Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 13

  She pretended to ignore them, taking hold of Hal’s hand and tipping back her head, emitting titters of girlish laughter so as to appear the carefree, happy bride.

  “They’re mad with jealousy,” Hal told her. “And I’ve created scandal once more.”

  “A happy kind of scandal,” Cecily assured him with a smile. “We can be proud to enliven their boring lives!”

  Hal laughed, holding her close. He was happy, his voice alternating between soft and low and a crescendo of zeal that tickled her. Like Cecily, Hal’s natural inclination toward gaiety abated the deepest melancholy. Tonight he radiated with it and Cecily was thrilled to be the source.

  As they returned to the high table, Father Alec joined them. The smile fixed upon his face was incongruent with his sombre expression.

  “I wanted to offer my congratulations before my departure,” he said in soft tones.

  “What, you can’t be leaving,” Cecily breathed in horror. “Not now! What are you thinking?”

  Hal’s plea was communicated through his expressive blue eyes.

  “I am expected sooner than I thought,” Father Alec told them, not quite meeting their eyes. His smile was distracted, apologetic.

  Cecily’s heart sank. “But you cannot leave tonight! It could be dangerous! There could be highwaymen and bandits and all sorts of—”

  “Lady Cecily is right, Father, you cannot—”

  “Please.” Father Alec locked eyes with Hal. His soft tone resounded with underlying intensity. “I must.”

  Hal bowed his head. He drew in a wavering breath. “Then if you must …”

  Father Alec turned to Cecily. “My lady, what a pleasure it has been serving you all these years.” He bowed over her hand, offering upon it a soft kiss.

  On impulse Cecily flung her arms about the priest. “Oh, Father, would that you could remain with us a little longer!” she sobbed, wetting his neck with her tears. “We shall miss you so!”

  He rubbed her back a moment before withdrawing. “I am sorry to have to make such a hasty retreat, but my duties lie elsewhere now.” His face softened. “Know I shall always remember you and keep you in my prayers.”

  “You will write to us, won’t you?” she asked, her voice small.

  Father Alec nodded. Why was he so cool, so offhanded? This had been his home for years and he was behaving as if it and those who resided there had never meant a thing to him!

  “Come, Father, let me walk you out,” said Hal. Both men bowed toward Cecily, leaving her to stand bewildered, uncertain, and angered by what just came to pass.

  “Father, I am saddened that you chose this moment to leave us,” Hal said when they were in the crisp coolness of the courtyard. “Lady Cecily did not deserve such disappointment on her wedding day.”

  “I apologise,” Father Alec said in wooden tones.

  The men had made it to the stables, where waited Father Alec’s horse and cart.

  “Are you so very angry with me, Father?” Hal asked. “Even knowing I do not plan to consummate it?”

  Father Alec heaved a sigh. “No. I am not angry. I commend your integrity, in fact. And any man of property with the same circumstances and opportunity would do the same,” he told him. “I do understand that. Truly.”

  Hal searched for insincerity, for anger. He found none. He reached out, gripping the priest’s forearms in a sign of affection. “If you understand then why not stay? Be our chaplain?”

  Father Alec’s expression contorted with pain. “Your offer is generous. But I cannot. I find my soul is in a state of … unrest, my lord. I need this change.”

  “But to leave us tonight?” Hal persisted. “Why not at least wait till the morning?”

  “I must go now,” he said. “I cannot jeopardise my new position by being late.”

  Hal shook his head, puzzled. Father Alec had always been such an understated man, a font of calm. He was steady, nonchalant, and whenever Hal thought of him brought to mind were his easy smile, his offhanded tone, his self-deprecating humor. For years he had been so much more to his family than mere tutor. He was confessor, compassionate counsellor, wise adviser, and treasured friend.

  The man standing before him now was a stranger—uneasy, skittish. He was a man in agony.

  “Father, in all the years I have known you, you have been nothing but a friend to me,” Hal told him in gentle tones. “If there is something I can ever do to help you, I would hope you would trust me enough to let me.”

  “I appreciate that,” Father Alec said, bowing his head. “All I ask of you is to let me go. I—I must go.”

  Hal released his forearms. Tears clenched his throat. “You will visit us, I hope?” he asked.

  Father Alec offered his best imitation of a smile. “Of course.” Tears trapped in moonlight glistened off his cheeks, shimmering like opals. He laid a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Thank you for your hospitality these years past and for your kind recommendation; I shall never forget it. You are a good man, Lord Hal. I know that.”

  “Godspeed, Father,” Hal said softly.

  Father Alec climbed up on the cart, flicked the reins, and was consumed by the blackness of night.

  He did not look back.

  Father Alec wondered what Hal would have made of his lying to him, for there was no reason he could not have stayed the night through. He was not late. Indeed, he was not expected in London for another two weeks. The inn he had chosen to stay at was a mere ten miles from Castle Sumerton.

  Father Alec left on impulse. He simply had to get away. He could not be there tonight; he could not bear the thought of Hal taking the love of that sweet innocent.

  And, for love of God, he could not understand why.

  And so he rode through the night, listening to the hooves pounding against the road, matching the beating of his racing heart. As each mile was put between him and Sumerton, leaving the suffocating complexities of its world behind him, the painful knot in his gut eased. He had no desire to analyse his feelings.

  He was getting out.

  9

  The hour that Cecily had been anticipating with the most fear had arrived. Exhausted revellers had departed or taken to their beds and she was led to her apartments, where she would await her bridegroom. She was dressed in a white silk nightdress trimmed with yellow ribbons. Nurse Matilda, who was elevated to the station of lady’s maid, brushed her hair to a golden sheen.

  “You mustn’t fret, my lady,” she murmured sweetly as she smoothed her hair with her hands. “The pain passes very quickly.”

  Cecily trembled. “Pain?” she squeaked. Her voice was caught in her throat, mingling with a sob as she was tucked into bed. Matilda sat beside her, stroking her cheek.

  “It is a pain we all bear, and not nearly so bad as childbirth,” she told her in tender tones, offering a chuckle. “You will not even remember it come morning.”

  Cecily doubted this but accepted the well-meaning words with a smile.

  When Lord Hal arrived dressed in naught but his shift Cecily drew the covers over her shoulders with an involuntary shiver.

  Matilda bowed, offering Cecily a conspiratorial wink as she made her exit.

  Hal sighed, stretching. “And now what I’ve been waiting for!” he cried as he fairly jumped into the bed.

  Cecily’s heart lurched. This was not a side of Lord Hal she had been expecting.

  He leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. “I am exhausted! Good night, my dear,” he told her as he settled against the pillows, drawing the covers to his neck.

  “You mean … you mean you’re not …?” Cecily hoped the relief in her voice would not offend him.

  Hal chuckled. “What manner of scoundrel do you take me for?” he asked her. “I am only sleeping in here to satisfy the guests. I even brought in a wineskin filled with pig’s blood for the sheets!” He laughed at his cleverness, then reached over to stroke her cheek. His teeth shone bright white in the moonlight and Cecily found herself smiling in turn
.

  “Lord Hal …” Cecily said, touched. She slid closer to him, snuggling against his warm chest, finding solace in his steady heartbeat. “Thank you.”

  “Not a minute before you’re ready, sweeting,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “Not a minute before …”

  Cecily nuzzled her head in the crook of his shoulder.

  How easy he is to love, she thought.

  Mirabella analysed the latest news from home while tending the gardens one afternoon with Sister Julia. Her hands trembled with rage as they worked the earth. Her father … her father and Cecily. A thirty-nine-year-old man and a fourteen-year-old girl! This made him no better than King Henry when he had taken after Anne Boleyn’s sister, Mary! She had never thought to liken her father to the king. Had he no shame, no decency? Let alone he was supposed to be in mourning for his wife and son—Cecily’s former betrothed! The affair filled her with disgust.

  “What did you expect him to do?” Sister Julia asked in gentle tones. Mirabella had chosen to confide in her; she found she could not shut her out. What’s more, she did not want to; the relationship they were developing was akin to the friendship they had known before and Sister Julia proved Mirabella’s only confidante besides the confessor. “Did you think someone of your father’s standing would let his legacy die with him? Mirabella, you are nothing if not perceptive.”

  “But Cecily!” she whispered, ever observant of their muted world.

  “She was his ward, under his protection,” Sister Julia said. “Would any man in his right mind send her away with what she had to offer? Mirabella, you must think in reality.”

  “It is disrespectful on both parts,” Mirabella pouted. “She was to marry Brey! And now look, a stepmother five years my junior—”

  “You are no longer of her world,” Sister Julia interposed. “Thus her world should not concern you, save to keep her in your prayers. Keep in mind how limited her choices were. Would you rather she had been warded to strangers? You know as well as I what could have befallen her. Yes, she was to marry Brey, but he was called to God. You can thank that same God that she has your father—and that your father has her. They have a common bond in their familiarity. And Cecily is good and sweet, you know that. She is young and strong and will give him heirs.”

  Mirabella grimaced. “It is a disgrace. My father grows foolhardy in his dotage,” she muttered.

  “Oh, my dear girl, your father is hardly in his ‘dotage’! Why do you insist on turning your back on peace?” Sister Julia asked as she rose, balancing her basket of vegetables on her hip. She shook her head at the stubborn postulant.

  Mirabella raised her face to the nun who was her mother. “I turn my back on peace?” she asked in low tones. “I, who reach out for it, only to grasp at nothing?” She shook her head. “No. Peace betrayed me. It has evaded me since the day you brought me into this world.”

  With that she rose, quitting the garden. It was time for Vespers. She had best go through the motions of being at peace with God.

  Hal and Cecily fell into the same routine they had known before their nuptials, with one exception. Father Alec was gone. Every corner seemed to reflect his vacancy and Cecily’s heart clenched with grief whenever she thought of her tutor. She found herself missing the oddest things, things she hadn’t even realised she cherished—the distinct huskiness of his voice, his offhanded manner, his gentle eyes, his lazy smile, the faintest trace of an accent betraying his Welsh heritage. Strange little things, the way the veins stood out in his hand when he wrote, the way his brows knitted together when he lectured, the low timbre of his voice when he discussed something he was passionate about. She missed him. She missed him, but he was gone. He wanted to go; indeed, he had seemed desperate, a fact that she would never understand. Yet there was nothing she could do but savour the memories of a childhood he had enriched, knowing beyond any doubt her transition into the Pierce household would not have been made with as much ease had he not been there to guide her.

  And so she kept the priest in her prayers, along with Mirabella and all those who went before, while she tried to concentrate on her present estate.

  Hal was the centre of her world now. Cecily was married but not quite a wife. She still found herself regarding Hal as a kind of father. The affection he bore her was only altered by the fact that they were completely alone. The love once spent on Brey and Mirabella was now lavished upon her. In his loneliness he reached out to her; she curled in his lap before the fire at night for long hours as he spoke of his day, of the antics of his tenants, of a particularly good hunt, or an amusing anecdote he had heard about the court. They still played games together, still went hunting and riding. The golden bands about their fingers uniting them as man and wife seemed not to affect their relationship in the slightest.

  Though they did take on a treasurer to manage the finances, Hal was still allotted a modest amount for gambling and paid calls to his friends to indulge in the sport, leaving Cecily alone with no one but the servants. It was at these times that the suffocating loneliness closed in around her. She was assaulted by thoughts of the past. What would she and Brey be doing now? What would Lady Grace be doing? Was there any chance she could have stayed well? They were useless thoughts, these, and only served to knot her gut with anxiety. Nonetheless, she was stalked by relentless reflections, for with her only distraction away, there was naught to do but think and pace and think some more until Hal at last came home.

  One night he did not come home at all. He arrived the next day in the midafternoon, blustery and ruddy cheeked from riding against the autumn wind.

  Cecily, gripped with anxiety, had been pacing the great hall for hours. When he burst in all smiles her relief was replaced by unexpected anger. She resisted the urge to throw her arms about him, stamping her foot instead.

  “Lord Hal!” she cried. Her lip quivered.

  “Darling!” he cried, making long strides toward her to grip her upper arms. He planted a kiss on her forehead. “What is it, dearest?”

  “What is it?” Cecily retorted, pulling away and folding her arms across her budding breasts. “Oh, my lord, how could you stay out all night without sending word? I was worried unto death! No doubt you were treating yourself to a marvellous time while I paced and waited imagining all manner of ill fortune befalling you! Not to mention the company you could be keeping … How do I know you’re not with—with—” Tears clouded her vision as a strange sensation caught her off guard. Jealousy. It shocked her beyond measure. The feeling seared through her breast like an arrow’s tip as her mind’s eye conjured up a buxom blonde sitting on Hal’s lap, stroking his cheek, running her fingers through his hair. And yet was this an unreasonable fear? Hal was a handsome still-young man, in good form, and in possession of great charm. When a woman, a grown woman with breasts and hips and woman’s charms, learned he was married to a girl with the décolletage of an eight-year-old boy … Cecily squeezed her eyes against the unwelcome imagery.

  Hal drew her close, rubbing her back and making little shushing noises of consolation. “I had no idea,” he said, his voice soft with surprise. “I am unaccustomed to people wondering after my whereabouts. I will never be so thoughtless again.” He kissed the top of her head. “And as for the company I keep, don’t fret. All old curmudgeons.” He pulled away, cupping her cheek in his hand. The fondness in his twinkling blue eyes sent a wave of reassurance warm as wine through Cecily as she leaned into his hand.

  “And their wives? How do they occupy themselves?” she asked him, sniffling. “The same way I do? Pacing and waiting?”

  “I am a witless idiot,” he said, lifting her in his arms. She wrapped hers about his neck as he carried her into the solar. He lowered them onto the settle. “I suppose I never considered how lonely it must be for you here now that …” He let the thought hang between them.

  Cecily, knowing there was no need to expound on it, pressed her cheek against his. “I am sorry, my
lord, for being cross,” she said in small tones, still shaken by the sense of protectiveness that overtook her at the thought of Hal in danger, even if that danger meant falling prey to another woman’s charms. “All I could think of as I waited out the night was, ‘What if something happens to my lord? How will I live without him whom I have come to love so well?’ ”

  Hal drew in a wavering breath, clutching her to him as he kissed her cheek.

  “I am to pay Sir Edward Camden a visit tomorrow,” he told her in husky tones as he swayed from side to side. Cecily recalled Sir Edward as the gentleman who had escorted her down the aisle at her wedding. “How would you like to accompany me? You and his wife, the Lady Alice, are of an age; perhaps you would enjoy her company?”

  “Oh, yes!” Cecily cried, snuggling even closer against him. “Do take me with you!”

  “Wherever I go, sweetheart,” he said, holding her tight.

  As he held the slight creature in his arms, relishing her scent, her softness, her sweetness, his heart constricted with a love he had never imagined possible, at least not for him. He had never loved the woman who became Sister Julia. Theirs was a connection based on sheer lust. Now that Hal knew the truth of it he considered it divine irony that devout Mirabella was born of such a union.

  The love he bore Lady Grace was based on companionship, forged in mutual strife and pain. That pain tainted everything, every touch, every smile, every act, at last devouring every tangible sensation. At the end of the day, there was nothing left to give. Empty apologies had been made. The words floated around them, useless. The love that had waned and waxed over the years had in the end, the very end, proved itself unsalvageable.

  Now Cecily, this gift, this miracle, remained to heal his shattered heart, his broken soul. Cecily, more than he could have dared dream of. Cecily … He would not repeat his mistakes. He would make her happy, despite their age difference, despite everything, he would make her happy.

  And if God was as merciful as He was proving thus far, perhaps He would see fit that she love him as he so completely and inexplicably loved her. …