Betrayal in the Tudor Court (17 page)

Cecily bowed her head. She understood. How could she not? “Then it would be selfish of me to ask you to remain where you would be unhappy,” she said in soft tones. She raised her head to meet his tortured hazel gaze. “There is only one thing I request of you, Father.”

“Ask and I shall try to accommodate,” he told her.

“I want you to officiate the ceremony,” she told him. “You have been a part of our lives from the beginning. It was you who brought me here, you who comforted me through all of my trials. What passed before is gone, but something new is about to begin. Be the one to bless the beginning of this journey.”

Father Alec swallowed several times, bowing his head. He took her hands in his. They were small, smooth like lilies, the hands of a child-woman.

“Yes, my lady,” he told her. “I will.”

Father Alec did not understand his reaction to Hal’s decision. His unspecified sense of objection was gut wrenching, frustrating him to no end. Certainly he understood the practical necessity of the match—to a degree he even approved of it. It reassured him to know that Cecily would not be sent to a stranger’s house where there was no guarantee of her safety and happiness. At least with Hal that much could be counted upon.

Yet the reaction remained, the tightness in his throat, the desire to throw things and shout at the injustice of it all. It was Cecily’s age. That must be it. If she were not so young then perhaps he could be more supportive … yet what was atypical about her age? It was not unusual for noblewomen to be wed much younger than commoners. Countless cases proved politics and wealth were put before any sensitivity to extreme youth.

Father Alec shook his head, cursing himself. He had grown too close to this family. London would be a welcome change. Things were happening there, exciting things. Changes were being implemented that he would be a part of. And working alongside the archbishop would be a thrill. In London he would be far too preoccupied to be troubled by the complexities of the Pierces.

But before he left there was this last thing, this last request. He was to marry Lord Hal and Lady Cecily, he, whose heart screamed out against some unknown force, was to go against his every sensibility and join them in holy matrimony. He would do it, of course. It was the least he could do for Cecily. And Hal was his friend. He must never lose sight of that, disagree with him though he might.

It was a small wedding with a handful of the local gentry in attendance. Cecily was dressed in a pale yellow gown of silk and a white kirtle embroidered with seed pearls. About her throat was a collar of amber, matching the circlet on her head. Her hair hung loose, flowing down her back in a cascade of rose-gold waves. The candlelight of the chapel was no competition; as she walked down the aisle she emanated a glow from within, softening her features like a painting. A living light …

She was escorted by Hal’s friend Sir Edward Camden, a grizzled knight who had fought with Hal’s father at Flodden and resided at a nearby estate with his brood of sixteen children by three different wives, two of whom had died in childbirth. His latest was a young bride as well, three years Cecily’s senior, who had already given him two children. Father Alec gazed at the girl, at the dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, the pallid skin and drawn countenance; she exuded exhaustion. He wondered if he was staring into Cecily’s future and shuddered.

He shifted his gaze to Hal, who, he must say, looked splendid in his yellow brocade doublet and hose, which hugged his legs in fine form. He was a handsome man, a youthful man, and when happy radiated a contagious passion for life. Father Alec swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. This man deserved happiness after his great tragedies. There was no doubt Cecily would provide it.

The couple knelt before the altar. Father Alec raised a hand in blessing, commencing with the ceremony.

When Cecily saw her groom at the altar her heart lurched. Had God’s plan been different, a few years from now that very man would have been escorting her down the aisle rather than this crusty old knight, leading her to his son, Brey.

But this was not to be. Hal stood at the altar, not Brey, and now she was beside him. They knelt before Father Alec and Cecily was grateful; her knees were trembling so violently she was certain they would buckle at any moment.

Cecily drew in a breath and slipped her trembling hand into Hal’s steady one. He offered her reassuring glances throughout the ceremony, accompanied with cheery smiles. Her own smile was timid. She had never been timid around Hal before; she had always been comfortable to be who she was. Now everything was different. Would he expect her to be someone else now? To be grand and composed and regal?

She had never fretted about such things with Brey. There had existed no pretences between them, no discomfort, no awkwardness. With him she never questioned herself, never second-guessed.

Brey …

She saw him in Hal, in his gentle smile, his twinkling blue eyes, his endearing sweetness. No doubt Brey would have grown into the image of his father.

Brey …

Never had she dreamed she would be spending her wedding day with anyone other than him. But here she was, hand in hand with her bridegroom, the father of her former betrothed. He squeezed her hand, spreading an unexpected tingle of warmth throughout her entire body. She fixed her eyes upon him, tilting her head in thought. Hal’s tender gaze was filled with nothing but gentle respect. At once she was overwhelmed with reassurance.

He would never expect her to be anyone other than herself, she realised with sudden certainty. She would not have to pretend around him any more than she would have around his son. Now more than ever she saw that Brey had been but an extension of Hal, a boy who was the essence of everything that made his father such a wonderful man.

She squeezed his hand in turn. There was hope.

The rings were exchanged. She slid the gold band up Hal’s slim finger. Father Alec’s voice swirled around them, husky and low, familiar, another source of reassurance as he blessed their union.

They arose, hands joined. Hal leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a chaste, gentle kiss.

Cecily faced the guests in attendance for the first time as the Countess of Sumerton, Baroness Burkhart, and Mrs. Harold Pierce.

The wedding banquet was course after course of delicacies—stuffed capons, brawn, puddings, tarts, sugared comfits, breads, and cheeses, all of which Cecily could not enjoy under the scrutiny of the guests. She was no longer a child free to devour everything in sight but a young woman who must exert self-control at every turn. So she picked and nibbled, vowing to make up for it later.

When the trestles were taken down, the floor was open for dancing. Musicians had been hired and the wine flowed freely. Ruddy-cheeked guests clapped their hands and stamped their feet, alternating between hearty country dances and the elegant steps of the court. Hal and Cecily twirled about the floor until the soles of her feet ached. All eyes were upon her, boring into her until the back of her neck prickled with self-consciousness. She heard the whispers.

“Not even a full year of mourning …” some said, while another piped in with, “But look at her … with her under his roof what choice did he have?” “But she was betrothed to his very own son!” still another cried, scandalised. “Just because the son is no more doesn’t mean the father shouldn’t still benefit!” a man laughed. “And how he will benefit!” Soft chuckles followed. They were as subtle as possible, gathered in their corners, but wine never improved anyone’s ability for discretion and the whispers were stagy and harsh, grating on Cecily’s ears.

She pretended to ignore them, taking hold of Hal’s hand and tipping back her head, emitting titters of girlish laughter so as to appear the carefree, happy bride.

“They’re mad with jealousy,” Hal told her. “And I’ve created scandal once more.”

“A happy kind of scandal,” Cecily assured him with a smile. “We can be proud to enliven their boring lives!”

Hal laughed, holding her close. He was happy, his voice alternating between soft and low and a crescendo of zeal that tickled her. Like Cecily, Hal’s natural inclination toward gaiety abated the deepest melancholy. Tonight he radiated with it and Cecily was thrilled to be the source.

As they returned to the high table, Father Alec joined them. The smile fixed upon his face was incongruent with his sombre expression.

“I wanted to offer my congratulations before my departure,” he said in soft tones.

“What, you can’t be leaving,” Cecily breathed in horror. “Not now! What are you thinking?”

Hal’s plea was communicated through his expressive blue eyes.

“I am expected sooner than I thought,” Father Alec told them, not quite meeting their eyes. His smile was distracted, apologetic.

Cecily’s heart sank. “But you cannot leave tonight! It could be dangerous! There could be highwaymen and bandits and all sorts of—”

“Lady Cecily is right, Father, you cannot—”

“Please.” Father Alec locked eyes with Hal. His soft tone resounded with underlying intensity. “I must.”

Hal bowed his head. He drew in a wavering breath. “Then if you must …”

Father Alec turned to Cecily. “My lady, what a pleasure it has been serving you all these years.” He bowed over her hand, offering upon it a soft kiss.

On impulse Cecily flung her arms about the priest. “Oh, Father, would that you could remain with us a little longer!” she sobbed, wetting his neck with her tears. “We shall miss you so!”

He rubbed her back a moment before withdrawing. “I am sorry to have to make such a hasty retreat, but my duties lie elsewhere now.” His face softened. “Know I shall always remember you and keep you in my prayers.”

“You will write to us, won’t you?” she asked, her voice small.

Father Alec nodded. Why was he so cool, so offhanded? This had been his home for years and he was behaving as if it and those who resided there had never meant a thing to him!

“Come, Father, let me walk you out,” said Hal. Both men bowed toward Cecily, leaving her to stand bewildered, uncertain, and angered by what just came to pass.

“Father, I am saddened that you chose this moment to leave us,” Hal said when they were in the crisp coolness of the courtyard. “Lady Cecily did not deserve such disappointment on her wedding day.”

“I apologise,” Father Alec said in wooden tones.

The men had made it to the stables, where waited Father Alec’s horse and cart.

“Are you so very angry with me, Father?” Hal asked. “Even knowing I do not plan to consummate it?”

Father Alec heaved a sigh. “No. I am not angry. I commend your integrity, in fact. And any man of property with the same circumstances and opportunity would do the same,” he told him. “I do understand that. Truly.”

Hal searched for insincerity, for anger. He found none. He reached out, gripping the priest’s forearms in a sign of affection. “If you understand then why not stay? Be our chaplain?”

Father Alec’s expression contorted with pain. “Your offer is generous. But I cannot. I find my soul is in a state of … unrest, my lord. I need this change.”

“But to leave us tonight?” Hal persisted. “Why not at least wait till the morning?”

“I must go now,” he said. “I cannot jeopardise my new position by being late.”

Hal shook his head, puzzled. Father Alec had always been such an understated man, a font of calm. He was steady, nonchalant, and whenever Hal thought of him brought to mind were his easy smile, his offhanded tone, his self-deprecating humor. For years he had been so much more to his family than mere tutor. He was confessor, compassionate counsellor, wise adviser, and treasured friend.

The man standing before him now was a stranger—uneasy, skittish. He was a man in agony.

“Father, in all the years I have known you, you have been nothing but a friend to me,” Hal told him in gentle tones. “If there is something I can ever do to help you, I would hope you would trust me enough to let me.”

“I appreciate that,” Father Alec said, bowing his head. “All I ask of you is to let me go. I—I must go.”

Hal released his forearms. Tears clenched his throat. “You will visit us, I hope?” he asked.

Father Alec offered his best imitation of a smile. “Of course.” Tears trapped in moonlight glistened off his cheeks, shimmering like opals. He laid a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Thank you for your hospitality these years past and for your kind recommendation; I shall never forget it. You are a good man, Lord Hal. I know that.”

“Godspeed, Father,” Hal said softly.

Father Alec climbed up on the cart, flicked the reins, and was consumed by the blackness of night.

He did not look back.

Father Alec wondered what Hal would have made of his lying to him, for there was no reason he could not have stayed the night through. He was not late. Indeed, he was not expected in London for another two weeks. The inn he had chosen to stay at was a mere ten miles from Castle Sumerton.

Father Alec left on impulse. He simply had to get away. He could not be there tonight; he could not bear the thought of Hal taking the love of that sweet innocent.

And, for love of God, he could not understand why.

And so he rode through the night, listening to the hooves pounding against the road, matching the beating of his racing heart. As each mile was put between him and Sumerton, leaving the suffocating complexities of its world behind him, the painful knot in his gut eased. He had no desire to analyse his feelings.

He was getting out.

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