Betrayal in the Tudor Court (35 page)

“Not Father.” Hal’s voice was soft as he slid into the pew beside her. In his hands he clutched the sandglass he had presented to her years before, the keeper of their hours, of each blessing and each tragedy. He sighed. “I brought this for you to reflect upon,” he told her. “See here?” He ran his fingers along the carvings. “Our wedding date. Harry and Kristina’s birthdays. Mirabella’s return. Charles’s birth and death dates. Father Alec’s return …” He drew in a quavering breath.

“And this?” Cecily asked, noting a date with no known sentimental attachment.

Hal met her eyes with blue orbs softened by tears. “This was the day I felt you slipping away from me.”

A lump swelled in Cecily’s throat. She swallowed. She took Hal’s hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his, squeezing, trying to find the reassurance and security she once derived from his touch. She would not insult his intelligence and insight by denying it.

“It was my hope that Father Alec could lend you some guidance, some comfort,” Hal told her. He shook his head. “But I see now that things are never as we … expect.”

She did not know his implication. This she would not speculate upon. She would not let herself.

Hal reached out, tilting her face toward his, his fingertips soft and subtle as a warm breeze on her skin. In his eyes shone a plea.

“Cecily, you do not confide in me any more,” he said. “I do not think you confide in anyone, not truly.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Alice.” He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “I do not know how to reach you.”

Cecily’s lips quivered. “Oh, Hal, I’m so afraid.” Cool tears slid down her cheeks unchecked. She leaned her cheek into the palm of his hand, feeling vulnerable as a child. “Since losing Charles I know I have distanced myself, as though numbing myself from any pain. In my fear, in trying to prevent us from future pain, I have fallen into sin.”

Hal furrowed his brows, as though trying to wrap his mind around a weighty issue that was just beyond his comprehension. His voice was soft, non-accusatory. “What sin, my love?”

Cecily bowed her head, her shoulders quaking in silent sobs. “I am with child.” She shook her head violently, then leaned her forehead into her hand. “I am with child and by God, Hal, I don’t want it … not because it’s yours, not because I do not love our children, but because … because … I … can’t … bear … to … lose … it!” Her sobs became audible, gulping gasps of despair. “And because of that I took in pennyroyal to induce a miscarriage … but it didn’t work and now—now …” She trailed off, burying her head in her hands, weeping with abandon.

Hal was silent a long while. At last he wrapped his arm about Cecily’s shoulders, drawing her to his side. She nuzzled in the crook of his shoulder, taking in his familiar, musky scent of leather and horses and strength.

“Then it is God’s will that we have another child,” Hal said. “Because He knows you are strong enough to bear it. He allowed it to remain because He knows your conscience would not be able to bear the weight of that sin. He spared you. He spared me,” he added in quiet tones.

Cecily pulled away. “You aren’t angry with me, Hal?”

Hal lowered his eyes. “I am hurt that you would grow so desperate as to think you would not have help and support, that you would take such a heady decision upon yourself. I am hurt that you give yourself so little credit after all we have endured in this life.” He bowed his head, gazing once more at the sandglass. “You are strong enough to bear God’s will, for good or for bad. You have proved it before; you will prove it again. And all the while, I will be at your side.” He raised his head, facing her once more, determination replacing the momentary pain lighting his eyes. “Only come back to me. Come out of yourself. Join me as my wife once more.”

Cecily cupped his face between her hands. “I haven’t left you, Hal,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. “Mark this day on the sandglass. Mark it as the day I decided to rejoin the living.”

“Done, my lady,” Hal assured, a smile in his tone. “Done.”

Cecily’s pregnancy advanced as normal as her others had been. She experienced very little discomfort. The baby quickened, filling Cecily’s heart with relief at each kick. When she announced her condition to the rest of the family, Father Alec’s face emanated a mingling of relief and a flash of something else. Pain? Cecily cared not to analyse. She focused on the children’s reactions. Harry seemed indifferent. He was looking forward to joining the Earl of Surrey’s household, where he would receive his formal education alongside the Howard children, and his mind was occupied with the prospect of a new adventure. Kristina’s eyes lit with excitement at the news. Cecily knew this would give her a chance to play the little mother. She had doted on baby Charles during the brief span of his life and this baby would serve to fill the void he had left in Kristina’s heart.

As happy as Kristina was, her joy seemed muted in comparison to that of Mirabella, who was more demonstrative than she had ever been in her life, fussing over Cecily to no end. Cecily could not help but wonder at the girl’s motivation. She had seemed to distance herself as much from Cecily as Cecily had from everyone else these past months.

“After your loss, I am just glad to see you pressing on,” Mirabella told her as they sat in the gardens, taking in the crisp air. Summer was ending. Autumn advanced in a subtle flirtation with nature, dusting the foliage with a rich golden hue. “And very glad to see you and Father doing well.”

Cecily smiled. “And you, Mirabella? What of James? We have not seen much of him of late. I had hoped you would reconcile.”

Mirabella was silent. The moment was thick with awkwardness.

“I told you. It was not meant to be,” she said at length.

Cecily bit her lip, unsure as to how to proceed. “You seemed so close and so alike.”

“Not alike enough,” Mirabella said, but she averted her eyes. Cecily wondered whom Mirabella was lying to more, Cecily or herself. “I do not wish to speak of it again, Cecily. Now is a time to focus on your happiness, not my disappointments. Please.”

Cecily sighed. “I just do not want you to have any regrets,” she said.

“My regrets are my own.” Mirabella’s tone was hard, inaccessible once more. Perhaps always.

As unattainable as Cecily could be at times, Mirabella was that much more so.

Cecily wondered if anyone would ever be allowed a glimpse into her soul.

Mirabella could not say that Cecily’s condition did not fill her with immense relief. This meant that relations were good between Cecily and her husband. This meant that Mirabella had misinterpreted the strained glances exchanged between Cecily and Father Alec. All was well. All would stay well. The Pierce family was strong, loyal. Impenetrable from the forces of lust and sin.

Leaving Mirabella safe to nurture her own dreams.

She still spent much of her time in Father Alec’s company. She sat in on many of his tutoring sessions with the children, trying to instill in Harry, the more malleable of the two, a strong foundation in the True Faith. She attended calls with Father Alec to sick tenants, offering whatever assistance she could, feeling that, in a way, she was still fulfilling part of her holy calling.

And she relished his friendship. Their spirited debates, their companionable silences, the work they did together, filled her with purpose, with meaning. She tried to reconcile herself to her decision regarding James. She tried to put him out of her head. Nonetheless, he crept in unbidden, his innocent face laced with disappointment and betrayal and knowing, always knowing, that her intentions with Father Alec were less than holy.

She cursed him for it.

More than that, she cursed herself.

Cecily went into labour during a blizzard one February morning in 1546. The pains seemed close together and intense, despite the fact that her water had not yet broken. She retched violently, clutching her belly and whimpering feebly.

Mirabella attended her, her cheeks flushed with anxiety. This was her first birthing; she hoped it would be her last. She had no stomach for it. She swabbed Cecily’s forehead with a cool cloth and tried to soothe her with nonsensical banter, then fell into a restless silence, not knowing how to comfort the girl.

What was worst was that the midwife could not be fetched. The weather prevented it; the snow was thigh deep and mounting. Fortunately, some of the older female servants had some knowledge of childbearing, so Mirabella did not feel completely inadequate and alone.

The hours stretched on. Twilight, then night, at last yielding to an indigo dawn. Mirabella’s heart pounded. At last Hal entered the sanctuary.

“This birth echoes too much of Harry’s for me to keep away,” he told Mirabella in soft tones. “Something is wrong. It is taking too long; she is struggling too much. …” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Something must be done to ease her pain, to help this along.”

“The woman …” Cecily murmured in a raspy whisper.

“What?” Mirabella asked, making for the bedside once more. She took Cecily’s hand in her own. “What, dearest?”

Cecily tried to open her eyes, revealing slivers of teal against her ivory skin. “The woman of Sumerton Forest … the wisewoman … Alice’s druid …”

Mirabella’s heart lurched with peculiar dread. “Druid? A witch? Cecily, you can’t mean—”

“Find her, Mirabella,” Hal ordered. “If Lady Alice trusts her, she’s good enough for me. She may be our only hope.”

“But Father—”

“Find her!”

Mirabella started at the harshness, so rare in Hal’s tone. She nodded her acquiescence and quit Cecily’s chamber to seek out a woman she knew nothing of, praying all the while she would not be the harbinger of evil at Sumerton.

Mirabella wrapped herself in furs and found the only conveyance she could think of to make traversing the snow easier, a pair of snowshoes Harry had fashioned for play. With them she trudged through the forest, not knowing where she was going or what she was really looking for. As she walked, bitter wind biting her cheeks, she was reminded of the day she took Cecily through the forest to the convent for the first time, so many years ago. How naïve they were then, how delightfully ignorant to what fate had in store.

Now everything had changed, every plan, every person. Her dearest brother Brey was gone along with her convent, her true mother, her innocence. … How she longed for that day in the forest, to reclaim the feeling of hope and a heart filled with dreams. Instead she was engulfed in a shroud of uncertainty.

Through a veil of snow a dark form came into view. Mirabella squinted, sniffling, shielding her eyes against the bright whiteness of the storm. A rough-hewn dwelling with a thatch roof stood before her. Mirabella had no idea who resided there; there was no guarantee this was the wisewoman Alice Camden consulted. Mirabella twisted her lips in frustration as she trudged forward, knocking on the door. It fell open. She bit her lip, peeking in.

A woman stood before a cook pot that hung over a fire, her back turned to her.

Mirabella cleared her throat. “I am looking for a friend of the Lady Alice Camden.”

The woman turned.

Mirabella’s heart stopped. Her chest constricted. Light danced before her eyes. She willed strength into her quivering legs. It couldn’t be … it couldn’t be. …

“My God, what have you done?” she breathed to the apparition before her.

The woman squared her shoulders and tucked a white tendril that had escaped her kerchief behind her ear. She met Mirabella’s gaze with hard blue eyes.

Mirabella shook her head. She did not know whether to leap forward and strangle the woman or turn and run, putting as much distance between her and Lady Grace Pierce as possible.

“I know you cannot understand, Mirabella,” Grace started slowly. “But I could not stay. That life would have killed me. I could no longer pretend to be something I am not. In order to preserve my own self, sacrifices had to be made.”

“So, instead of leaving, of divorcing Father, you
fabricated your own death
?” Mirabella returned in cold tones. “You are a monster,” she spat. “You were always selfish, wallowing in spirits and self-pity. But I never would have fathomed you to be capable of this. And all this time … all this time you have been barely a stone’s throw from Father and Cecily, who are married, incidentally! Of course, it is invalidated now, thanks to you, their children—their two children—bastards.” Mirabella could barely focus through her anger. She could not stop shaking her head.

“I had already shamed your father enough; I could not divorce him. I knew that he would make a good match and in Cecily he did,” Grace said. “I have followed your lives; I know everything.” Her gaze was pointed. “Everything.”

Mirabella clicked her tongue, expelling an exasperated sigh. “I will not even explore that; I couldn’t care less about what you think you know. Clearly your vast expanse of knowledge excludes the most basic concepts—taking others into consideration, being selfless for sake of the greater good. … You are out for yourself, just as you have always been. You have not changed at all.”

“Perhaps not,” Grace agreed. “Which is another reason I choose a life of simple anonymity.”

Mirabella furrowed her brow. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to pursue this conversation. I only want to know if you are the ‘wisewoman’—Lord knows there is no use disputing that blatant misnomer—that Lady Camden associates with.”

Grace pursed her lips, nodding. “… Why? Need to rid yourself of an unwanted little burden?”

Mirabella’s smile was scathing. “This life suits you, indeed. Who more appropriate than you to dabble in the dark arts?” she spat. “No, it’s not my burden. It is Cecily—the
true
Lady Sumerton. She has laboured too long and we cannot fetch the midwife in this storm, so you are—and I say this with the utmost sincerity—our last resort.”

“I cannot very well go there,” Grace said. “Though I do not doubt that out of spite you will reveal my presence—”

“And ruin the lives of those I love
most
?” Mirabella returned. “Despite whatever ill will between us, I am not half so callous as that.”