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.”