Betrayal in the Tudor Court Read online

  “He knows who my lady is,” Bertie told her, her voice warm with reassurance.

  Cecily hated the fact that she needed this kind of encouragement, but she had done it to herself, hadn’t she, wallowing in that strange sadness she had fallen into after his birth? Now she had regrouped and was determined to be the best mother possible.

  It was not without a trace of bittersweet sadness that Cecily observed Harry resembling Brey more and more with each passing day with his blond curls and inquisitive blue eyes. Cecily was not the only one haunted by it; now and then she caught Hal gazing at the child, his eyes soft with wistfulness. There was no doubt that he was recalling his first son.

  Cecily found it a little disturbing that she was the mother of Brey’s brother. She did not know why this should make any difference, but she was disconcerted nonetheless. She could not stop thinking of her, Brey’s, and Hal’s blood flowing through the same veins—they had all become one in the body of this remarkable creature.

  Yet, strange as it was, it was that thought that consoled Cecily. In little Harry life was renewed. He was their hope, their new beginning, and whenever she looked upon the sandglass Hal had given her she ran her fingers along the carving of Harry’s birth date.

  Someday she would tell him of his sweet brother and how she had loved him so. But that would not be for a very long time.

  If Harry resembled Brey in temperament as much as he did in looks, he would be a lad in whom to take much pride.

  “We live in dangerous times,” Archbishop Thomas Cranmer was telling Father Alec when they were alone in Cranmer’s apartments at Lambeth Palace.

  Father Alec found the words to be a gross understatement, but then who could articulate best the horrors of the past three years? Words could never encompass the tragedies they had witnessed. Thomas More, the former lord chancellor who would not sign the king’s Oath of Succession, was dead, beheaded on Tower Green, as Bishop Fisher had been. Princess Catherine of Aragon had died in January 1536 and was buried the same day Anne Boleyn was delivered of her stillborn prince.

  Within months, Queen Anne, that pretty, spirited girl, was accused of treasonous acts that included incest with her own brother, adultery, and witchcraft. She was beheaded along with her brother while the other men who had “criminal knowledge” of her were hanged and eviscerated. But when Father Alec looked into those hard, proud black eyes the day she knelt before the French swordsman, he knew in his soul she was not guilty. The only reason she was condemned to die was because she failed just as her predecessor had failed. She could not produce a son for the king. Now there was a new queen, the pious Jane Seymour, who was meek and dainty and would not push for reform as clever Anne had done. Henry VIII would not be manipulated by a woman again.

  “All we can do is cautiously move forward,” Cranmer was telling Father Alec. “We must push our reforms through as subtly as possible. And everything, absolutely everything, must be credited to His Majesty.”

  The thought of the king, whom Cranmer still loved with a devotion Father Alec would never understand, made him want to retch. Henry VIII had grown fat over the years and his paranoia increased with his belt size. No one was safe around him; he raised men up and cast them down on a whim. The Howards, Anne Boleyn’s ambitious family and once the shining stars of the kingdom, were all but in hiding, yielding to the rise of the favoured family of the moment: the Seymours. Father Alec wondered how long it would be before they committed some concocted offence against His Majesty and tumbled from grace. One had only to look at the king the wrong way to do so.

  As long as Father Alec was beside Cranmer he felt safe. Cranmer was one of the king’s most beloved companions, and as Father Alec lacked political aspirations for himself, he immediately set men at ease. His only aim was to serve his archbishop, who was a living manifestation of his every ideal.

  The unspoken bone of contention between the men was that the archbishop’s only aim was to serve his king.

  And the king frightened Father Alec to death.

  “I believe in him, you see,” Cranmer said, as though reading his thoughts. It was a disturbing habit the archbishop indulged in often, and sometimes Father Alec entertained, albeit briefly, the notion that the man did possess some otherworldly quality about him. “I believe in the strain of the Almighty that runs through his veins and it is that strain which will ultimately compel him to do good—if he is guided correctly, delicately, and with love.”

  “You truly do love him,” Father Alec observed, trying to contain his awe.

  “He is my king … and he is greatly troubled. He needs …” He searched for the words. “He needs our help.” He sighed. “If you could only have seen him when I first met him. He was so vibrant, so inspired. His depth and breadth of knowledge is still incomparable. He loves to learn; he tries so hard to understand and make sense of the world around him. He is driven by a conscience we sometimes do not understand, but when you look into his eyes you cannot doubt its existence.” The passion in Cranmer’s tone touched Father Alec. “He longs to be a good king. In his eyes to be a good king means ensuring the succession with a male heir. He will feel as though he has failed if he does not.” Cranmer’s eyes were lit with the intensity of his convictions.

  “And what of Queen Jane?” Father Alec was compelled to interpose. “If she cannot bring forth an heir …” He cocked a speculative brow. There was no need to say more.

  Cranmer squeezed his eyes shut a moment, as though warding off a terrifying vision of Hell itself. He drew in a breath. At last he said, “I am constrained to help His Majesty, to pray for his soul. It is difficult to see now in the light of recent events, but we must have faith in the fact that King Henry is, in his soul, a good man.”

  It was a convoluted analysis, justifying the king’s horrific actions through the biased eyes of one who loved him, but Father Alec would not dispute him.

  In his heart, of course, he thought no such thing.

  Henry VIII was a madman and Father Alec knew without a shred of doubt that the indirect murder of Queen Catherine followed by the slaughter of Queen Anne signified a new chapter in their lives.

  It was the beginning of Henry VIII’s reign of terror.

  “He is mad,” Mirabella seethed to the abbess, Anna Shelby, when the older woman tearfully explained the fate of Sumerton Abbey in chapter that evening.

  Anna Shelby fixed Mirabella with a steely stare. Though chapter was the time to air out grievances, she seldom tolerated outbursts, no matter how justified they may be.

  “Sister Mirabella! You will be silent!” she admonished in harsh tones.

  Mirabella rose, the slender hand that rested on the table curling into a fist. “Forgive me, I mean not to disobey, but I cannot be silent. I cannot accept this. You have just told us that our beloved convent, along with almost every other monastic house in England, is to be closed and plundered for the sake of filling King Henry’s treasury! How can you expect any other response?”

  “I understand your resentment, Sister Mirabella, but what would you have us do?” returned Anna Shelby, her eyes brimming with tears. “We are but humble women; we cannot fight His Majesty’s will.”

  “No, of course we cannot fight him,” Mirabella said. “But we can resist. Perhaps the king will have mercy—”

  “My dear lady, when have you witnessed an act of mercy from this king?” returned the abbess.

  Mirabella was trembling with anger. “Then what are we to do? Accept our pensions, retire to the country, useless, while our world crumbles about us? How can we accept that?”

  The room burst into nervous chatter until the abbess raised her gnarled hands, gesturing for them to be silent. “Sister Mirabella, change is an inevitability of life. Perhaps this is God’s will—”

  “It is not God’s will!” Mirabella cried, feeling a tug at her wrist, knowing it was a warning from Sister Julia to hold her peace and ignoring it. “This is a test for us to uphold the will of God, opposing sinners who
mean to work against it!” she cried with passion. “It cannot be God’s will that His devoted servants be cast into this cruel world like grains of sand—”

  “Perhaps it is,” the abbess interposed, her voice soft. “Perhaps, Sisters, we have been isolated for too long. Perhaps God wishes us to be out in the world, that we may perform His work—”

  “I cannot accept that,” Mirabella said with a shake of her head. “There are those called to the monastic world and those called to live outside. To take away our place of calling is tantamount to taking away our very lives.” As she spoke she noted Sister Julia searching her face. She flushed, feeling the need to defend herself against something she did not understand.

  “You are wrong,” Anna Shelby said. “The king may take away our home, our property, our books, and our treasures.” She looked beyond the gathering of anxious females, fixing pale blue eyes on a plane so distant it could only be viewed from within. “But those are all things, my child. Just things. He cannot take away that which belongs to God—our souls. And that is where our calling lies. Whether cloistered or out in the world, if your soul belongs to God, nothing, not even the injustices of this life, can touch you.”

  Mirabella shook her head again, squeezing back hot tears. How could the abbess betray them so easily? How could she yield to that bastard devil-king, Henry VIII?

  Mirabella righted herself, standing straight and tall, her shoulders square as she addressed the chapter house. “Sisters, does no one have the courage to fight, to preserve our way of life? Can we remain passive and allow this tyrant to separate us from our Mother Church? The devil reigns in this land, cloaking himself in the New Learning, and our king has been seduced by it. I tell you, the Archbishop of Canterbury and that crony of His Majesty’s the vile weasel Thomas Cromwell—you remember him as that wicked man who slinked through here two years past to examine our fitness as a convent? Yes, that same Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer are out to destroy the Church! Together they lead England farther away from our Lord and closer to the gates of Hell!”

  The tables were silent. All of the nuns’ eyes were riveted to Mirabella, who tingled and trembled with inspiration as she spoke.

  “I call you to fight for our Lord, for His Church!” Mirabella cried, raising a fist and shaking it before the assemblage. “Stand beside me when the guards come! Do not accept pensions and a life denied your purpose! Remain with me and fight! And if we should die, we die martyrs!”

  The women burst into applause and Mirabella flushed with peculiar delight. She would save the convent, and if not, her sacrifice would be remembered. Someday, when the world was set right, they would speak of the brave, selfless sisters of Sumerton Abbey and how they died defending the Lord’s honour. …

  “But, Sister,” a young novitiate said in timid tones, “we have no arms.”

  “We need none,” Mirabella told her. “We will not fight them as soldiers. We will stand our ground. We will simply refuse to leave. They will have to run us through to move us and who would dare harm a holy woman without fear for their souls?”

  “Sister Mirabella!” the abbess cried. “To my knowledge you have not been elected abbess of this institution, yet you fall into the role of command as though you are entitled to it.”

  Only now did Mirabella feel the first strains of genuine humility flow through her as she fell to her knees before her superior. “Forgive me,” she said in soft tones. “Whip me if you desire, discipline me in the manner you see fit … but know that I cannot be moved from what I am being called to do.”

  “Is it God calling you, Sister?” Anna Shelby intoned as she seized Mirabella’s chin, lifting it up to gaze into her eyes. “Or are you driven by something far worldlier? Beware, my child, the sin of pride. It is pride that will separate you from God with far more success than King Henry ever could.”

  Mirabella bowed her head, annoyed. How dare the abbess presume that her intentions were anything but pure?

  “I beg of you, Sister, do not do this,” Sister Julia cautioned Mirabella as the two quit the chapter house, where, to the surprise of everyone and the dismay of some, Mirabella did not receive punishment for her diatribe. “You have great sway over the women here—you could lead them all into danger. Do not persist. You must accept our fate and trust in God to care for us.”

  “It isn’t always that simple, Sister,” Mirabella told her with a sigh of annoyance. “God requires us to serve Him above and beyond what we sometimes feel capable of. I am fighting for His Church. I am not going to slink off into the country to lick my wounds while the monasteries are looted and my brothers and sisters in God are thrown to the wolves. Perhaps some can live with that on their souls, but I cannot.”

  “Mirabella.” Sister Julia’s voice was soft as she spoke her given name. “You are my child. … I beg you, for the first and last time, as your mother, not to do this. Come with me. We will retire to York. I have an uncle there. I am certain he will extend his generosity to me. We could be so happy. And we could establish some sort of monastic community of our own, perhaps not as formal as this. Perhaps it does not need to be like this. As long as our hearts are pure in their intent to serve and know the Lord, I do not think it matters where we reside.”

  Mirabella stopped walking and turned to Sister Julia, fixing her with eyes hard as mirrors. “If you think you can use our tie of blood to manipulate me, you are wrong, Sister.”

  Sister Julia flinched at this, then averted her head.

  “As it is, I do not expect you to understand,” Mirabella went on. “You are accustomed to running away from life; you ran from me, you ran from scandal, you ran from my father. Why would now be any different?”

  Sister Julia straightened, raising her chin in defiance as she regarded her daughter. Her voice when she spoke was low, laced with venom. “If I have been running my whole life, then indeed so have you. Did you not run away from the scandal of Lady Grace, from Brey’s death, from your feelings for the man you love and can never have? Don’t lie to me, Mirabella, not to me!” At once her face softened. She reached out, cupping Mirabella’s cheek in her hand. “Above all, don’t lie to yourself. Examine your motives, my girl. Examine your soul.”

  Mirabella bit her lip until she flinched from the pain. At last she said, “You do as your conscience advises and I shall do the same.”

  Sister Julia cocked her head, her eyes filled with irony. “Well, then. If your introspection is sincere, I have nothing to fear. Do I?”

  Cecily watched her son, Harry, romp through her garden in the company of his favourite companion, Alice’s daughter Joanna. Together the two children toddled about, exploring their surroundings, pinching flowers off their stems, fingering the delicate petals in amazement as they took in the bright colours of summer.

  The young mothers looked on through fond eyes. Nearby Alice’s daughters Ellen and Margery played, shifting to other locales as soon as the babies caught up to them.

  “The little ones always get left out,” Alice laughed.

  Cecily smiled as she rubbed the slight swell of her belly. Her womb had only just quickened with her and Hal’s second child. She was as happy as she was terrified. She did not know if she could live through another birth if it proved as difficult as Harry’s. It seemed, however, that as fearful as she was, Alice was far more anxious.

  She observed her friend now, noting the pinched, pallid complexion, the puffiness beneath her eyes, the distant gaze.

  “Alice, what is it?” she asked at last.

  Alice pursed her lips. She bowed her head. “I have been thinking of the future, of my daughters. With the dissolution of the monasteries, I cannot imagine it possible that they ever be sent away now. I had hoped to send them soon, but now …”

  Cecily’s heart lurched at the thought. “Alice, but they’re only babies!” She laughed in nervousness as she covered her friend’s hand with hers. “You need not send them off so soon.”

  “I do. The sooner the better.” Alice bit
her lip, averting her head.

  Cecily’s heart pounded with some unnamed dread. “Why, Alice?”

  “He … he just won’t leave me alone. You know?” She rubbed her neck absently as she spoke. “Every day, every night, he is on me. I’m so exhausted. And the babies keep coming, all of them blasted girls.” She began to tremble. “Had God granted me a different life and a different husband, I wouldn’t have minded them. They would have been a comfort to me. …” She shook her head. “But not here, not now. Now they are as much a curse as they are accursed. Edward and his eldest sons … they descend upon us like vultures. No one is safe. They are just babies, Cecily!” She hugged herself, stiffening a moment, perhaps stifling a sob before continuing. “If it were just me it would not matter. I can stand it. I have stood it,” she added in soft tones. “But Edward says it’s our duty to satisfy the hot blood of the family males. Far better for him and the boys to get it from home than contract the pox by whoring.” The meaning of the statement hung in the air like a dense, strangling fog. Burning bile rose in Cecily’s throat. She swallowed hard. “You see, he has his heirs,” Alice went on. “It makes no difference to him now who my children look like—if they resemble one of his sons more than him. …”She shrugged.

  Cecily’s stomach churned. “Oh, God, Alice …”

  Alice buried her face in her hands, dissolving into sobs.

  Cecily wrapped her arms about her, holding her close, her heart wrenching in terror as all of her suspicions about Alice’s household were at last confirmed.

  “Is there not something to be done?” Cecily breathed. “Perhaps my Lord Hal—”

  “No!” Alice’s tone was sharp, edged with tears. “Not a word to a soul, Cecily, do you hear me? I told you to relieve my burden, to seek your comfort, nothing more. There is nothing more can be done.”