Betrayal in the Tudor Court Read online

  He did not know how much time had passed, minutes, perhaps hours. He did know that when the knock sounded at the door he would face Cranmer. And, out of obedience, he would not be able to question him.

  He opened it, kneeling before the archbishop to kiss his ring, then rising and allowing him entrance.

  Cranmer sat at the breakfast table, cocking his head, regarding Father Alec with a gentle countenance capable of inspiring a shameless liar to confess of his deepest sins.

  “I know you have questions, my son,” he began in his soft voice. “And I understand why you may feel angry and betrayed. Know that what I am about to tell you I reveal because you are one of the few men that I actually trust.” His gaze did not leave Father Alec’s face. “The woman you saw with me is my wife.”

  Father Alec’s gut twisted in a knot. Wife? He was uncertain of whether or not this was worse than keeping a mistress. Both were forbidden to a priest. … He could not begin to grapple with it.

  Reading his confusion, Cranmer went on. “My son, I was always inclined to marry, to have a family. I did so before I became a priest, but alas, my first wife died in childbirth along with the baby. So I returned to my calling. I lived up to my vows and for a time succeeded at forgoing the love of a woman.” He sighed. “Until I became ambassador to Charles V and was in Germany. There I met Andreas Osiander, the theologian. I fell in love, Father, with his niece and I knew then that I must marry her.” Until this point Father Alec believed he knew Cranmer’s every expression, but this was one he had not seen before. Cranmer’s face reflected the enraptured tenderness of an infatuated youth mingled with the happy bewilderment of a man who is realising for the first time that his soul mate is the same woman he has been married to for the past thirty years. The expression was fleeting, however, converting to his usual melancholy gentleness as he went on. “I also knew then that it could not be wrong to serve God and love a woman at the same time, for God made man and woman to be companions and helpmates. I knew it from my innermost being, from every facet of my soul. Rather, this tie to the Lord and the world He put me in set me closer in touch with the struggles of men.”

  “But it is so dangerous, Your Grace,” was all Father Alec could think of to say. He did not even know how to begin to explore the level of danger it put the archbishop in, with the king, with God. … His head hurt. He put a hand to it, rubbing his temple as he tried to wrangle with this knowledge.

  “Yes, it is dangerous,” Cranmer said. “Which is why I am sending her back to Europe, that she might be safe.” Only now did he lower his eyes, though not in shame. Father Alec perceived nothing in the movement but sadness. “We pay for what we want most, Father. Despite that, if what we love is in the realm of the Lord, it is always worth the pain.”

  Father Alec swallowed the lump rising in his throat. It would not go down. He slipped from the chair to his knees before the archbishop, taking his hand in his. “I am so sorry for what this is costing you … and more for what it could cost you. Please, for love of God, man, be careful.”

  “I was right to trust you, Father,” Cranmer said. “We are of like mind, perhaps more so than you know. I was careless tonight. It will not be repeated. This is the last time I shall see her.”

  He rose, his face set with pained determination. “I do not know if I shall ever see her again …” he added wistfully, as if to himself.

  Father Alec let tears of compassion slide down his cheeks. At once it did not seem so sordid; Cranmer’s agony was in no way comparable to that of a scoundrel like Cardinal Wolsey.

  And who was he to say that a priest should not be allowed to marry? He did not set down the doctrine, after all. Imagine all the terrible crimes that could be avoided if they were allowed … Father Alec’s chest constricted in anxiety.

  This was dangerous thinking.

  This was reformer thinking. But there was no going back, not after tonight.

  This was the night that solidified Father Alec’s support of, if not the New Learning, a new faith, for good.

  11

  Dorothy Mopps, the midwife attending Cecily, was not at all what Cecily had imagined. She had pictured a gnarly old witch, truth be told, and was reassured by the presence of the young, sturdy woman who seemed to intuit her every need. She was in her mid-thirties and had boasted of bringing the latest generation of Sumerton into the world. She had attended Alice and would do so again when her time came. Cecily thought this must be a very interesting profession, meeting all the ladies and handling the babies. Had she not been born noble she would have considered pursuing it.

  Her musings on midwifery were cut short by the piercing pain in her back. Her waters had broken in the middle of the night and, though it did not hurt, she had screamed frantically for Hal, who immediately sent for Dorothy and her assistants. Alice arrived in the morning and was prepared to sit with Cecily till the baby came.

  All of the women reassured her with their own experiences in childbearing. The pain was normal, they told her, she was not going to die, they made sure to reiterate, and that everything would be forgotten when she was holding her new little lamb in her arms.

  Cecily doubted that. How could one forget a pain like this? It was excruciating. Her belly was taut with cramps; it seemed as though a dagger was fixed in her lower back, stabbing her but not enough to kill. She panted and cried out with each contraction while Alice swabbed her burning forehead with a cool, wet cloth.

  Periodically Dorothy checked Cecily’s woman’s parts to see if she was getting any closer to delivery and each time her broad face revealed disappointment.

  “It is taking too long,” she said. “She should be ready by now.”

  “Don’t scare her, for God’s sake,” Alice snapped at her, but she was unable to mask the fear in her own eyes.

  The last strains of evening faded into night. The apartments were dark, save for the candles, which cast eerie shadows about that Cecily had never pondered before. Was one of them the shadow of Death? She was growing weak and fanciful, she decided, and must concentrate on the birth.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do to speed things up?” Alice asked.

  Dorothy shook her head, expelling a sigh.

  Cecily moaned, yielding to another terrible pain. The night dragged on; there was nothing to measure the time but the light that filtered through the curtains. She knew not how long she laboured. Her limbs trembled violently. She did not have the energy to scream any more, so she whimpered now and again. She could not think of anything, not the baby, not the gentle voices swirling around her. All she could think of was the pain and that she wanted to rid herself of the creature causing it.

  The light was gone. Cecily wondered if she was dying, then realised with a sense of wryness that it was night again. Her hair was matted to her head in sweat; she was slick with it despite Alice’s efforts in trying to cool her.

  “Cecily.” The voice did not belong to the women but to Hal. Cecily offered a feeble smile. A warm hand stroked her brow. “My love … you are so strong,” he told her. “Stay strong, my dearest, just a little longer.”

  Cecily knew the words were well intended but could not imagine how to implement them. She was too weak to say his name.

  Hal was called away and Alice took his place beside her. Cecily closed her eyes and ears. There was nothing but pain; it reverberated throughout her whole body, as resonant as a church bell. She hummed and tingled with it.

  Snatches of conversation permeated the fog.

  “It is very risky,” Dorothy was saying in her brusque tenor. “But I believe she has less of a chance dying of that than she does if we leave her like this, my lord. She is going on forty hours. …”

  She could not hear Hal’s response.

  “A Caesarian section,” Dorothy said.

  “Mother Mary preserve us,” Alice murmured.

  Cecily heard no more. Fleetingly, she wondered if the word Caesarian was derived from the old Roman emperor Julius Caesar in some way, b
ut it did not really matter. She did not know what it was or why it applied to her, only that it might get this thing out and that was enough.

  Cecily’s head lolled to one side.

  She wondered vaguely if she was going to die.

  There was no pain like it in the world, the searing pain of being cut down her middle, this despite a cautious dose of dwale. Cecily was certain her insides would fall out when she felt the scalpel delve into her tender flesh, into her womb. By God’s grace they did not and it was not long before a squalling infant was heard somewhere in the distance. Cecily could not hear much; the pain eclipsed everything else. Her belly burned and throbbed as Dorothy’s needle restored her to wholeness.

  “She is not safe yet,” Dorothy told Alice and Hal. “There was a great deal of blood loss and she could get an infection. Her recovery will be long if she does live. But you have a fine, healthy heir out of it and women are easy enough to replace.”

  Did she say “heir”?

  Cecily tried to open her eyes but could not. She managed a throaty whimper but could not communicate her desire to see the child.

  “You ignorant fool. This woman is irreplaceable,” Hal snapped. “And you’ll take care to hold your tongue, madam, if you would like to keep your position lest I drive you out of Sumerton and brand you as a witch!”

  Cecily would have smiled if she could. Dear Hal, her faithful rescuer. She wondered if Dorothy knew he was far too gentle to hurt a fly, let alone a woman, and that it was his fear speaking through him.

  “Cecily, look,” Hal said, his voice wavering with emotion. “Look at our fine son!”

  Cecily managed to open her eyes a slit. In Hal’s arms was a tiny bundle with golden hair and fair skin. Hal held the baby closer, that she might see his little face.

  Hal pulled the blanket aside and Cecily gasped.

  “Brey …”she whispered.

  Then he was gone and she was engulfed in darkness.

  Those first days of Cecily’s recovery were critical, Dorothy warned the terrified household. If Cecily developed a fever or inordinate swelling and pus, she would likely die. She drifted in and out of consciousness while Hal kept vigil at her bedside, never releasing her hand. He spoke to her in soothing tones, telling her of the baby.

  “He shall be named Harold,” he said. “Harold Aubrey. But we’ll call him Harry. How shall that be?” Hal still spoke at a deliberated pace, measuring his words and phrases that he might get them out coherently. Speaking was still very difficult for him. But his ability to communicate was the last thing on his mind now as he beheld the frail creature on the bed. His heart surged with admiration for her. She had already demonstrated great strength in the past by nursing him through his illness. Now she had lasted through over forty hours of labour to be hacked into as if she were meat to be butchered. The thought of it caused Hal to shudder with fear. He had remained while the terrible procedure had been performed; nothing could keep him out, least of all propriety. He had seen the blood spurt forth from the gaping wound and at seeing it could hardly appreciate what else entered forth, his beautiful son Harry. The only thought dominating Hal’s mind was that Cecily would die; he would lose the only person he had loved with his whole self and he could not bear it.

  Cecily sanctioned Hal’s suggestion for the name with a tiny smile before drifting off to sleep once more.

  Now and again her eyes would flutter or she would grimace in pain or expel a heavy breath. Hal took these as signs of life, and though he regretted her discomfort, he was reassured by the fact that Cecily had made it through the worst. A week had passed and there were no signs of fever or infection. She would live.

  Hal felt it was safe enough to resume some of his duties and leave Cecily’s side now and again, but he took care to spend as much time with her as he could, bringing the baby with him to cheer her, though, to his regret, she showed little interest in Harry thus far. But she was still very ill and he expected it would take time so tried not to worry.

  What worried him most was Cecily’s countenance. Once so hopeful and filled with gentle cheer, her expression was now melancholy, distracted. He feared she was slipping into despair and did not know how to revive her. It was not like his illness, which was physical and seemed to respond well to exercise. Her troubles lay somewhere in the soul, somewhere he could not reach. It frightened him.

  She never complained, even when she winced in pain, and sometimes he wondered if it would be better if she did, if it would serve as some kind of release. But he knew it was not in her nature. And so all he could do was pray for her recovery both mentally and physically while remaining by her side to offer all the cheer and support he could.

  Cecily meantime was attended by Matilda, who rubbed salve made from marigolds, beeswax, and honey given to her by Dorothy on her angry red scar to encourage healing, and she remained abed. The baby was nursed by a sturdy and loving young woman called Bertie Stokes and Cecily was just as content to leave him to her care. She would have no energy for it. As it were, Cecily did not enjoy one pain-free moment; her breasts had filled and she endured the agonising process of drying up while her belly still cramped. The wound with its massive stitches frightened her when she saw it in between dressings and she found herself filled with self-loathing for her inability to recover. Now she had a better sense of the frustration Hal had felt when recuperating from his illness.

  Cecily received visits from the local noblewomen, Alice among them. Even some of the tenants’ wives called with bread and cheese and blankets sewn by their own loving hands. Cecily was grateful for the solicitousness of those around her, but nonetheless the feeling of gloom remained. She was possessed by dark fancies and had nightmares while she was awake about someone killing the baby. The image that terrorised her most was that often that someone was herself. She did not understand it. She had never entertained such notions before, even in her angriest moments, and that the object of her dark fantasy should be her own innocent baby terrified her. She was shaken with fear. Surely these thoughts come straight from the vilest depths of Hell, she thought, and she prayed for forgiveness, hoping God would rescue her from these fiendish visions.

  She longed for Mirabella, remarkably. She did not want to confess her imaginings to a priest, who would probably say she was taken by a devil, and thought that the novitiate nun might prove a little more understanding.

  In the end, however, she told no one and tried to suffer through them. She found the less she saw of the baby the less the disturbing images taunted her. Instead she was left with the hollowness of sadness undefined and all consuming. She had every reason to rejoice; she had lived through her ordeal, delivered a healthy son, and, though she did not feel like it, was recovering with remarkable speed according to the midwife.

  But she could not rejoice. She found, much to her dismay, that she could not do much of anything.

  She was as immobilised as Hal had ever been.

  It was overwhelming.

  One afternoon while Cecily nibbled on some savoury goat milk cheese, Hal burst into her apartments, wearing a bright smile and carrying a sack.

  He sat on the bed. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Do you remember what you told me?” He shook his head. “Of course not, you tell me so many things!” he added with a laugh.

  Cecily could not help but smile in his presence. “What did I tell you, Hal?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

  “When you convinced me to stop wearing the hair shirt,” he said, casting his eyes downward as though the memory of the shirt and the reasons he had employed it still brought him great pain. “You took the sandglass and threw it out the window, saying it represented the past and we were to start anew.” At this point Hal reached into the sack and retrieved a new sandglass, this one elaborately carved out of beautiful mahogany with roses and ivy twining about the supports. The glass was large enough to time one hour.

  “A new sandglass,” he said. “To represent our new life.” He gave it to Cecily.
It was heavy in her hands. “We have both endured a great deal of pain. But every day is a new start, Cecily, a chance to heal from old wounds. Every time we need to start again, whether we have had an argument or have suffered a tragedy, we will turn this glass about to remind each other that we can begin again. You see?”

  Cecily’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her heart constricted with love as she ran her hand over the wood. Her fingers ran across something, a defect perhaps, and when she looked down she found two dates carved into it. One was their wedding date and the other the birth date of their son.

  “Oh, Hal …” she murmured, allowing her tears to fall.

  “Every time we need to turn it about—when we’re not actually using it to keep time, that is—” he added with a little chuckle, “we will carve the date of our new beginning in it. Even if it marks the end of something sad.”

  “It is a beautiful notion,” Cecily said. She sat up with great effort, swallowing the urge to cry out as a searing pain flashed down her belly, and wrapped her arms about Hal’s neck, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

  She would banish the bad thoughts and start living again. She had a baby to care for and a large household to run.

  She turned the glass about, watching the grains of sand drizzle to the empty base.

  It was time to begin again.

  Cecily was moving about slowly. She was still in a tremendous amount of pain and could not stand straight, but she managed to attend to the needs of her household, finding that the distractions kept her startling melancholia at bay. She began to receive visitors on a regular basis and soon the house was a hive of activity.

  Harry was four months old when she felt safe enough to interact with him; even so, she felt a disconcerting distance. Harry was attached to his nurse, Bertie, and cried for her when she left the room. His eyes searched her out frantically if she was not in his immediate line of vision. Cecily swallowed tears whenever this happened. It was natural for children to be more attached to their nurses than their parents, she knew, but it did little to comfort her. She resolved to spend as much time with him as possible, tending to as many of his needs as she could, that the two might develop a closer bond. She cuddled and played with him and soon his face lit with delight upon seeing her, causing her heart to constrict with relief.