction?”
It was perfect. It was unanswerable. Gently chiding the alderman for calling him a knave, Meredith had put down an ace. For why else, indeed, would any fashionable gentleman choose so humble an occupation? It would have made no sense. Realizing he had played his hand badly, Sir Jacob hesitated. And it was just then, in the little pause which followed, that Julius spoke.
Innocently he asked, from his stool by the fireplace: “Is it true, sir, that the king himself has spoken for you?”
There was silence; then Edmund, as surprised as anyone at the intervention, turned to the boy and, with a most charming and entirely natural smile, replied:
“I rather think he has.”
It was over. The draper and the old gentleman were beaming. Sir Jacob was beaten and wise enough to know it at once. Could he really now refuse this courteous penitent supported by the king to whom he himself had sworn undying loyalty? “It seems, Master Meredith,” he remarked with the best grace he could, “that you have won us over. But do not forget,” he added, as the other two nodded firmly, “that we expect a good sermon.”
And, having saved his skin, Edmund was left to reflect that, quite possibly for the rest of his life, he must preach, each Sunday, to Sir Jacob, and that his only real friend was a twelve-year-old boy.
If only, he told himself, Jane had not departed . . .
The Mercers Hall was crowded and buzzing with excitement the following spring. Young Julius, brought there by his father, looked about