Betrayal in the Tudor Court (22 page)

In August, when they had been married a year, Cecily’s womb quickened with Hal’s child.

She did not know why she was so surprised. She knew that missed menses meant a child was growing within her, but to feel it stir, to feel its presence, gave the condition a renewed certainty. It was real. The creature inside her was a person, who would have a name and a personality. The creature was a child and it was hers.

She could not fathom something belonging to her in such a way. Though the Pierces had served as her family since the deaths of her parents, nothing could match this new feeling, the knowledge that she was the founder of a family, that she was to be a mother.

Hal doted on her endlessly. “I will try to care for you as you cared for me,” he said, measuring his words with care, as his speech still gave him difficulty.

His actions more than compensated for what he could not articulate. He showered her with gifts, beautiful collars of jewels and strings of pearls, bolts of fabric for baby garments, and any dish she craved. He waited on her himself and ordered the retiling of the nursery with tiles imported from Flanders.

“You know,” he told her, “if a girl, no matter.”

Cecily stifled a sob of gratitude when he told her this one warm autumn evening as the two sat in the gardens. Because of her tiny figure, Cecily had already begun to show, and Hal was rubbing the curve of her expanding belly with tear-filled eyes.

“As long as I have you,” he went on. “That is all.”

He met her gaze. It was mingled with tenderness and fear.

Cecily clasped his hand.

“You won’t lose me,” she assured him, though she began to fear the prospect of childbirth more and more with each passing day. “You will never lose me.”

Life proceeded in the manner they had grown accustomed to. They still entertained, and if it was not quite as lavish due to Cecily’s condition, they still enjoyed a steady stream of guests and circulated throughout Lincolnshire and York paying calls. As Cecily’s condition progressed she had to keep adding panels to her gowns, but she retained her slender limbs and tiny face. Hal watched her with adoring eyes. After his illness each day was a precious gift to them, to be savoured and appreciated with renewed vigour. The new life growing within Cecily was treasured all the more and seemed to contain all of their hopes for a happy future and a healed past.

When it came time for Cecily to enter confinement, where she would lie abed in her darkened bedchamber for the last month of her pregnancy, Lady Alice visited her as often as possible. No more could Cecily pay calls or entertain or take in exercise. She despised it and her restlessness sent her into fits of anxious tossing and turning. She was never comfortable. The baby sat low in her belly and she felt as though it would drop out of her at any moment. At times the little one offered lusty kicks square in the bladder, causing the immediate need to void. She found no position adequate for rest and often slept propped up against pillows. She alternated between hot and cold or both at once and found the condition of pregnancy far more glorified than in reality. She did not glow at all, as ladies with child were purported to do. She was sweaty and irritable and wanted to have this baby yesterday.

“This is the worst part,” Alice told her as she sat embroidering at the foot of her bed. “Thanks to Margaret Beaufort.”

Margaret Beaufort had been the king’s grandmother and it was she who set out the strict practices for noblewomen in childbed. Cecily did not understand why the birth of a noble should differ from that of a peasant, who often delivered their babies in the fields at harvesttime and seemed to do well enough. But gentlewomen were to be regarded as fragile, dainty roses to be preserved in the darkness of an airless chamber lest a breeze scatter their petals to the winds.

Cecily, who was accustomed to activity, did not relish this new estate and prayed for an early delivery. Though Hal did his best to entertain her, she was lonely and frightened. Her hours alone in her chamber gave her too much time to ponder her condition and it was now more than ever that she longed for the presence of her mother so long departed from this world.

She also thought of Lady Grace and a pang of longing stirred in her breast for her. She would have made a merry conversationalist … but of course, were Lady Grace alive to converse with, Cecily would not be in confinement with Hal’s child at all. No, Hal and Lady Grace would have been looking forward to the grandchildren Cecily would provide with Brey.

Cecily squeezed her eyes shut against the weight of heavy tears.

“Cecily?” Alice leaned forward, concerned. “Are you all right?”

Cecily nodded, swallowing hard. “I was just thinking,” she confided. “Of all the changes. Had life gone as expected I would be carrying Brey’s child, not his father’s. And yet, as much as I miss him and Lady Grace, I have never been so astonished to realise how much I truly love Hal. …” She trailed off, as always mystified by her love for her husband. “At first I thought it was out of gratitude. Hal brought me into his home and heart and has shown me nothing but kindness and respect. But then, when we were alone, I spent more time with him and came to appreciate the tenderness of his soul, the strange sort of innocence …” She laughed as she recalled his twinkling eyes and contagious enthusiasm. “And I knew then that I loved him for who he was, not simply because he was my protector. Now, despite the terrible tragedy of our losses, I know that God has His reasons, that Hal and I are meant to be.” She drew in a breath, comforted by the thought.

“When I thought I was going to lose him I knew I would fight anyone and anything who tried to come between us, even the force of death itself. Death has taken so much from us. … But it yielded its grip over Hal and returned him to me. And now I am to give him a child.” It was at this point that she was overcome with a fear she hadn’t known since Hal was first struck with his illness. She cast wild eyes to Alice. “After everything we have survived I should feel triumphant. But I am more afraid than I have ever been. What if I die, leaving Hal all alone with a little one? Or what if the baby dies? How will poor Hal endure it after all of his heartbreaks … and if we both …?”

Cecily began to cry, gasping and hiccoughing like a child, as Alice rushed forward to sit beside her, taking her hand.

“Even now you only think of Hal,” Alice observed in awe. “I cannot even fathom such love …” she said, her voice thick with sadness.

Cecily at once regretted her confession and cast her eyes to their joined hands. Alice squeezed hers in reassurance. “You are stronger than a seasoned knight,” Alice told her in her uncompromising tone. “You will get through this, Cecily.” She smoothed Cecily’s hair off her face. “And when you do, you are going to know a happiness few ever experience. How many of us belong to families who truly love each other?”

Her voice rang with the faintest trace of agony, causing Cecily to shift the focus from her own concerns to Alice’s loveless existence. She stroked her friend’s hand. She felt selfish.

“Thank you, Alice,” Cecily said in gentle tones. “I am very fortunate. Even more so to have a friend like you.”

Alice took Cecily in her arms and held her tight. “Well then!” she exclaimed, drawing back and wiping tears from her cheeks. “D’you expect you’ll have time to call on me in a few months when I enter my confinement?”

“Alice!” Cecily cried, tears of joy replacing those of trepidation as she beheld her friend. “Oh, how wonderful—you know I shall be beside you! And our children shall be companions!”

Alice offered a sad little smile. “It will be wonderful, won’t it?”

As she regarded her friend, Cecily found herself once more overwhelmed with gratitude.

Hers was not a bad lot.

Father Alec Cahill was growing used to the fast-paced routine of Lambeth Palace and had become so comfortable with the archbishop that there were few subjects the two did not discuss. Cranmer had an easy manner about him as well, a quality he shared, and the two were as content in a lengthy conversation as they were in silence. Father Alec intuited many of Cranmer’s needs and was excellent at being at the right place at the right time.

Except once.

Father Alec had been composing a series of devotions and prayers that he tentatively titled
Meditations for the Common Man
. The work was endorsed by Cranmer in private, but he advised Father Alec to use caution. Despite pure intentions, the book could be considered heretical. And no one wanted to burn. Despite fears for how the piece would be interpreted, Father Alec was proud of it and often sought out Cranmer for advice, which he was always generous about dispensing.

The men had developed an informality between them and it was not unknown for Father Alec to enter Cranmer’s apartments unannounced. He was always received and it reassured him to know there was a place for him to go and a friend to talk to any time he needed. Tonight he needed counsel; Father Alec was frustrated about his loss of inspiration for his book and decided to seek out his friend.

But Cranmer was not alone. A woman was with him. This was not remarkable; there were noblewomen who sought audience with him. But at this time of night and without chaperone … and the fact that she was clasped tightly in his arms …

Father Alec’s gut lurched with disgust, and before either could react he rushed from the suite.

Once in the privacy of his own quarters he found himself battling tears.

He is just like old Cardinal Wolsey
, he thought, clenching his fists in rage as he paced back and forth before his bed. Once one of the king’s dearest companions and advisers, the cardinal had indulged in all manner of depravity, living the life of a king, taking mistresses, fathering bastards, all while taking great pains to remain in the king’s favour, that he might attain more power for himself. In the end, Wolsey earned the king’s wrath by failing to procure his annulment from Catherine of Aragon and died alone and in disgrace on his way to his own execution. He was an unforgettable example of what lust for worldly gains did to a prelate, the antithesis of what Father Alec wanted to be.

To think that Cranmer could be of his like … No. It could not be true. He could not wrap his mind around it. Cranmer, gentle Cranmer, who seemed so devout and in touch with God’s desires. No, not Cranmer. Surely his eyes had betrayed him. After all, who did not need a chaste embrace now and again?

But alone and at night?

Father Alec gritted his teeth, his face aching from the intensity of his scowl. He was a fool; priests often had mistresses—
housekeepers
and
servants
were the polite terms for it, but they were mistresses nonetheless. The rank of the priest offered no exception; a man was a man and lust was lust.

Father Alec cursed himself for expecting more from Cranmer. He cursed himself for his naïve idealism, his hero worship. … It was all fantasy.

He did not know how much time had passed, minutes, perhaps hours. He did know that when the knock sounded at the door he would face Cranmer. And, out of obedience, he would not be able to question him.

He opened it, kneeling before the archbishop to kiss his ring, then rising and allowing him entrance.

Cranmer sat at the breakfast table, cocking his head, regarding Father Alec with a gentle countenance capable of inspiring a shameless liar to confess of his deepest sins.

“I know you have questions, my son,” he began in his soft voice. “And I understand why you may feel angry and betrayed. Know that what I am about to tell you I reveal because you are one of the few men that I actually trust.” His gaze did not leave Father Alec’s face. “The woman you saw with me is my wife.”

Father Alec’s gut twisted in a knot. Wife? He was uncertain of whether or not this was worse than keeping a mistress. Both were forbidden to a priest. … He could not begin to grapple with it.

Reading his confusion, Cranmer went on. “My son, I was always inclined to marry, to have a family. I did so before I became a priest, but alas, my first wife died in childbirth along with the baby. So I returned to my calling. I lived up to my vows and for a time succeeded at forgoing the love of a woman.” He sighed. “Until I became ambassador to Charles V and was in Germany. There I met Andreas Osiander, the theologian. I fell in love, Father, with his niece and I knew then that I must marry her.” Until this point Father Alec believed he knew Cranmer’s every expression, but this was one he had not seen before. Cranmer’s face reflected the enraptured tenderness of an infatuated youth mingled with the happy bewilderment of a man who is realising for the first time that his soul mate is the same woman he has been married to for the past thirty years. The expression was fleeting, however, converting to his usual melancholy gentleness as he went on. “I also knew then that it could not be wrong to serve God and love a woman at the same time, for God made man and woman to be companions and helpmates. I knew it from my innermost being, from every facet of my soul. Rather, this tie to the Lord and the world He put me in set me closer in touch with the struggles of men.”

“But it is so dangerous, Your Grace,” was all Father Alec could think of to say. He did not even know how to begin to explore the level of danger it put the archbishop in, with the king, with God. … His head hurt. He put a hand to it, rubbing his temple as he tried to wrangle with this knowledge.

“Yes, it is dangerous,” Cranmer said. “Which is why I am sending her back to Europe, that she might be safe.” Only now did he lower his eyes, though not in shame. Father Alec perceived nothing in the movement but sadness. “We pay for what we want most, Father. Despite that, if what we love is in the realm of the Lord, it is always worth the pain.”

Father Alec swallowed the lump rising in his throat. It would not go down. He slipped from the chair to his knees before the archbishop, taking his hand in his. “I am so sorry for what this is costing you … and more for what it could cost you. Please, for love of God, man, be careful.”

“I was right to trust you, Father,” Cranmer said. “We are of like mind, perhaps more so than you know. I was careless tonight. It will not be repeated. This is the last time I shall see her.”