Betrayal in the Tudor Court (43 page)

“What about Emmy?” Kristina asked, kneeling down before Cecily to take the child’s hand in hers. Her face softened when looking at her sister.

“Emmy must stay here,” Cecily said.

“And I’ll miss everything! Her learning to walk—” Kristina lowered her eyes. It remained unspoken that the prospects of Emmy walking as a normal little girl were slim. “And talk, and write!” she went on as if to soften the thought that hung between them all.

“Darling, it isn’t as though we will never take holidays and visit one another!” Cecily assured her. “And I will make certain as soon as Emmy learns her letters that she will be a most faithful correspondent.” Cecily forced a little laugh. She raised her eyes to Harry, making a silent appeal for him to step in and cast a favourable light on their fostering.

Harry squeezed Kristina’s shoulder. “It will be all right,” he told her. “We can’t none of us carry on like babies. We will go to the Hapgoods as brave as any knight and make our lady mother proud. And”—he met his mother’s eyes, his mouth tilting upward into the most tender of smiles—“we shall honour the memory of our father with what we learn.”

Cecily blinked back tears, her heart swelling with pride. “You have the heart of a knight, Harry,” she told him. “You will watch over Kristina, make certain she is not mistreated.”

“And if we are mistreated, what then?” Kristina wanted to know, though her voice was softer.

“Then you will come home,” Cecily stated. Relief washed over Kristina’s features; her little shoulders seemed to ease. “Now, this does not permit either of you to concoct stories against your keepers or behave in a manner that invites strict discipline. You are representing the Pierces of Sumerton; I expect you to behave as befitting of your station.”

“We will,” Kristina promised, with an earnest nod of assent from Harry.

Cecily opened her arms, and the two children rushed forward to hold her and Emmy tight in an embrace of reassurance.

It did not reassure Cecily, however.

It was only the beginning of another good-bye.

“You’re sending the children away?” Mirabella demanded of Cecily that evening after Cecily took to the only refuge she could find—her own chambers, a place Mirabella disregarded as she disregarded everything else, entering without preamble or even the courtesy of a knock.

Cecily, who was lying on her chaise attempting to lose herself in mindless embroidery, nodded. “I should think I would not have to consult you as to the decisions I must make for my own children,” she said in cool tones.

“But what of Master Cahill? He is their tutor! And a better tutor you will be hard pressed to find!” Mirabella cried.

“While I agree with you, I am certain this is the best decision for all involved,” Cecily told her. “Be assured, there will be no shortage of prospects for Master Cahill. I know how concerned you are after his well-being.”

“So do you propose to send us away as well?” Mirabella’s tone was petulant, grating on Cecily more than her children could at their worst. From children petulance was expected.

“Do what you like,” Cecily said. “Sumerton is large enough to ensure that our lives need not affect one another at all.”

“But the children—they’re—” Mirabella cut herself short. Tears lit her eyes a vivid emerald. Cecily was unmoved.

“They’re growing up,” Cecily finished for her. “Harry would have been sent back to Lord Surrey’s household as it were, but in light of the earl being imprisoned in the Tower at present, I did not feel it wise to recommence his education there. The Hapgoods are a good family, honest, hardworking, and noble. And since I was sending Harry I thought it best to send Kristina with him; they can be a comfort to each other. Take heart,” she added, though her tone was less than encouraging. “Emmy is still here and too young to perceive you as anything but her loving sister.” Her gaze was pointed. “Until you prove otherwise.”

Mirabella could not seem to summon an argument against Cecily’s cool reserve so stood a moment; her helplessness translated into the silence, almost stirring Cecily to compassion. It was a fleeting sensation. She only had to recall Mirabella’s recent betrayals and conniving, never too far from her mind, to quell the notion.

“Is that all, Mirabella?” Cecily prompted, taking up her embroidery once more.

Mirabella offered a slow nod. “I suppose it is.”

She quit the room.

Cecily’s embroidery blurred as tears flooded her vision, tears she would never allow Mirabella to see, tears that were for her and for the friendship that was forever lost.

22

My dear Alec,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I hear of your plight. There is no sense lecturing you on the decision you have made, I am certain you are punished enough. I cannot say myself how I would fare were martyrdom in question so I will not be such a hypocrite as to judge your actions. The flock has lost a shepherd few can rival, but I am certain God is not finished with you, my friend. Keep the faith that you remain part of His divine will and plan.

I am compelled to share my disappointment that my missive intervening in your case did not arrive until after the measures you took to resolve this unfortunate business. It seems poor Lady Sumerton’s visit to Lambeth Palace was in vain. I suppose I have as much trouble turning things to God’s will as the next man
.

Take heart, Alec. I cannot but keep hope that you will return to your calling sooner than later. You must know I will do all in my power to help you. Until then I remain
…

Your obedient servant
,

T. Cranmer

Archbishop of Canterbury

The hand that held the letter shook as Alec Cahill’s eyes scanned the second paragraph again and again. Cecily had gone to London. Cecily had made an appeal on his behalf, not by scheming or deceit but by love and conviction. And Cranmer, his beloved friend, would have helped him. Would have saved him, perhaps. But they were both too late.

Anger surged through him, anger at the circumstances that quickly converted to anger at God. How could He allow this to happen? Should he have just burned? Now he was without calling and soon without the comfort of a profession now that Cecily was sending the children away. He was cursed, as cursed as Job ever was without any of the saint’s patient acceptance of loss. No matter how he tried to analyse it, he could not come to anything resembling an understanding of why all had come to pass as it did. It all seemed so unnecessary. So futile.

Since his marriage, if indeed the farcical union could be called such, the month before, he had avoided Cecily as much as Mirabella, interacting with the children and few others.

He could not hide any longer.

Letter in hand, he went to Cecily, who lived out much of her days in either her chambers or the nursery. He found her in the latter, rocking little Emmy to sleep. He gazed down at the unfortunate child, almost too big for her cradle now, and reached down to touch her cheek. His heart stirred with a peculiar longing he could not identify.

Cecily raised her eyes to him; they were teal mirrors of sadness. Alec swallowed a lump swelling his throat.

“I have been a bad friend to you, my lady,” he told her, his tone huskier than usual as he sat beside her on the window seat. “I have been so caught up in my own shame and regret that I have been in hiding. And that is wrong.”

“We have all been in hiding,” Cecily said. “Tending our wounds in our own private hells.” She sighed, reaching over to cover his hand with her own. There was a strange comfort in the gesture; in it there were no expectations. He laced his fingers through hers.

“I did not know you appealed to Archbishop Cranmer until today,” Alec confessed then. He indicated the letter with an incline of his head. “If only …”

“No ‘if onlys’, Alec,” Cecily insisted, squeezing his hand. “Else you will drown in them.” She shook her head. “I saw no point in telling you.” She offered a feeble smile. “But I am glad that you know.”

Alec turned on the seat, taking both her hands in his. “I have never railed at God’s will so much as now. No matter how I try, I cannot wrap my mind about the sequence of events.”

“It isn’t God’s will, all this,” Cecily told him. “It was Mirabella’s. God allowed it to happen to teach us something, though I am hard pressed to discern the lesson myself.” She sighed. “As it is there are too many present concerns to waste a moment dwelling on even the recent past. I have to get the children settled with the Hapgoods.”

“Oh, my Lady Cecily, would that you could keep them with us,” Alec lamented. “They are my favourite, and at times only, diversion.” He sighed. “But I suppose it is not fitting keeping them here with a deranged half sister and her fool of a husband.” He almost choked on the last word.

Cecily bit her lip, shaking her head. “No, Alec, it is not fitting,” she admitted. “And my Lord Hal would have wanted it this way. He wanted them to see more of this kingdom and learn; it is for his wishes and their health and happiness that I am compelled to carry on with this.” She averted her head.

Alec reached out, turning her to face him with a gentle hand on her cheek. “I am so sorry our decisions have brought such unhappiness to Sumerton, to all of us, that such action is now necessary.”

She pursed her lips a moment, blinking several times. “It cannot be undone,” she said in soft tones. “We can all of us only move onward and hope for better days ahead.”

Alec gathered her in his arms, holding her fast. “Oh, my lady, at times it seems God
is
cruel,” he said, his voice breaking.

Cecily pulled away, meeting his eyes. “No,” she told him, her voice tremulous with conviction. “We are the cruel ones; we mock God with our free will instead of following His and now we cry because we are paying for it.”

Alec could only nod in agreement. Once again, Cecily proved correct. Whether tied to the old ways or the New Learning, Cecily remained closer to God than all of them.

It was reassuring and defeating at once.

Hapgood House was situated on the coast of Devon; the children would be almost as far south from Sumerton as was conceivable in Cecily’s mind. Though the region was primarily set in the old ways, the Hapgoods remained obedient to their king and seemed altogether unruffled by the religious climate, a fact Cecily found reassuring.

Despite the bleakness of January and a journey that seemed interminably long and uncomfortable, Cecily could see that spring would reveal a beautiful seaside haven for her children. Indeed, it was the perfect backdrop to grow up by. As Christmas through Twelfth Night proved to be every bit as steeped in muted despair and awkwardness as Cecily had imagined, the journey became an anticipated event and prospect of excitement for the children. The change of scene helped alleviate the sting of mourning and even Kristina perked at her first sight of the rolling grey sea.

Cecily remained with the children the first week to help acclimate them and acquaint herself more with their keepers. They seemed fine people, if a little overwhelmed by their own children, six girls and four boys, all ranging from ages four to seventeen. Sir Richard Hapgood, a justice of the peace with considerable landholdings, and his wife, Lady Beatrice, an able chatelaine of the bustling household, were in their mid-forties. She reminded Cecily of the evolved Lady Grace, with her forward, no-nonsense manner. They were a hospitable family rife with joyous chaos. Cecily knew by the end of the week what she had suspected all along: that her children were in a good place.

The farewells were tearful, the good-byes laced in uncertainty. When would they see one another again? How much would the children have grown? Would they still love her or would they begin to forget her? How long would it be before her children became polite, noble little strangers? Cecily could not bear to think any more in this vein and comforted herself with the fact that Harry and Kristina were swarmed with Hapgood children to distract them the moment her carriage pulled away.

But Cecily gazed out the window until the mass of playing children became an indistinguishable dot against the horizon and the coast faded into the sea.