I’d left my cloak in the ‘porch to make Miss Charity’s blue gown look the better (she would, I knew, be delighted when I told her that it was being worn for a wedding) and my hair was loose and dressed with ribbands. The chapel was a private one attached to a manor house at Barnes, quite close to where Sir Francis Walsingham lived. Being a privately-owned place of worship, it had escaped alteration when the queen’s father had changed the religion from Catholic to Protestant, so still had the earlier faith’s stained-glass windows, elaborate carved altar rails and shiny brass candlesticks. It was not yet six of the clock on a dank January morning and very dark outside, so two torches flamed on its walls and the altar was bright with candles. As we walked a little further down the aisle and the light from these candles fell upon me, Tomas took in my appearance and smiled. ‘So early in the morning to be dressed so grand!’ At the appreciative look in his eyes I lowered my head, feeling myself blush, for I was still unaccustomed to being with the real, true Tomas.
