Betrayal in the Tudor Court (30 page)

“I am pleased to have been invited to court, Sire,” Lady Mary responded, her tone void of emotion. Mirabella could only imagine how it was for Lady Mary to face this man, this man who had cast aside her mother, removed Mary from the succession, and stripped her of her titles, leaving her to grow ill and bitter in a drafty northern castle. This was the man who, for love of a woman he would eventually kill, would remove himself from the Pope and thus God’s grace.

“May I present Lady Pierce?” Lady Mary said as Mirabella dipped into a deep curtsy.

“Rise, child.” The king’s voice thundered with merriment. “Pierce? The Earl of Sumerton’s daughter.”

“Yes, Sire,” Mirabella answered, keeping her head lowered. She could not bear to look him in the face.

“And how are you enjoying our court?” he asked, putting his hands at his hips, as though challenging her to utter her dislike for it.

Mirabella offered a frosty smile. “It is a fascinating place, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed it is,” he returned, his tone thoughtful as his eyes roved her body in a slow, methodical fashion. Mirabella took an involuntary step back.

“Your Majesty, we were hoping to be presented to Master Aske,” Lady Mary said.

“Ah, my guest,” said the king, his smile strained. “What a stir he creates.” With this he turned to the throng of men gathered about him. “Robert, my boy! Come meet my daughter and her friend Mistress Pierce.”

A strong man in his later years came forward, cutting a fine figure in his humble but presentable courtly garb. His jaw was set, his eyes a fierce blue, shining out of a clean-shaven face and crowned with thin greying blond hair. He emanated strength and determination. Mirabella’s heart pounded as he offered a low bow. She curtsied in turn.

“Well, there you have it! Make merryas my guests!” the king cried, clapping his daughter on the shoulder. “Come, Mary, dance a pretty turn for me.”

“Yes, Sire,” Lady Mary answered in her dull tones as she set to the floor, leaving Mirabella alone to face Robert Aske.

He inclined his head once more. “I am pleased to know you, my lady.”

Mirabella’s lips quivered. “I—I so admire you, Master Aske,” she blurted at once. Hot tears stung her eyes as he took her hand in his. “I am a true Catholic,” she whispered. “And I support the Pilgrimage. I pray the king honours his negotiations.”

“God bless you,” he returned, his voice low and strong. “I have every reason to believe the king will be good on his word. Take heart and have hope, my lady. We may see a return of the old ways yet.”

“I pray,” Mirabella said with fervency. “The things that have happened … the horrors I have lived …” She swallowed hard. “I was a sister in Christ. My cloister was robbed of its treasures and one of my—one of my fellow sisters was killed.”

Aske closed his eyes as though in pain, shaking his head. “My condolences. Know you are not alone, Sister. I have heard similar reports from across the kingdom. Let us pray that now that I have met with His Majesty these terrible days are behind us.”

If she could have she would have crossed herself. Instead she contented herself with his words, praying that the king would go against form and honour the promises made.

Mirabella took Master Aske’s hand, hoping the fervency of her dreams for their cause translated in the squeeze she offered. “I shall never forget meeting you.”

“Nor I you,” he replied, squeezing her hand in turn. “God be with you, Sister.”

“And also with you,” she replied.

With that he rejoined his comrades, leaving Mirabella to close her eyes a long moment. For the first time in months she felt peace. Perhaps the Lady Mary and her father were wrong; perhaps Robert Aske was just the man to negotiate with the king.

“My lady?”

Mirabella opened her eyes to the familiar male voice. She flushed, realising that she had been standing there, her arms wrapped about herself in her moment of private triumph.

It was James Reaves, the steward from Sumerton Abbey.

“Master Reaves!” Mirabella cried. “I did not know you were here as well!”

“I have accompanied Master Aske,” he explained. “Oh, my lady, how goes it with you?” His brows furrowed in concern.

“I am well,” she answered. “Oh, but it is wonderful. Do you think he has succeeded?”

“Things look very hopeful,” Reaves replied, his voice warm. “If any man can accomplish this great thing, it is Robert Aske. He is a wonderful orator and a man of unmatched honour. I believe the king recognises that and admires it. One can’t help but admire it. He is a most dynamic man.”

“Indeed,” agreed Mirabella. “I am so glad to see you safe. When I heard about the rebellion in Lincoln being quelled I was frightened for you.”

Reaves bowed his head. “It has been a long, hard fight. But nothing is more worthy of fighting for than the return of the old ways. Soon all will be as it should be, my lady.”

“All of my prayers are with you and Master Aske,” she said.

“I thank you, my lady,” he answered. For a moment he stood before her, chewing his lip. The gesture was so boyish Mirabella couldn’t help but laugh. He was such an innocent creature, though he must be in his twenties. He bowed his head again. “My lady, when we return north, may I call on you at Sumerton? As—as your friend?”

Mirabella was touched. She could see no harm in that. Reaves was a sweet man and his intentions were as pure as the soul shining out of his stormy grey eyes. “Of course you may,” she answered in warm tones.

He bowed low. “Until then, my lady.”

“Until then,” Mirabella replied.

On Christmas Day, the newest Pierce was delivered after a remarkably short labour. Cecily was haunted by images of her last delivery and had insisted on Hal’s presence that she might seek reassurance from his eyes. Seven hours later, Dorothy Mopps, the midwife, had brought forth a wailing baby girl with brassy blond hair discernable despite being wet.

Now Cecily sat in awe. She had been denied the experience of joy during her first tumultuous birth and her heart lurched in guilt as she beheld her daughter. The feelings that stirred within her now eclipsed any tangible happiness she had ever known and it pained her that she did not know this with Harry.

The howling little creature was cleaned and placed in her arms.

“And what shall we call this passionate little orator?” Hal asked as he allowed the baby to suckle at his finger.

Cecily gazed at her daughter. “Kristina,” she said. “Our little Christmas gift. Kristina Ashley Pierce, Ashley for my mother.”

“Perfect,” Hal said, admiring the pair. At last the baby found some contentment and closed her eyes.

Cecily stroked the child’s silky cheek. “Hal … the fact that she’s a girl—”

“Gives me another princess to spoil,” Hal assured her in gentle tones, placing a kiss on her forehead.

Cecily smiled, the knots in her shoulders easing in relief. “Somehow I don’t think this little lamb will give us a choice!”

Mirabella,

We have heard of Master Aske’s victory at court and congratulate you.

Our Christmas was made spectacular by the delivery of your sister, Kristina Ashley. It seemed an easy birth and Cecily is making a speedy recovery. Harry has taken quite fondly to Kristina and seems most protective. I am praying you will return to Sumerton soon that you might meet her yourself. She is strong and lusty and makes her presence known; perhaps there is a little of you in her? Do come home to us soon
.

With love
,

Your father

Mirabella received the dispatch at Sumerton Place in early January. She did not understand her emotions. Certainly she was happy for her father and Cecily, relieved that the labour anticipated with such dread had gone well. The fact that it had produced a girl did not trouble her; after all, with Harry secured as the Sumerton heir the need for a boy seemed less imminent. Then what was the bittersweet constricting of her heart?

She cursed herself. She had known this feeling before. Envy. Raw and primal envy. Now that her calling to God had been denied her, her life was a void of uncertainty. She was young with no prospects and no identity. As a novitiate nun, her life was defined, laid out before her, predictable, neat. Now she was unsettled, afraid. Would she marry, then? Would she ever know the happiness of a family? What’s more, did she even want that? How could she so easily slip from one way of life to another? Did she owe it to God to remain chaste, alone in service to Him? Or was there another way to serve? Her chastity was bought at such a great price; would she mock her mother’s sacrifice to give it in marriage?

Mirabella settled in the solar before a cheery fire incongruent with her mood and reread the dispatch. She wondered if her father’s legitimate daughter would somehow usurp whatever rank she held in his heart, then chastised herself for the childishness of the thought.

“A visitor, mistress.” The voice of her steward cut her fancies short as Mirabella waved them in.

“Mistress Mirabella.”

God, it was him. Father Alec …

Mirabella’s heart lurched. She rose from her seat, turning to find Father Alec behind her. He stood, cloak draped over his arm, his face somber.

She offered a timid smile. “How kind of you to call on me.”

“How are you, mistress?”

“I am well,” she answered. “I received a dispatch from Father today—they had a girl.”

Father Alec lowered his eyes. His smile was fixed, grim. “Congratulations to them.” He bowed his head. “Mistress … have you heard any news from court?”

“The court is too exhausting for me to keep up with.” She sat, gesturing for Father Alec to take the wingback chair across from her. He sank into the seat, drawing in a breath.

“I thought to come, to tell you myself,” he began. “It’s about Master Aske. Another rebellion broke out in the North.”

“Another rebellion? But the king—c-compromises were made at Christmas …” Mirabella stammered, her heart racing.

“Master Aske wanted to stop it,” he explained. “But he couldn’t.” He sighed. “I’m afraid the instigators have been executed.”

Mirabella’s gut lurched. Her hand flew to her stomach, her face began to tingle and flush. “Executed? And Master Aske?”

Father Alec met her eyes, pointed. “I believe his days are numbered. The Pilgrimage of Grace is all but put down. It is no more.”

Tears clenched Mirabella’s throat and obscured her vision. “No! And the compromises? The promises?”

“I am certain you know what will become of those,” Father Alec told her. “My dear, it is the king’s will or no will.” He reached out, taking her trembling hands in his. “I am so sorry.”

Mirabella sank her head into her hands, shoulders quaking with sobs. “It can’t be … then my cause … there is no hope. There is no hope for any of us. I will never know the life I knew before. Everything has been for nothing!”

“It is a stain on the reforms,” Father Alec commented. “But perhaps this should be a sign to you to begin again, forge a new life for yourself. While I do not approve of some of the king’s reforms, not all of the strides being made are negative.”

Mirabella raised her head. “How can you say that to me? When everything I have done has been for God, for the True Faith? I am denied my calling; I am denied everything now. And everything I tried to accomplish, everything has been for naught! My poor mother—her death—”

Father Alec furrowed his brow in puzzlement. “Your mother’s death?”

“Yes, my mother’s death!” Mirabella seethed, rising. “When we were defending our pathetic cause, my mother died trying to protect
me
! Another who sought to execute the king’s ‘reforms’ killed her with the hilt of his sword after she stopped him from … from—” She dissolved into sobs. She hadn’t meant to say it; she had never meant to say it.

“My child.” Father Alec rushed forward, gathering her in his arms. “Oh, my poor, dear child.”

She gave in to the embrace, burying her head in his chest, relishing the closeness as she sobbed.

“And your father and Cecily—they do not know—”

“Of course not!” she cried. “I wouldn’t upset their nuptial bliss, would I?”

Father Alec said nothing. He stroked her hair.

“My mother is dead and I am to blame. And now there is nothing left for me. I have nothing,” she went on in small tones. “I am nothing.”

Father Alec drew back, gripping her by the shoulders, meeting her intense emerald gaze with his. “That is where you’re wrong. You are not to credit yourself for your mother’s death; she did what any mother would do and you may be assured that she is rewarded for it in Heaven.” He cupped Mirabella’s face between his hands. “You have suffered a cruel blow—more than anyone should suffer. But God has plans for you; He will not fail you. The world you know is ending, but something new is being born in its place. You have the opportunity to be a part of that, to be a part of creating a new and more perfect faith—”

“How can we create a faith more perfect than that which God Himself set down?” Mirabella returned, appalled at the suggestion.

Father Alec shook his head. “Men set down the doctrine; God set down the ideal. It is to that ideal which we must strive.”

Mirabella shook her head. “I’ve done all I can to defend the faith that I hold as true. I can do no more; that is clear to me. I do not want to do more. I want no part in these … ‘reforms’. ”

Father Alec sighed. “God will not leave you behind,” he assured. “Yield to Him. His will may surprise you. Meantime, forge ahead with a new life. You are an educated woman; you could be a governess, perhaps, or a lady-in-waiting. I could help secure you a position with a respectable family, if you like—”

“I could not bear that kind of degradation,” Mirabella told him. “As far as being a governess, no one would appreciate what I have to teach.” She bowed her head, defeated. “I suppose there’s naught to do but return to Sumerton and be of what little help I can to Cecily and my father.”

“It is a good start.” Father Alec offered a small smile. “A place to reflect, to collect your thoughts.”

“And you, Father?” Mirabella raised her eyes to him. “Can you really remain here? Can you truly abide the travesty our world has come to?”