Scammell put his Bible away and smiled at the priest who was mopping his mouth with the hem of his cassock. “Sir?”

Sobriety stared round the room, blinking in the sudden light. He let his cassock fall, hiccupped, then smiled brightly at Scammell. “I preached to the Commons once, sir. Yes! To the Lords and Commons! For three hours, sir, and a great work was wrought there. Did you know that, sir?” He bobbed happily in front of Scammell.

“No.” Scammell was taken aback.

“Yes, sir! To the Lords and Commons. I took as my text the twenty-third verse of the twenty-sixth chapter of Proverbs. Do you know it, sir?”

“No.”

Sobriety raised an admonitory, shaking finger. “‘Burning lips and a wicked heart are like a potsherd covered with silver dross.’ Yes, sir. Two years ago it was, or maybe three, I don’t exactly recall. It was well received.” He looked at Grimmett who had stayed in the doorway. “It was well received, was it not?”

“They never forgot it, Sobriety.” Grimmett looked at Scammell and grinned. “They only called the old bastard at the last minute and he was drunk as a judge. He vomited all over the pulpit. Now come on, Sobriety, get your damned book out!”

Sobriety sat down heavily, fishing under his cassock. “I’m feeling poorly, Thomas, distinctly poorly. Do you have some of my physic?”

“When it’s done, sir, when it’s done.” Grimmett crossed to Scammell, his sword banging against the pushed back table. “Here, sir. Sir Grenville thought you might not be prepared.” He handed Scammell a cheap ring. “Don’t worry, sir. He’ll charge you, legal like.”

Sobriety Bollsbie, with the cunning of a drunkard, had produced a small tin flask from the recesses of his clothing. He sucked at it, emptied it, then smiled happily at the room. “‘Wine is a mockery,’ sir! ‘Strong drink is raging’!”

“Amen,” Scammell said, who knew when the Bible was quoted at him.

“For three hours, sir, to the Lords and Commons assembled! I spoke of the mockery of wine, sir.” He spoilt this declamation by hiccupping. “Burning lips, sir, burning with the spirit, but not the spirit of God. Yes, sir.” He tried to stand up, suddenly filled with the power of his last, greatest, and unfinished sermon. Grimmett pushed him down.

“Wait there, Sobriety. Have your book ready.”

“I’m feeling poorly, Thomas. I want my physic.”

“When it’s done, Sobriety. When they’re married.”

“A wedding, is it?”

“A wedding.”

“Ah! A wedding.” Sobriety frowned as he fumbled with the pages of his prayer book. “‘Whoso findeth a wife,’ sir, ‘findeth a good thing, And obtaineth favor of the Lord.’”

“Amen,” said Scammell.

Sobriety grinned at him. “‘It is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.’” The priest seemed to be laughing at Scammell, who heard the text as a prisoner would hear a sentence.

Grimmett was bored. “Get on with it, Sobriety. You need the names.” He watched the priest search for the page, then turned familiarly to Scammell. “He’s very good, sir.”