Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 21

  Mirabella’s sigh betrayed her exasperation. “I see we will never agree on this. I do think some things are worth dying for. But I will not remain to debate this with you and upset you further in your condition. I am going to London and that is that. I am opening up Sumerton Place on the Strand.”

  “After everything that happened, you can still stay there?” Cecily regarded her, eyes wide with incredulity. It seemed nothing could penetrate Mirabella, not the fact that Sumerton Place was the locale of Brey’s and Lady Grace’s deaths, nor the fact that the elegant riverside home was also where Mirabella had learned of her parentage.

  “It is only a house,” Mirabella said. “It is immune to the events that transpired within.”

  “But you are not,” Cecily said. “Are you?”

  Mirabella scowled. “Of course not! But it makes sense to stay there. I am not going to dwell on what happened. It is a lovely house and I will make good use of it. I will refurbish it, perhaps. Make it my own. Father said I could do what I like with it.”

  “Well, then,” said Cecily. “It seems you have everything figured out.”

  “Yes, I do,” Mirabella said in cool, unaffected tones. She rose. “I best make ready.” She leaned in, kissing Cecily’s forehead. Asshe pulled away, Cecily reached up, cupping her cheek.

  “There are some things worth dying for,” Cecily said. “Family.”

  Mirabella bit her lip, blinking several times, then shook her head as if to shake away an unwanted thought before quitting the room.

  Father Alec Cahill knew this would be no ordinary Christmas. The king had invited the notorious rebel leader Robert Aske to court. Just that month the Duke of Norfolk had successfully negotiated a truce in the king’s name. It was such a slick transaction only Norfolk could pull it off, with his rumbling voice and silvery tongue. To the rebels he assured a pardon, promising that all of their demands would be met. He was a predator luring in his prey. A skilled manipulator, he would summon every wile at his disposal to quell the Pilgrimage of Grace with as much efficiency as possible to please His Majesty and obtain the favour he once enjoyed when his niece Anne Boleyn was at her apex.

  The rebels were fools to believe any promise made by King Henry or Norfolk, Catholic as he may be.

  Yet, pity the rebels’ fate though he might, Father Alec knew the Pilgrimage had to be stopped. Reforms must be pushed through, a precarious ordeal as it were with Henry’s attachment to the Catholic religion, sans Pope though it may be. The rebellion posed a real threat to the ambitions of the reformers. Archbishop Cranmer was as hated as he was loved. It was his Ten Articles, the list of sacraments to be celebrated by the Church of England, that was as much at the heart of the rebellion as the dissolution of the monasteries.

  Father Alec did not want to see violence committed in the name of progress, even in matters of faith. He did not believe in holy war—the taking of a life could not be called godly, even if done in His name. It was his hope that wily King Henry and the hawk-nosed Norfolk could diffuse the Pilgrimage before more lives were lost.

  That said, Father Alec could not say in honesty that he supported the dissolution of the monasteries himself. Though he had read Cromwell’s reports of the corruption that took place behind cloistered walls, he knew the committed Lutheran Privy Seal to King Henry had trumped up the charges that he might further his own agenda. Father Alec had not the tolerance for Cromwell that his master did. A narrow-eyed, jowly man who reminded Father Alec of the result of a terrier-weasel union, Thomas Cromwell would not hesitate to take one life or a thousand if it meant achieving his goal—the Lutheranisation of England. He had stood by and watched innocent lute player Mark Smeaton tortured into confessing his “affair” with the late Queen Anne with a delighted twinkle in his eye. No doubt he would stand hundreds more “confessions” if he were to prosper from it.

  Father Alec knew no religious agenda was worth such blood-drenched intrigue. One could die for one’s faith, but one could not kill for it.

  These were the thoughts that whirled in Father Alec’s mind as he strolled through the cold gallery at Windsor. He was wrapped in a cloak lined with soft otter fur to ward off the bitter winter chill and found himself clutching it around him, his fingers burrowing into the fur like worms desperate to shake the frost. He watched steam escape his lips as he expelled a heavy sigh, sniffling. He hoped he didn’t run into anyone too illustrious. The cold always made him sniffle and it was most unbecoming facing a nobleman or -woman with drippage running down his face.

  As he reached up to wipe away the crude reminder of his connection to humanity, his eyes beheld a woman dressed in black damask, tendrils of cropped curls spilling out from her gabled hood matching. Green eyes flashed from an olive-skinned face. Father Alec was rendered immobile.

  Mirabella Pierce.

  She was cocking her head at him now, her face drawn in concentration, immersed in the task of recognition. As he approached, her face softened into a hint of a smile. She extended her hands.

  “Father Alec,” she said, the smile growing wide as he took her hands in his. She shivered at his icy touch.

  He withdrew them immediately. “Lady Mirabella, what a pleasure!” To his amazement, it truly was. Despite the many heartaches he had witnessed at Sumerton, there was still something about its residents that would always evoke in him a sense of home, of family.

  “You’re here.” Her voice was soft. “Really here.”

  “You’re here,” he returned, his easy, husky voice bright with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “You must tell me everything. Unfortunately, I haven’t occasion to write to anyone, I’ve been kept so busy these past few years. And you, what are you doing here?” In his excitement the words came out all a-jumble. He emitted a soft laugh.

  Mirabella laughed in turn. “Father is well. They had a baby, you know, a little boy, Harry, and Cecily is expecting another any moment.”

  Cecily, a mother? Father Alec’s heart lurched, he supposed for the little girl who once was, his little pet, his little Cecily.

  “They are happy, then,” he said at last. “I am glad they are happy.”

  Mirabella nodded.

  “And you?” His voice softened as he returned his gaze from his reverie to the woman before him, taking note for the first time of the fierce glint in her eyes, the expression lit with an intensity burning from within, the proud set of her jaw. For some unknown reason, he shuddered.

  “No doubt you have heard of my abbey’s closing,” Mirabella said in tones not altogether accusatory.

  Father Alec drew in a breath and nodded. Now he understood her presence at court. He braced himself for her next words, no doubt an onslaught against him and Cranmer and anyone she perceived to be in on the destruction of her dream.

  But they were no such thing. Instead she said, “It was an honour and privilege to spend the time there that I did. I will remember it well.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Father Alec asked, “And Sister Julia? What became of her?”

  “She passed on,” she answered without breaking her unflinching gaze.

  “My deepest condolences,” Father Alec managed to say. Something seemed wrong with her response. It was too cold, too detached. Too hurried. And yet what could he expect? Mirabella knew who his master was. He could not expect her to divulge all of her secrets to him as she had in days gone by.

  “Mistress, if it means anything at all,” he began to venture, then stopped himself. He could not share his views about the dissolution, not even with Mirabella. As he had noted only moments before, they were no longer at Sumerton. She was a papist. He was a reformer. Her convent had just been closed and her mother was dead. He would be a fool to trust her. But he cursed himself for mistrusting her, along with the world that had made them this way.

  Mirabella studied him, reading his expression. Sympathy, kindness, reluctance, wistfulness. All the expressions she had cherished in him and had somehow forgotten over the years. Her heart constricted at
the sight of him, his wavy brown hair flecked with snow, his tanned face ruddy from the wind, his hazel eyes sparkling. And when he took her hands … It was the same reaction. It would always be the same reaction.

  If fate were kind she could have remained a nun, cloistered away with her mother. If fate were kind she could have remained kept from this world of sin and vice. But fate was not kind. She was in the world now, in the world where he was. She had to learn to bear it if she was to survive.

  Forcing these thoughts from her mind, Mirabella decided to rescue him from the awkward moment that had insinuated itself between them. “Robert Aske is here, I am told. It seems as though my prayers are being answered at last, that compromises are being reached.”

  His face, his honest face, changed once more, registering an expression Mirabella knew all too well. Pity. She averted her eyes.

  “The king does not compromise, Mistress Mirabella,” he told her in soft tones.

  “You are a man of faith, Father Alec,” she returned. “Do not tell me you have been jaded by this court, that you have become doubting.”

  To her surprise Father Alec released a small chuckle. “Just practical, mistress.” He reached out, touching her nose in the fond gesture of a parent to a small child. “But I see you have lost none of that fiery spirit of yours. My prayer is that it serves you well.”

  A furious flush heated Mirabella’s cheeks as she bowed her head, touched and flustered.

  “Are you staying at court then?” he asked her.

  “I am staying at our home on the Strand if you would like to visit,” she said.

  He regarded her strangely at this but said nothing except, “I will.” And then he bowed. “I am afraid I must be off. Bless you, Mistress Mirabella. God keep you.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Mirabella breathless and fighting against the hope that she would see him again soon.

  Mirabella did not have too much time to dwell on Father Alec or the strange stirring in her gut when a vision of him was summoned to mind. Today she was being presented to Queen Jane. Today she was going to make a difference.

  Because of her father’s connection to the Seymours, Mirabella was secured a private audience with Her Majesty. She had brought to Windsor with her one servant, a widow woman named Sarah Lucas who served as chaperone and lady’s maid while she stayed at Sumerton Place. She was the perfect company for Mirabella, quiet and reserved. She asked no questions. She did what was expected of her, no less and no more.

  Now she waited in the antechamber while Mirabella was shown into the queen’s presence chamber. She could not appreciate the sumptuous chambers, the silks and brocades, the tapestries, the carpets. She could only focus on her good fortune of actually being invited into the queen’s presence. It was a rarity to be granted audience without Her Majesty’s ladies in attendance. Mirabella planned to make the most of it. Her heart raced as she dipped into her deepest curtsy before her sovereign, and as Mirabella raised her head she met one of the gentlest countenances she had ever seen. Though the tiny queen was no beauty, with her dusty blond hair, pasty complexion, and chin that suggested weakness, there was something in her delicate grace that reminded Mirabella of Cecily. Momentary guilt surged through her. She did not want to think of Cecily as she had last seen her, her eyes begging her not to leave in Cecily’s time of need. If only Mirabella had told her why it was so imperative to make this journey, then perhaps she would have understood. …

  “We are glad you have come to court, Mistress Pierce,” Queen Jane said in soft tones as she gestured for Mirabella to rise.

  Mirabella did so but kept her head lowered. There was something so pious about the woman it seemed disrespectful to gaze upon her.

  “We remember your father fondly. He used to come to Wulfhall to hunt with our father and brothers,” she went on. “Is the earl well?”

  Mirabella nodded, eager to be finished with trivialities. “Yes, quite well,” she answered in wavering tones. “Thank you for asking, Your Majesty.”

  Queen Jane’s lips curved into a smile. “But you didn’t request a private audience to discuss pleasantries. Please sit. Tell us how we can be of service.”

  The words, so sweet and sincere, caused Mirabella’s throat to constrict with tears.

  Mirabella sat in a stiff-backed chair nearest the queen. “I hardly know where to begin, Your Majesty.” But she did begin. Through sobs the story tumbled out, word upon ugly word, and before long, with the exception of Sister Julia’s relationship to Mirabella, the queen learned the tragic account of the sisters of Sumerton Abbey. “I can neither dream nor fathom any other life for myself outside the convent. I do not know what to do, where to go, where I belong. … I heard that you are kind.” Mirabella’s tone was soft, timid. “That you have begged the king to preserve the monasteries—”

  Queen Jane averted her head. Her voice was very soft. “And did you also hear our husband’s response to our pleas? That we should not speak of such things else we should meet the same fate as … as …” She did not finish. Soft blue eyes fell upon Mirabella. Tears glistened against the queen’s pale cheeks. “God bless you for thinking we had the power to intervene on your behalf. But we do not. … I do not. You have heard my motto, have you not? ‘Bound to obey and serve’?” The queen offered a sad shake of the head. “My duties here are very specific. You must understand the repercussions for not meeting them. I cannot afford to direct my attentions elsewhere. It was naïve of me to try.”

  Mirabella regarded the queen, stunned at her dropping the royal we, at her condescending to share such personal thoughts with her.

  Mirabella expelled a tremulous breath. “No,” she said at last. “It was I who was naïve.” Tears paved cool trails down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she daubed them away with her kerchief. “I am sorry for troubling you, Your Majesty.”

  “We are sorry we cannot be of help,” Queen Jane said, returning to protocol once more. “Please do not be under the impression that we were not deeply moved by your story; we are touched that you would share it with us. If there was something we could do …” The queen trailed off, shaking her head once more. “We will keep you in our prayers, be assured.”

  Mirabella nodded, numbed at the revelation that raged through her, the thought that perhaps prayers were not good enough. In good faith she had told this woman all, this woman, supposedly the most powerful in the land. She did not want her prayers. She wanted action. But not even this exalted personage could be of help. She was just another lamb to Henry VIII’s merciless lion.

  “Meantime,” Queen Jane was saying, “we extend our hospitality to you. Stay with the court for Christmas. There is someone we would like you to meet.”

  Mirabella could only curtsy and nod. “It will be an honour,” she managed to say.

  And with that the audience was over.

  14

  At the Christmas celebrations held in the sumptuous great hall of Windsor, Mirabella noted tapers rising from golden candlesticks, treasure no doubt stolen from one sacred place or another. She trod rich carpets that once warmed the floors of cathedrals, her head bowed to disguise the effort it took to choke back her disgust. When the floor beneath her feet became a blur of warm tears, a gentle voice beckoned her, so soft, in fact, that it took a moment for Mirabella to register it as being real and not a whisper of Divinity.

  She raised her head to find Her Majesty, surrounded by her attendants. The little blond woman offered an ethereal smile. “Mistress, we are so pleased you have chosen to remain with us.”

  Mirabella offered a low curtsy, swallowing the painful lump of disappointment swelling her throat, disappointment in a humanity that never failed to prove its great capacity for failure, disappointment in all that had been lost, and the greatest disappointment, that she, as a member of this useless mass, had no ability to reclaim it. She was a voice struck dumb. A woman and a bastard, nothing more.

  “Mistress Pierce, may I present His Majesty’s daughter the Lady Mary?”
The queen’s gentle voice proved a respite from her introspection.

  Mirabella raised her eyes to the slim, dark young woman beside the queen. Dressed in a modest gown, boldly wearing a rosary at her hip and a crucifix at her throat, she had the carriage of her rightful but long-denied title: princess.

  A woman and a bastard, like her.

  For the first time since her arrival, Mirabella found her lips curving into a smile of warm sincerity. She curtsied once more. “My lady.”

  “Her Majesty has told me a great many things about you, Mistress Mirabella,” Lady Mary said in soft tones, but unlike Queen Jane, there was an underlying intensity fuelling each word. “I should like to promenade with you.”

  “Yes,” Mirabella said, hope surging through her veins, causing an unexpected giddiness.

  Linking arms, the two women began to walk through the crowded hall, through the carefree revellers who were no doubt celebrating a richer Christmas than last year, their pockets fattened from robbing the Church. Mirabella trembled, enraged and disgusted by the display of blatant disrespect for all that was once held holy and sacred.

  It seemed Lady Mary’s thoughts followed a similar path. As soon as the two women found themselves a peaceful alcove in the hall, her dark eyes narrowed. “I know what they did to you, mistress. You and countless others. Our faith has been raped,” she stated. Mirabella flinched, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the attempt to steal her own virtue that instead robbed her mother of her life. How small a price would it have been to sacrifice her chastity rather than Sister Julia? She swallowed bitter tears, concentrating on Lady Mary’s words. “Raped and made sacrifice to avarice,” Lady Mary went on. “His Majesty is promising to negotiate with Aske. There will be no negotiations. You know that. Perhaps even Aske knows that.”

  Mirabella was told as much. She did not want to acknowledge the truth in Lady Mary’s words, but there it was, naked. Raw. Cruel. “Then …” She swallowed an onset of unexpected tears. “Then there is no hope?”