Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 20

  A small boy was leading a pack of little ones, waving about a wooden sword. “Enemies afoot!” he cried, charging toward Mirabella. “Who goes there?”

  His demand, in an exaggerated brogue, disarmed Mirabella despite everything.

  “I am Mistress Mirabella Pierce,” she said in haughty tones of equal exaggeration. “And who, might I ask, are you?”

  The child’s face screwed up in confusion as he regarded her, his blue eyes bright and intent under their fringe of thick blond lashes. Brey’s eyes, Mirabella thought, her heart constricting in a moment of anguish.

  “Mirabella Pierce?” he returned, his shrill voice a thrill of enthusiasm. “Then you are my sister! I’m Harry!” He dropped the sword with a clatter and rushed toward her, throwing his arms about her waist.

  Shocked at the show of unexpected affection, Mirabella wrapped her arms around the child, a lump swelling her throat. She bit her lip. So this was the little brother of whom she had been written. She had never once come to see him, nor did she allow Cecily to bring him to the abbey. Guilt coursed through her. It must have pained her father and Cecily a great deal to think she had wanted nothing to do with their much-anticipated heir.

  “Where are you, you little imps?” A musical voice interrupted Mirabella’s reverie.

  She beheld the owner of the voice—a very radiant, very pregnant Cecily.

  The two women stood before each other in a moment of shock. The emotion between them was tangible; even Harry’s lip began to tremble under its power. At last, Mirabella offered a curtsy.

  “Lady Cecily,” she said in low, formal tones.

  The tears that were welling in Cecily’s eyes spilled over as she rushed toward Mirabella, seizing her hands in her own. “I have never been ‘Lady Cecily’ to you,” she told her, gathering her in her arms.

  Mirabella relished the embrace as she held the woman who had shared most of the important moments of her life. She held Cecily as close as the pregnant belly between them would allow.

  Cecily pulled away first, reaching up to stroke Mirabella’s cheek, now slick with tears of her own. “Oh, Mirabella, when we learned of the abbey’s closing we knew not what to do. We followed your instructions, stayed away.” She lowered her eyes a moment as though the thought of it still pained her. “It was all I could do to keep Hal from charging there and collecting you himself.” She sighed. “But at last he agreed honouring your wishes was the best thing we could do for you.” At this her expression converted to one of the child always eager to please. “Did we do the right thing?”

  Mirabella could not bear to answer that question. Neither could she begin to examine the agony her father and Cecily had undergone on her behalf as they wondered what her future may hold now that the dream of a monastic life was extinguished.

  Mirabella knew she must say something, however, so nodded. “I do not think anyone really knew what the ‘right thing’ was.” With this she thought of James Reaves, the steward who was probably at Lincoln by now. They knew what the right thing was. She swallowed hard. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve come home. To stay.”

  Cecily’s teal eyes sparkled with a joy Mirabella could not fathom her presence inciting.

  “Truly?” Cecily pulled Mirabella into her arms once more. “Oh, Mirabella! You have no idea how happy this will make Hal!”

  At this Mirabella felt the sadness creeping in, invading the joy of the reunion. She had no right to feel happiness of any kind, not after all she had done. She extricated herself from Cecily, steeling herself against the sensations she had allowed to permeate the discipline she prided herself on, cursing what a few moments in the world outside the cloister had done to her.

  “And Sister Julia?” Cecily asked, her tone softer. “Has she chosen to stay on?”

  This was it. The beginning of the Lie. Mirabella squeezed her eyes shut a long moment.

  “What is it?” Cecily asked, taking her arm. “Mirabella?”

  Mirabella expelled a breath she did not know she was holding. “My mother has passed into the next world. An apoplexy. It was … fast. She knew little pain.”

  Cecily’s hand flew to her milky breast. “Apoplexy … how frightening. Oh, Mirabella, I am so sorry. I’m certain your mother was grateful to have had you with her. She loved you so—”

  Mirabella averted her head. “Forgive me, Cecily, but I cannot yet speak of it. I am still too fresh in my grief.”

  Cecily hesitated. Mirabella felt her eyes upon her, scrutinising, searching. Did they detect her guilt?

  “Of course,” Cecily said at last. “Do know that when you are ready, I am always here for you.”

  Mirabella offered a curt nod of acknowledgement. She sighed in relief. The hardest part was behind her. It would be easier relaying the story to her father now that she had tested it on someone else.

  “Where is Father?” she asked.

  “Hunting,” Cecily said, then looped her arm through hers as they made the familiar promenade to Mirabella’s chambers. “You must be exhausted. How about I have your things sent up? I will arrange to have some food brought as well and you can take a long rest. By the time you awaken, he’ll be here.”

  Her voice was so soothing, the suggestion so thoughtful, that tears stung Mirabella’s eyes once more. She was unworthy of her friend’s solicitude.

  Nonetheless, she yielded to it. “That would be wonderful, Cecily. I should like that.”

  Cecily wrapped her arm about her waist. “We shall have a great deal to catch up on at supper tonight,” she told her as they walked. “And now at last you have a chance to get to know Harry.”

  “That will mean a lot to me,” Mirabella said automatically.

  By the door of her chambers they paused. Cecily placed her hands on Mirabella’s shoulders, fixing her with a gentle, significant gaze that caused Mirabella’s heart to race.

  “For all that is known and unknown, I am truly sorry.”

  She left it at that.

  13

  A wave of tenderness enveloped Cecily as she watched unchecked tears pour down Hal’s tanned cheeks when he beheld Mirabella. Rested now, she had changed into a black mourning gown that suited her better than a nun’s habit ever had.

  “Home at last,” Hal breathed, cupping the back of her head with one hand as he clasped her to him with the other. “Now the family is complete.”

  Cecily watched Mirabella’s face contort with pain. All knew the family had not been complete since Brey’s death. And now with the combined blows of her mother’s passing and the abbey’s closing, Mirabella must feel more incomplete than ever. Cecily’s heart went out to her.

  The family sat down to a private dinner in the solar while the guests were treated to the usual revelry in the great hall. They feasted off the boar Hal had killed that day, along with some warm bread, cheese, and figs Hal had imported just to satisfy Cecily’s craving.

  After Harry had been sent to bed with the nurse, Mirabella imparted the news of Sister Julia’s passing to Hal. His face clouded with fear at the word apoplexy, then quickly converted to grief.

  “Hers is a great loss to you, I know,” he said in gentle tones as he laid a hand over hers. “She was a good woman.” He bowed his head a long moment. “A very good woman.”

  Mirabella shifted in her seat, withdrawing her hand to pick at her food without eating anything. Cecily covertly watched, wondering if she would ever learn the truths behind her silences, if Mirabella would ever trust her enough to share them. Such moments could not be forced, however. She would never coax or pry. She could only wait.

  “I am certain you are aware of the uprising, then,” Hal said, diverting the subject from one source of grief to another.

  But Mirabella perked at this. “Yes, I am. Any word?”

  “It has been quelled, under threat of the Duke of Suffolk’s army descending,” he answered. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Thanks be to God!” Mirabella cried, appalled. “It is for God that the army
was fighting! They fought for me! For all those like me, those who simply wished to dedicate their lives to God.” Tears choked her. The words came out in short gasps.

  “Mirabella, I know you think that. And perhaps they believed it as well,” Hal told her. “But to fight against a king such as Henry, a king who will move the whole world to obtain his desires, is foolhardy. King Henry will crush those who oppose him with lethal precision. Please be careful, my love. You must not be seen to sympathise with rebels, no matter how you may feel in your heart.”

  “There are no rebels to sympathise with now,” Mirabella said in tones thick with defeat. “So you need not worry.”

  “This rebellion is far from over,” Hal informed her. “Now it’s being called the ‘Pilgrimage of Grace’. They are led by a lawyer, Robert Aske, and gather at York.”

  Cecily attempted to urge Hal into silence with scowls, eyes, and bared teeth, all hints he did not seem to pick up on. Cecily wanted to scream. Could Hal not see that this latest report incited in his daughter hope, not fear?

  “My friend …” Mirabella breathed. “I wonder if … if he joins them.”

  “We must pray for a safe outcome, that no lives are lost,” Cecily said, hoping to neutralise the conversation.

  “Those who lose their lives for God are martyrs,” Mirabella said in hard tones. “Saints.”

  Cecily bit her lip, exchanging a fearful glance with Hal, who at last understood the gravity of imparting such news.

  It was clear to both of them. Mirabella had not changed at all.

  As Mirabella eased herself back into life at Castle Sumerton, she found she was allowed all the solitude for prayer that she desired. She did not pray in the family chapel, where mass was held in the new fashion, but remained alone at her prie-dieu, where she was free to practise the True Faith.

  When not maintaining a schedule that was as close to convent life as possible, she was drawn to the boy, to her little brother, Harry, who to her unexpected delight seemed to adore her. He could not comprehend the fact that she was indeed a half sister, not to mention the fact that she was older than his mother. While he was kept ignorant of the technicalities, Mirabella explained that she was born of another mother, many years ago, all the while trying to banish the last images of Sister Julia from her mind, her eyes glazed and sightless, her hair coated in blood. … No! Mirabella must not think of that. She would die if she did.

  Instead she focused on Harry. She petted him, spoiled him with sweetmeats, read to him, told him Bible stories, and seemed never to tire of his childish prattle. Together they walked all the trails of her youth, places Father Alec had taken her, Brey, and Cecily as children. She told Harry of Brey, of his resemblance to him, of his mother as a little girl and how she had rejuvenated the castle. She told him of Father Alec, a tutor without rival. She even told him a little of Lady Grace, the gentle things, the good things.

  “You have a way with him,” Cecily observed one evening after Harry was tucked in bed. Her eyes were wistful as she rested her hand on her belly. With effort she lowered herself onto a sedan chair in the solar. “I am so glad. Sometimes …”

  Mirabella eyed her with concern. “What is it, Cecily?”

  Cecily averted her head. “I was very ill for the first few months of his life. Sometimes I feel as though because I missed those first few months, that something crucial may have been lost between us forever.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. “Oh, there is no shortage of love and I am certain he feels it. And yet … There are times I feel as though I cheated him.”

  “You were ill,” Mirabella reasoned, strangely honoured to be privy to Cecily’s innermost thoughts. “You could not help what came to pass. You mustn’t punish yourself for that, Cecily.”

  Cecily raised her head to Mirabella, reaching for her hand. Mirabella took it, marvelling at its perfection. What man could resist such a dainty little hand?

  Cecily went on. “I feel selfish for being so glad that you’re home. Sometimes I think I could have borne things much better had you been with us then. That you would have understood what I was going through.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “But you are here now and that is what matters. You’ll see me through this next baby.”

  Mirabella shuddered at the prospect. She feared childbirth almost as much as she feared death. She could not imagine waiting in the airless, darkened chamber while Cecily laboured with another one of her siblings. The thought of it caused her belly to churn with a mingling of disgust and anxiety.

  She patted Cecily’s hand to distract herself from the vision. “Of course, Cecily. Of course I’ll be here.”

  Cecily regarded her with eyes so filled with trust it pained Mirabella doubly to lie.

  “Father, I wonder if you could arrange for me to visit the court,” Mirabella told Hal as the two went riding together one crisp December afternoon. “You have always been in favour with the Seymours.” She offered a warm smile. “You are in favour with everyone,” she added fondly. “But I should like to be presented to Queen Jane.”

  Hal’s blue eyes widened at the suggestion. “I never fancied you a lady of the court, Mirabella, but if it is what you want I shall set to it directly.” He searched her face a long moment. “You have endured so much. I know I cannot change the past. I cannot right the many wrongs. But I promise you, Mirabella, I will always try to help you any way I can.” With this he nudged his horse closer to her palfrey and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  Mirabella reached up to finger the moist spot his lips had left behind. “I appreciate it, Father, truly.”

  But the sincerity of his declaration was lost on her.

  She could only think of the queen, of Henry’s court, and of her own private mission.

  “Court? No!” Cecily cried upon learning of Mirabella’s plans. “For how long?”

  “Only a short while,” Mirabella promised her. They were in Cecily’s confinement chamber. Already the fear of another complicated birth had sent Cecily into a panic. Wild-eyed, she imagined every horror fate could hold and spent many an hour in restless anxiety.

  “But you said you would be here to attend me in childbed.” Cecily’s voice was thick with disappointment as she regarded Mirabella. “Mirabella, I told you how awful it was last time. I thought … I thought …”

  “You have the midwife and your friend Alice,” Mirabella reasoned. “She knows more about childbed than I ever would want to—” spitting out brats one after the other, she added in her mind. “You cannot think I’d be any comfort to you. Besides, I must go. There are things happening in London that I must be a part of.”

  “Just like Father Alec,” Cecily muttered, casting her eyes down at the coverlet.

  “What do you mean?” Mirabella’s tone was sharp.

  “He left for the great happenings of Henry’s London,” Cecily explained. “Left on my wedding day,” she added in tones soft with reminiscence. “I suppose I am just one girl. What’s one small girl in comparison to all London has to offer?”

  “Cecily, it’s about the convent,” Mirabella said, dismissing Cecily’s remark. “About all the monasteries Cromwell is dissolving in King Henry’s name. It’s about the Pilgrimage of Grace. You cannot pretend to think that wouldn’t matter to me, that I would just accept my lot without some kind of protest?”

  Cecily shook her head, defeated under Mirabella’s crushing, resentment-fuelled determination.

  “I had just hoped you would find some kind of happiness here,” Cecily said. “That you could let go of the past, start again.”

  “You have no idea what you are saying.” Mirabella rose from Cecily’s bed and began to pace. “If you had only seen what I have seen, you would understand.”

  “Then tell me,” Cecily urged, tears clutching her throat. “Make me understand.”

  Mirabella whirled toward Cecily, her face wrought with grief. Her lips parted to speak, but no words came forth. She clamped her mouth shut and looked down at her hands, wh
ich clenched and unclenched a rosary. All that could be heard for long moments was the sound of beads rubbing and clicking against one another. A shiver coursed through Cecily at the grating sound, causing her arms to be dappled with gooseflesh.

  At last Mirabella raised her head. The beads were silenced. “Robert Aske, the leader of the Pilgrimage, has been invited to court for Christmas to establish some kind of peace. I should like the opportunity to meet him. And if I am presented to Queen Jane, I can tell her … everything. She can tell the king. Perhaps some difference can be made.”

  “Are you daft?” Cecily cried, unable to contain her anger another moment. “Do you really think anyone has any sway over this king, least of all his wife? One wrong word and he’ll have her head!” Cecily sank against her pillows, closing her eyes against Mirabella’s illogical ambitions.

  “So I am supposed to stay here and do nothing, to cloister myself in my own little world where everything is lovely and safe and no one disagrees, where the biggest problem is what is on the menu for the evening?! Well, forgive me if I cannot be as accepting of tyranny as you and my father are!” Mirabella spat.

  “So now we are the ones seeking escape?” Cecily observed, fixing Mirabella with a hard stare. “ ‘Cloistering ourselves’? I did not take you for a hypocrite, Mirabella.” She expelled a heavy sigh, rubbing her belly. “We accept what is going on around us because we cannot change it. We will not try to change it. That does not mean we like it. But we have more than ourselves to think of. We have Harry. We will not jeopardise our children’s future because we disagree with policy, no matter how unjust. How will it do to have Hal’s or my head on a spike? So our children can keen, ‘Why did they give their life?’ Why, indeed? For some intangible point? To make a statement? The only statement it makes is foolishness and carelessness for your own family—your father and Harry and me, whose lives you could put in jeopardy. But you would not think of that.” Cecily expelled a heavy sigh. “Sometimes the greatest heroes are those who survive these ordeals by keeping silent and waiting it out.”