Betrayal in the Tudor Court (15 page)

An image of Father Alec swirled before her mind’s eye. She blinked it away, bowing her head. “I—I have loved. But I cannot … I cannot have him,” she said softly, her heart pounding in shock that she should reveal this vulnerability to Sister Julia knowing all she knew of her now. She raised her head, resolute. “And even if I could I would not. I accept the sacrifice I must make without having to dabble in the forbidden.”

Sister Julia gazed at her, her expression filled with tenderness and something Mirabella could not discern. Pity? Fear? Both? “Then I commend you, Mirabella. Some are clearly stronger than others. I gave in to my weakness and I have paid the price along with many others ever since. You will never be able to fathom the depth of my regret.”

“I am weary of people’s regrets,” Mirabella sighed. “It does no good now. It is too late for it.”

Sister Julia covered her eyes with her hand, expelling a heavy sigh. “I did not expect your entrance into my life,” she whispered through tears, “and God knows I was not called to be a mother. But I do love you, Mirabella. And you must know how Hal tried to do right by you. Blame us for everything else that happened; I take full responsibility. But know this: you were not conceived in an act of evil. And when I thank God, I thank God for you. Nothing else. Just you.”

Mirabella buried her face in her hands. “Oh, poor, dear Father,” she murmured as she sobbed. “How could he not have known?”

Sister Julia shook her head. “Perhaps he did know, in the beginning. But I imagine between his father and mine, he was convinced … oh, if only I had … but I was kept away from him. I have not seen him since that night. I vowed never to see him again; it is a vow I will adhere to. You must get a message to him.”

Mirabella’s heart was pounding. Tears clouded her vision. It was all too much to absorb. “There is so much heartache. …” She shook her head, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She rose.

Sister Julia caught her hand. “Can you forgive me?” she asked her.

“As God requires,” said Mirabella, defeated by her virtue as she made her retreat, closing her ears and heart to the sobbing woman behind her.

She had come searching for clarity and peace. Instead she was tossed into another turbulent ocean of confusion and unrest. It seemed the running theme of her life.

She entered the chapel, falling to her knees before the crucifix and crossing herself. The familiar image eased the knot in her chest. She inhaled, expelling the breath slowly. She inhaled again, closing her eyes, opening them to find the image still before her, her one anchor in this relentless storm.

Mirabella did not speak to Sister Julia after the night, adhering to the general silence observed by the sisters. They communicated through signs, whispering when necessary. She marvelled at the change. It seemed when she visited as a child it had been different, the sisters warmer and more free in their ability to communicate. Mirabella’s infatuation with their lifestyle had shrouded actuality in illusion. In truth it was to one sister that she had spoken in all her years of visiting, besides the obligatory exchanges with the abbess, and that was Sister Julia.

But nothing was the same now. Being housed in the same cloister was not designed to bring them closer together as women; it was instead a place where women could in relative safety be excluded from the outside world, a place devoted to discipline, reflection, prayer, and the personal, individual pursuit of closeness with God.

In order to achieve the closeness they once shared, one of them would have to leave. This was not a world for friendship, not even between a mother and her wounded daughter.

And so they went on. Mirabella’s disillusionment traded itself for the clarity she longed for. Sister Julia was not viewed as a mother but as an equal. They were not friends, they were not enemies. They just were. Somehow, it was enough.

Mirabella gave little thought to her remaining family. Removed from Castle Sumerton as she was, the grief for her brother and Lady Grace began to subside to a dull ache, where once it had been an all-consuming throb. She welcomed a new feeling: hollowness, emptiness. Nothing touched her inside the cloister. It softened worldly pain and disappointments. Life outside began to fade away, hidden behind a misty veil, illusion of another kind, and she would not let herself pass through.

Even had she wanted passage, the rules of the cloister would prevent her. Because of the strictness enforced to uphold and preserve the morality of its inhabitants, Mirabella’s contact with the outside world was limited. But she was able to write her family. Thus far she only had sent one message, a carefully worded letter to her father that told him all he needed to know.

Dearest Father,

I have it on authority that the gift you believed you stole was given to you. I pray this knowledge brings you peace.

Your loving daughter,

Mirabella

Hal reread the letter again and again. The crumpled parchment was damp with his tears. He could not believe it. All of these years … how could he not remember? That spirit-drenched night was so long ago, so hazy, that to this hour he had little recollection of it, save for the sensations. And though he had convinced himself of the crime committed, never in his years of self-examination had the memory of those sensations resembled anything cruel or violent. Yet, he had thought, it must have been so. His father had told him thus. Her father had told him. He was too far gone in the spirits to rely on his own judgement.

But it was his judgement, that flicker of reason stirring in his gut insisting his innocence, that was indeed correct.

He was not a rapist. He mouthed the words over and over, letting the knowledge settle over him. Relief surged through him like a cleansing river. He had felt some measure of it, even before this revelation, when Mirabella learned the truth of her parentage at last. The knot in his gut had eased somewhat as he realised the charade could stop.

And now this, a sudden gift of mercy from God to assuage the pain of his great losses. To know that he was not All Bad. But the comfort this brought him was transient. His heart still throbbed with pain. It was still too late. Too late for his poor Grace. He could never tell her, the woman who despite it all he had still sinned against, that the sin had at least not been one of brutality. Would it have made any difference had she known, or would her resentment toward Mirabella’s existence still have fuelled her every action since the day the child was brought into his home?

There was no use speculating. Grace was gone. He could never pray her back.

He could only pray that she was with Brey, eternally young and free from her great pain, that somehow she knew the truth.

And that, somehow, it made a difference.

Castle Sumerton was empty, large, and looming. Echoes of laughter rang in the halls, childish and innocent, only to fade away, sucked into the stone walls, claimed by the faery folk, who gathered in the happy noises of the children to fill their own mysterious world.

Cecily was alone. She haunted the halls, a little ghost. Everything was so big. The exciting passageways and secret places she had explored with Brey were dark, filled with shadows and goblins and terrible things waiting to carry her away.

Brey … her dearest friend. Brey, her betrothed.

What would she do without him? What would become of her?

No one knew.

Mirabella was gone. She was where she belonged, shedding her former life as a butterfly sheds its chrysalis. Cecily never heard from her. She supposed it was easier for Mirabella that way; contact with Cecily would serve as a constant reminder of the pain she had left behind. Cecily hoped she had found the peace that eluded her in the outside world. There at least she had her mother. As strange as the circumstance was, it must prove some comfort.

As for Cecily, she had Lord Hal and Father Alec. They slipped into the predictable monotony of routine, which proved a strange sort of comfort. Monotony did not betray or abandon, monotony did not die. It persisted, dull and mundane. Safe.

Father Alec diverted her with their lessons and she pretended enthusiasm, going through the motions in a weak imitation of what had existed before. Father Alec remained a font of understanding; when she needed to talk, they talked. When she needed his strong silence, he was silent. As she grew she began to realise that he did not have all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“What I know about life can fill a thimble,” he had told her with a rueful smile. “I am as capable of being bewildered as you are.” His eyes clouded. “And we have had our share of bewilderment,” he added in soft tones. “Some things we will never be able to make sense of. But we must never stop trying because it is that trying which keeps us growing and learning. And the more you learn, the more you hunger for it, the more you
need
to know.” He winked. “Your thimble might begin to overflow and yet still, still, it is never enough. With every bit of knowledge acquired, there is still something we have yet to learn. It is endlessly humbling.”

Rather than being disillusioned by his confession, she found it brought them closer together. The blinding light of her ideal began to fade, leaving in its place a man trying to understand his world just as she was. Knowing that she was not alone in this very human struggle brought her comfort, far more so than if she had maintained the impression that he was a creature of the divine, above mortal failings. And so it was that for the first time she felt on equal terms with someone else. There was no pretence, no displays of superiority. Just two people searching for peace.

Lord Hal offered another sort of peace, peace through mindless activities. He played games with her in the evenings, chess and dice, sometimes cards. They sat by the fire. Some nights he asked her to play her lute and sing for him; her clear voice would ring through the silence of the room and he would close his eyes, tipping back his head, his lips quivering. Now and then she noted a stray tear rolling down his tanned cheek.

Other nights they would sit in silence while she embroidered. He would stare into the fire, into the past, or regard her nimble fingers with gentle eyes. Perhaps he thought of the daughter-in-law he had lost in her and the son who was gone forever. She did not know. She did know he found a measure of peace in her company and she was happy to provide it.

For whatever passed before, he deserved that.

Hal had to give some thought to Cecily’s future. It was not seemly for her to remain under his care any more, a young girl with none but himself and a male tutor for company. The practical side of him cursed the thought of losing her wardship. But what could he do with her? He had no son now. …

His throat constricted with a painful lump.

He had no son now.

No heir. No immediate family to pass down what remained of his wealth and lands. No one to inherit his title. He imagined after he passed Sumerton would revert to the Crown, to King Henry. Unless …

“She is far too young,” Father Alec insisted when the two men were alone in Hal’s apartments one summer evening. “Even if she were of a more suitable age you have not even been widowed the summer! And with the shady circumstances surrounding my lady’s drowning …”

“What are you implying?” Hal demanded, his tone sharp.

“My lord, I should hope you would know better than to think I would imply anything,” Father Alec returned, matching Hal tone for tone. He sighed. “It is others I worry about. At the very least, you must understand that such a move would appear disrespectful to your lady wife’s memory. Was she not disrespected enough in life?”

“But I told you—”

“It does not matter,” Father Alec cut him short as he rose from the chair to pace before the fire. “Innocent or not, Lady Grace was still sinned against and deserves the respect of at least a full year of mourning. Let Lady Cecily grow up a bit.”

“Then she cannot reside here any longer, you must know that,” Hal said, his heart sinking. “If I send her away, she will no doubt be betrothed to another to benefit the house—”

“That is all she has ever meant to you, hasn’t she?” Father Alec cried, whirling upon Hal, his face contorted in a display of rage so contrary to his usually calm countenance that Hal was shocked into momentary silence. “You wish to amass her lands and wealth for yourself!”

When Hal found his voice it was sharp. “Father! Don’t be naïve! You know how fond of the girl I am, that she would be cherished and well cared for. But you must also know that from a practical standpoint, the Baroness Burkhart is an asset to any house granted her wardship. You know that was why we took her in, that is why she was to marry Brey. That is life, Father. The fact that we came to love her as we did was an unexpected, and much appreciated, gift.”

“Then if you love her so, wait,” Father Alec advised him. “Wait till the girl is sixteen at least.”

“And who will care for her in the meantime, Father?” he asked. “I have no living relatives. And no one else will take her in if they cannot benefit from her themselves.” He ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair in frustration. “And in truth, Father, I cannot bear the thought of sending her to strangers. D’you honestly wish to see her uprooted from all she has known after she has been through so much already? God knows who she could end up with. I may be far from perfection, Father, but I would never be cruel to her. I would never raise my hand to her and God knows the marriage will not be consummated till she is of a proper age!” His voice softened. “And I would never stray from her—believe me that is not a mistake to be made more than once. With me she would at least have some of the life she had planned on before … before …”

“You are not Brey,” Father Alec said in low tones.

“I
know
that,” he said. “But neither am I a lecher. I am young and vital, still in my thirties, for love of God! I need heirs, Father, or all that my family stood for ends with me. My fortune will revert to the Crown and that is the reality. My God, man, you behave as if it has not been done before! Why, I can name dozens—”