Betrayal in the Tudor Court Read online

  “There, now, no worries, Cecily,” she soothed. “If I told Mirabella the sky was blue she would say it was brown just to disagree. We shall never see eye to eye, I’m afraid.” She stroked the child’s silky hair, taking comfort in it. “You would still like to help?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Cecily said, offering a timid half smile.

  Grace relaxed against her pillows. She retrieved her cup from the bedside table. “Empty,” she murmured, scowling. “Cecily, be a lamb, won’t you, and fetch your mistress another cup of wine?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Cecily answered as she crawled out of bed to do Grace’s bidding.

  Grace watched the child’s competent little hands fill her cup with the soothing, crimson liquid. How good it was to have such an acquiescent child about!

  “I should like it very much if you spent more time with me,” Grace told her on impulse as Cecily handed her the cup. “It pleases me to be in your company.”

  Cecily smiled, offering another engaging flush of the cheeks. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Grace drank her wine. As it surged through her, warming her trembling limbs and calming her racing heart, she smiled. She would get through another Lent.

  She had a ball to prepare for.

  Hal Pierce spent Lent playing dice with a few other less observant members of the local gentry. He didn’t mind the deprivation, the penance. He considered his life one endless Lent as it were, so the season had little effect on him. And a little dice was harmless enough. He never lost too much; he was careful with his assets. He would not deprive Brey of his rightful inheritance. It was fun, that was all, just a bit of fun. And he needed fun.

  Hal was not a drinking man, he was not a whoring man, and that was more than could be said for most men. Thus he took some measure of pride in himself for being able to go through life with such uncanny restraint. A bit of dice and a hand of cards were his rewards.

  He had married Grace at the age of eighteen. His heart contracted at the thought. She was the beautiful daughter of a wool baron from York and had brought with her a generous dowry. They got on as well as could be expected, though like most marriages, it did not begin as a love match. Since their wedding day they had been tested with rigorous consistency. His parents were ailing, both passing within the first two years of his marriage, leaving the running of the household and management of the vast lands that surrounded it to the young couple. Yet they endured and with endurance came love. They embraced their mutual passion for fun and good company. They shared a love of hunting, hawking, and dancing. Grace became the perfect social ornament. If he focused on those elements he could forget the rest, the lonely nights when their home was not teeming with guests, nights spent in separate bedchambers, nights of solitude and reflection on events that could never be changed.

  That was when Grace slept with a decanter at her bedside. And that was when Hal played dice.

  Because Hal was the only child of the previous Earl of Sumerton it was his hope to fill the house with children of his own. That there were only two and a succession of miscarriages could not be helped. It was the will of God, he supposed, and he cherished his blessings. Brey was a wonderful child, sweet and bonny. And Mirabella … well, he was certain Mirabella would come into her own when softened by marriage and children. It was his hope that she would abandon her fantasy of becoming a nun. Though he would never deter her, it was not the life he had dreamed of for her.

  Dreams … Nothing had gone as expected. In that his life was a constant illustration.

  He sat now, thinking of this life as he shook the dice in clammy hands, surrounded by other men who wondered after their own lives, all of them convening to stave off their own terrible loneliness for one night. They would listen to the rattle of the dice, the melody of their chuckling, the bawdy jokes.

  And they would pretend to be happy.

  Thus Hal would get through.

  Father Alec was witnessing a change in the Pierce household. Though it had been lively with a superficial sort of energy, he could not say his patrons were happy people. Yet when Lady Cecily came … He was under no illusions. The little baroness worked no miracles. The Pierces were still imbued with their own respective vices. Yet she infused in them a tranquility that he had not seen before. Her innocence, her trusting nature, her resilient cheer endeared her to all she encountered. Brey had a playmate, a companion, an outlet for his restlessness. Mirabella had an affable girl-child to treat as a sister and pupil, someone with whom she could tout her knowledge, someone she could nurture and lead toward her perception of Right. Lady Grace adored the girl and spent entire afternoons absorbing her serenity; she was a buffer to the antagonism experienced with her own daughter. And Lord Hal was fond of her as well; she was his hope for the future. It was from her womb that would descend all future Pierces.

  She was of no exceptional talent; she was the type who mastered all she attempted with competence. If she possessed any gift worthy of note it was in her ability to manage people. Though she was playful, she displayed no signs of being a coquette; she would not manipulate her way through life as would a woman of the court. No, it was her sweetness that won hearts. Her sweetness, her sincerity, her acquiescence, her comforting presence.

  Cecily was that rarest of things. A soul of complete integrity.

  Father Alec drank her in as well. She was as a daughter to him. Perhaps it was because the other children had living parents that inclined Father Alec to believe they needed him less. Perhaps it was that Cecily shared his acute awareness of loss. Or perhaps it was that she was so uncomplicated. So genuine. Whatever it was, Father Alec found that with her he could be as close to a true father as he would ever get.

  Of course it was not productive to think like that.

  Father Alec did not regret the choice he had made. What other alternative was there at the time? The priesthood made sense. He was the second son of a Welsh country squire. As such, his fate lay with the Church. He did not resent this. He needed an education and the only ones of his class with access to an education of any true merit were priests. Chastity seemed a small enough sacrifice for the enrichment of his mind and soul.

  He found other ways to relate to his fellow man and being a tutor was one of them. It gave him the opportunity to experience a little of what he had chosen to forgo. He lived with the Pierces; through them he witnessed the pitfalls and triumphs of a family. He could not deny that he was still on the outside, a bystander living vicariously through others. The emptiness of it all enshrouded him and more often than not he felt like a fraud, a man dressed as a priest for a masque.

  Then Cecily came and with her a new sense of fulfillment, a new sense of connection.

  He cursed himself. He should not feel that need. He should be resigned to his lot, the lot that he chose. Yet what harm was there in pretending? Was he not called Father for a reason? He chose to be as loving as a father to God’s people, to guide them, to nurture them. Surely God could not fault him for that.

  So he pretended. Cecily called him Father and he revelled in the temporary fantasy that he was a family man, that he had a daughter.

  That she called him Father not because he was a priest.

  3

  Winter shed its abundant white cloak in favour of the dewy green gown of spring. Easter had come and gone, relieving everyone at Sumerton of their Lenten deprivations. Now was a time to celebrate the Resurrection, to savour the hope life brought as it renewed itself in all its forms, the flowers pushing their bonny heads through the moist, fertile earth, the trees budding and blooming, the lambs and fawns struggling on their wobbly legs, the pups opening their eyes to the warmth of the sun for the first time.

  The world was waking up.

  Cecily was, too. She had grown to love the Pierces in the year she had spent with them, and though she longed for her parents, she realised she longed for them, less because of who they were than what they were. They were her parents. It was her duty to love them. She did not know the
m as people at all. They had never interacted with her the way the Pierces did. To be fair, Cecily had been too young to interact with and was left to the nurse for the most part. Most of her memories were of Mistress Fitzgerald rather than her mother, who was trailing after Cecily’s father, who was trailing after the court. Cecily could not blame them for that; that was their noble responsibility.

  She prayed for her parents’ souls. The pain and guilt began to subside. She cherished their miniatures, keeping them on her bedside table that she might always be close enough to consult their likenesses should nostalgia call. As time passed, it called less and less.

  Meantime the Pierces served as her distractions. They were a strange group; she loved them. She feared them. Their pain was tangible to one as sensitive as Cecily. She knew it, she felt it, even as she could not identify it. It shone out of Lord Hal’s wistful blue eyes, it rang like a mourning bell in Lady Grace’s soft voice, and was illustrated in Brey’s bewildered expression. In Mirabella it was disguised by an iron will and uncompromising conviction that Cecily did not bother to resist. It was far easier to acquiesce where she was concerned, and Cecily found Mirabella’s rare smiles worth yielding to. Besides, Mirabella was at odds with Lady Grace enough as it was; she did not need Cecily to add to the melee. If Cecily disagreed with her on matters of principle and anything in between she kept it to herself.

  Finally there was Father Alec, who wore a mantle of melancholy of his own. He masked it with a kind smile, but it was there, deafening in its tortured silence. Cecily could not hope to reach it, to nurse it as was her inclination with anyone suffering.

  She longed to heal them all. They had come together, all broken things, it seemed. She did not know why; perhaps she did not need to know. What mattered was that she was there and, in whatever way she could, she would try to bring joy to these people who were to be her life.

  She did not yet possess the ability to comfort with words. So she comforted with actions, leaving bouquets of fresh spring flowers for Lady Grace and Mirabella, treasures from the outdoors to Brey, anything she could catch—frogs, mice, moles. For the men, Lord Hal and Father Alec, she left messages of hope in the small things—feathers, vibrant blue-green grass, shiny rocks, birds’ eggs. Anything that caught her eye.

  She never told them; she was never one to tout herself. She knew she had given, after all, and sought no glory. She just left them. And hoped it cheered them as much as finding them cheered her.

  Father Alec caught her one day. She had sneaked into his chambers and was leaving an interesting birds’ nest on his pillow. It was woven with such perfection, such delicate intricacy, that it rivalled the richest tapestry.

  He cleared his throat upon entrance. “Lady Cecily, you know these are my private apartments.”

  Cecily started, stiffening as she turned to face him. “I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that … well … I—”

  “Did you look through my things?” he asked her.

  Cecily shook her head. “No, sir. Of course not.”

  His shoulders eased and he offered a smile. “I did not mean to frighten you. It’s just that I do not own much. What I do have, I treasure.”

  “I understand,” Cecily said, and she did. She did not have much either. In truth she had more land and money and possessions than she could fathom, but they were inaccessible. What she had that she actually valued was very little and she would not want anyone tampering with it either.

  “What were you doing in here then?” he asked her, his smile widening.

  Cecily retrieved the birds’ nest, flushing as she handed it to him. “I saw it … I thought …” She could not speak. She did not want him to know.

  “So it was you,” he breathed in his husky voice that Cecily had come to grow fond of. He sat upon his bed as he examined the nest. “I’ve been wondering for weeks now … all these little gifts. I have enjoyed each and every one,” he told her. “But why?”

  Cecily bowed her head, embarrassed to be caught in the Act. She shifted from foot to foot, then slowly raised her eyes to the priest. “Because, Father, there is so much in this world to love.”

  Father Alec slid from the bed to his knees, taking Cecily in his arms. “Darling girl,” he murmured against her hair. “Darling, darling girl, if there is any living proof of that it is in you. …”

  Cecily wrapped her arms about his neck. No one hugged like he did. He engulfed her in his strong arms as would a great bear, holding her to his chest. She listened to his heartbeat. Strong, steady, and sure. A heartbeat she could count on.

  There was no one in her world like Father Alec. With him she shared an inexplicable understanding that went beyond words. He always treated her with respect; he took her seriously. He answered all of her questions, even when Mirabella teased that they were childish and stupid. He was patient. He seemed to enjoy her company. He spent many an hour regaling her with tales of woodland creatures that talked, knights who rescued pretty ladies, or stories of the mischief he got into when he was a child.

  He was the only person who seemed to completely belong to her. She did not know why. Yet somehow she knew it was reciprocated. That somehow, perhaps more than any little gifts she could offer him, it was her self that brought him the most peace.

  What an uncanny privilege, she reflected as she looked into the kind hazel eyes, to know that she could be a comfort just by existing.

  She did not leave him gifts after that day.

  He did not need them.

  “I cannot believe Mother and her May Day revels!” Mirabella fumed as the girls were dressed for the celebration Lady Grace had been planning since Lent. “I heard she is having bonfires after all! And she’s going to let the peasants dance around the poles just like pagans! There are going to be all kinds of wicked masques where the ladies will be half-naked!”

  “Really?” Cecily asked, her breathless tone betraying her eagerness to participate in the pagan frolic. “Oh, Mirabella, but you must try to have a good time! You look so beautiful!”

  Mirabella turned, gazing at herself in the shining silver glass. The red organza gown that her mother had made was indeed splendid, if one put great store in material things (which Mirabella did not). Its red velvet stomacher was embroidered with cloth of gold and seed pearls; the resplendent sleeves were in the French fashion that the witch Anne Boleyn was making popular, with cloth of gold undersleeves and kirtle to match. Mirabella’s black hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and flowed down her back in rippling waves under a red velvet French hood, embroidered with the same cloth of gold and seed pearls to match the stomacher. In all, a stunning ensemble.

  She was beautiful.

  She had not realised it before.

  She put a slender hand to her face, taking in a slow breath. “Please send for Father Alec,” she ordered.

  “But we’re expected to go down soon,” Cecily returned.

  “I said send for him!” she cried as the child retreated. Mirabella was agitated with the little girl. As sweet as she was, Mirabella lost patience with her even, affable attitude. She was so accepting, so content. Why could Mirabella not be content? Why could she not accept the life her parents would no doubt choose for her? It was exhausting, this constant fighting.

  Yet it was a compulsion. It was as natural to her as breathing, as eating. She needed to fight. She would serve her Lord. She would not get caught up in these trappings. She would escape. And once free, she would learn contentment, acceptance. She would have what Cecily had.

  “Lady Mirabella.”

  Mirabella turned to find Father Alec standing in the doorway of the nursery. He filled it up with his presence. Her heart clenched. She did not understand the feelings that stirred in her belly whenever she was in his presence. Perhaps it was his youth; at twenty-eight, Father Alec possessed an allure that was undeniably attractive. His well-muscled build seemed inconsistent with his calling; Mirabella could imagine him in a suit of armour or the finery of a courtier—imagine how hose w
ould hug his legs … oh, what was she thinking? Mirabella squeezed her eyes shut, reopening them to find Father Alec bedecked in the humble robes of a priest. She lowered her head, feeling as though it were a sin just to look at him, as though somehow he would know she had involuntarily imagined him without his robes or a suit of armour or courtier’s finery for that matter.

  “Father, I need to confess,” she said.

  “You just confessed this morning, my child,” Father Alec told her in his ever-patient tone. “What could have possibly transpired within the last three hours?”

  “I have been vain,” she said miserably. “I looked in the glass and saw … I saw that I was … well, I thought I—”

  “That you were beautiful?” Father Alec asked, his lips twisting into a gentle grin.

  Hot tears stung Mirabella’s eyes.

  “Lady Mirabella,” Father Alec cooed as he held out his hands. Mirabella took them, trembling at the heat of his palms. “It is not vain to acknowledge your beauty. By recognising it, you can demonstrate your gratitude to God for bestowing it upon you. I hardly think you will become as Narcissus, my dear.”

  “But nuns do not need to be beautiful,” Mirabella said.

  “Why? Don’t they deserve beauty as much as anyone else?” Father Alec asked with a slight chuckle. “God made everyone beautiful, for His pleasure. It is not vain to appreciate it. Are flowers vain? Is a sunset vain?” He shook his head. “No, Lady Mirabella. They just are. Do you remember how God referred to Himself as I am? It is the same with the beauty He created. Beauty is. Do you see? Be, my girl. Just be. And find contentment in it.”

  Contentment. That word. It seemed so elusive here. Why was it she could only glimpse it at the abbey?

  “It is hard to be at this celebration,” Mirabella said. “It just is not who I am, Father.”

  “I know that,” Father Alec said. “But you will find that in life there will be many occasions that are not tailored for you. We have to adapt to our circumstances; in adapting, but not yielding ourselves over completely, we can retain our true selves and endure the rest. Can you do that?”