carried a near impossible shimmer, polished to within an inch of the servants' lives no doubt. Every mirror gleamed, every floor tile squeaked its cleanliness beneath every boot heel, and every tapestry had been dusted and straightened in preparation for the most discerning of guests. Lyle was glad he had dressed in his very best finery. Bella had gone to great lengths to scrub his long riding boots and bring his favourite shirt to the whiteness of virgin snow. She had chosen for him a black coat with slashed sleeves that revealed the yellow lining beneath, and, though he had complained of looking like a gigantic hornet, she had insisted that nothing less would do. The brilliance of the newly freshened shirt collar offset the coat nicely, she had said, and, even Lyle could admit, the delicate lace at his cuffs certainly provided a deal of beauty to the ensemble. It was all finished off, of course, by the gold mask, and now, as he and Grumm were shown into the great hall, he thanked God for it. For he stepped into a roiling cauldron of bodies, all immaculately attired, all disguised, and each one an enemy.
The choir song was overwhelmed by louder, jauntier music from the balcony, even as the rest of Lyle's senses were assailed. It was as if Sir John Hippisley had squandered his entire fortune on this one gathering, such was the display of wealth that greeted Lyle's gaze. A vast hall of polished floor and high ceiling, awash with colour, draped in bright tapestries, transformed for the night into a Venetian ballroom that thronged with figures dripping in gold and silver, lace and satin, feathers and fans and pearls. Music played above the incessant chatter, masked men and women danced in the room's centre, laughing and whooping and calling to one another like so many rainbow-fledged birds. The women wore swirling dresses, voluminous and shimmering, while the men were adorned in such gaudy attire that Lyle felt as though he had stepped into a room full of peacocks.
Lyle could not help but laugh at the sight, and he sensed Grumm at his shoulder.
"Strange," he said, comfortable that the din of the dance would obscure his words to all but his friend. "Always considered this kind of thing belonged to the past."
Grumm gave a low snort. "The lofty peaks we are ordered by the good book to scale, are not always attainable. It is man's nature to kick back at the chains of morality once in a while."
"You're in the right of it. I imagine we shan't find any ardent Puritans here." That was the irony of this brave new world, he thought. The Parliamentarian faction had never been unified in search of a republic. Indeed, the vast majority of the old Roundheads - himself included - had enlisted to oust the king's corrupt advisers, not bring down the entire monarchy. Where the Royalists had fought for their king and the status quo, the rebel cause had been one of disparate factions, all brought together through a common enemy. They were not all dour Puritans, but a violent concoction of Presbyterians and Independents, soldiers and merchants, aggrieved aristocrats, rebellious Members of Parliament, and radical commoners seeking to level the very foundations of society. Little wonder, then, that no sooner had the shared enemy been vanquished, the factions began to rupture. They turned upon one another, tearing the hard-won peace to shreds. It had taken two more wars to finish the quarrel, leaving the Independent party supreme and unassailable: Oliver Cromwell its figurehead, the New Modelled Army its muscle. But that meant a great many of the ordinary rebels had never been as sober and pious as their new masters. They had supported a cause that had overtaken them, overwhelmed them, and now many - most, perhaps - yearned for the old days that, though far from perfect, were not as stifling as life under the Major-Generals. They went to chapel, they prayed and fasted, but if ever an opportunity to while away an evening with dance and song
The choir song was overwhelmed by louder, jauntier music from the balcony, even as the rest of Lyle's senses were assailed. It was as if Sir John Hippisley had squandered his entire fortune on this one gathering, such was the display of wealth that greeted Lyle's gaze. A vast hall of polished floor and high ceiling, awash with colour, draped in bright tapestries, transformed for the night into a Venetian ballroom that thronged with figures dripping in gold and silver, lace and satin, feathers and fans and pearls. Music played above the incessant chatter, masked men and women danced in the room's centre, laughing and whooping and calling to one another like so many rainbow-fledged birds. The women wore swirling dresses, voluminous and shimmering, while the men were adorned in such gaudy attire that Lyle felt as though he had stepped into a room full of peacocks.
Lyle could not help but laugh at the sight, and he sensed Grumm at his shoulder.
"Strange," he said, comfortable that the din of the dance would obscure his words to all but his friend. "Always considered this kind of thing belonged to the past."
Grumm gave a low snort. "The lofty peaks we are ordered by the good book to scale, are not always attainable. It is man's nature to kick back at the chains of morality once in a while."
"You're in the right of it. I imagine we shan't find any ardent Puritans here." That was the irony of this brave new world, he thought. The Parliamentarian faction had never been unified in search of a republic. Indeed, the vast majority of the old Roundheads - himself included - had enlisted to oust the king's corrupt advisers, not bring down the entire monarchy. Where the Royalists had fought for their king and the status quo, the rebel cause had been one of disparate factions, all brought together through a common enemy. They were not all dour Puritans, but a violent concoction of Presbyterians and Independents, soldiers and merchants, aggrieved aristocrats, rebellious Members of Parliament, and radical commoners seeking to level the very foundations of society. Little wonder, then, that no sooner had the shared enemy been vanquished, the factions began to rupture. They turned upon one another, tearing the hard-won peace to shreds. It had taken two more wars to finish the quarrel, leaving the Independent party supreme and unassailable: Oliver Cromwell its figurehead, the New Modelled Army its muscle. But that meant a great many of the ordinary rebels had never been as sober and pious as their new masters. They had supported a cause that had overtaken them, overwhelmed them, and now many - most, perhaps - yearned for the old days that, though far from perfect, were not as stifling as life under the Major-Generals. They went to chapel, they prayed and fasted, but if ever an opportunity to while away an evening with dance and song
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