“Good?”

“When we need a wedding, sir. You’d be surprised how often we need a wedding in Chancery, mostly on deathbeds, of course, but Sobriety’s your man. It’s the responses, you see.”

“The responses?” Scammell was appalled by what was happening to his well-ordered life, but powerless to prevent it.

Grimmett smiled. “The lady or gentleman, sir, does have to say ‘I will,’ and if they’re reluctant then it helps to have Sobriety. He just keeps going, sir. Don’t worry, it’s quite legal.”

He fished in a pouch and took out a piece of paper. It was a marriage certificate, already filled in with a shaky signature at the bottom which read “James Bollsbie, Clerk in Holy Orders.” Grimmett tucked the paper back into his pouch. “Sir Grenville said he’d look after this for you, sir.” He looked at the priest, then back to Scammell. “Shall I fetch the bride, sir?”

“Are we ready?”

“As we’ll ever be.” Grimmett left the room.

Sobriety Bollsbie stood up successfully, showed surprise, then beamed seraphically at Scammell. “Have we met, sir?”

“A minute ago, sir.”

“I preached to the Commons once, sir, did you know?”

Scammell was saved a repetition of the story by a scream from the hall, a slap that echoed through the empty house, the sound of heels dragging, a grunt from Grimmett followed by another scream. Sobriety was quite unmoved by the noise. “For three hours, sir, three hours! But that, of course, was before my affliction.”

“Your affliction?” Scammell waited, horror-struck.

“I think it must be the falling sickness. Yes. God tries his servants, he does, he does.”

“Indeed and indeed.” Scammell’s hands wound in apprehension, and then the door was filled with the struggling group. Grimmett dragged Campion by her arms, Goodwife slapped her, and Campion screamed and tried to kick at her tormentors. Sobriety was quite oblivious. He raised his voice. “Your name, sir?”

“What?” Scammell was watching the bride’s entrance.

“Your name, sir?” Sobriety asked with some asperity.

“Oh! Scammell. Samuel.”

“Good, good!” The priest had found a pen, some ink, and now he carefully wrote the name on the page of his prayer book. Scammell could see that the page was already thickly covered with other names. Sobriety looked at Campion, her bonnet hanging loose, her face red where it had been slapped and wet with tears.

“The bride’s name, sir?”

“Dorcas Slythe.”

“A pretty name, yes, very pretty.” The pen scratched.

Campion screamed at them. Grimmett wrenched her arms back so that it hurt. “Keep still, you bitch!” He dug his fingers harder into her upper arms. “I’ll tear your cursed arms out if you struggle!”

Sobriety draped his scapular about his shoulders, smiled at them both, then launched himself at breakneck speed into the wedding service. “‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony.’”

Campion shook her head, as if to clear it of a nightmare. Her arms hurt, the words clamored at her, and she struggled against the brute strength of the man who held her. The priest stank of drink. She spat at him trying to stop the flow of words, and Grimmett yanked her backward, pulling her back against his chest and then rammed his knee up into her skirts, forcing her feet apart with his boot. His breath rasped in her ear.