Betrayal in the Tudor Court (32 page)

Hal chuckled. “I should have known you were behind this.”

“I believe Master Reaves has been calling on Mirabella as much as four times a week for the past six months,” Cecily went on. “Perhaps before long there will be wedding bells tolling at Sumerton.” She offered a happy sigh. “He is a dear man, always bringing some token or another for the family. He carves toys for the children, and always has a book or some tasteful piece of jewellery for Mirabella, and even at times brings fresh game for the table. He’s a marvel, Hal. Just what Mirabella needs.”

“Indeed it seems so,” Hal agreed. He sighed, stroking his beard with an idle hand. “Maybe with him she can find the peace she’s always longed for at last.”

Cecily smiled. “Let’s hope so.” She rose, placing a hand on her belly. “Then by the time this next baby is born, perhaps Mirabella will be thinking of giving you some grandchildren!”

Hal’s eyes misted with tenderness. “Cecily … another baby? Truly?”

Cecily nodded.

“By God, I am a lucky man,” Hal said as he rose to gather her in his arms.

Cecily nuzzled against his shoulder. The warmth of her own peace washed over her as a new confidence filled her. Life was good. At last, for everyone, life was good.

Someday she would curse herself for her naiveté; she knew too well that nothing lasted. Nothing stayed the same.

Dear Father Alec,

There has been a tragedy at Sumerton. Cecily was recently delivered of a son, blessed little Charles, but the poor lamb was small and frail and was called to God not a month after his birth, leaving her in an inconsolable state of melancholy. Father is fated to handle grief with grace and keeps much to himself. But I worry after Cecily; for so long she has been all the strength and light of Sumerton. Now her flame flickers, fading; I know not how to stoke it.

In times like these, we miss your guidance, your sense of calm confidence. How we need it now.

Blessings,

Mistress Mirabella Pierce

“A sign, perhaps, Father?” Archbishop Cranmer asked after Father Alec finished reading the letter aloud in the archbishop’s privy chamber at Lambeth.

Father Alec cocked a questioning brow. “Your Grace?”

Cranmer offered his gentle smile. “It is a dangerous time for men of faith. Indeed, it is a dangerous time for any who live in England. One of the saddest duties I ever undertook was that of the interrogation of young Queen Catherine Howard, the poor child. Though no innocent, her fate was … harsh.”

Father Alec closed his eyes against the memory of the fair young girl as she laid her head upon the block, another victim of Henry VIII. A queen for only two years, she was condemned to death for the crime of loving one her own age. It seemed a brutal consolation that the only light to be shed on such a dark time was that with her died the ambitions of the Catholics at court. By 1543 a new Catherine sat on the throne of England: Catherine Parr, a bold supporter of the reformers’ cause.

Once again, Cranmer indulged in the disconcerting habit of perceiving Father Alec’s thoughts. “Though our new Queen Catherine is of our persuasion, her influence on His Majesty is shaky at best. Bishop Gardiner will stoke the fires of Smithfield with reformers as long as there is breath in his body. If this queen can be counted in those numbers, he would have her join them.” He trembled.

Father Alec shook his head. “It is a perilous time.”

“For simply believing that the body of Christ is mere bread and is not transubstantiated into flesh when celebrating Holy Communion, one can be put to death. Our cause is at a disadvantage. We are all but at a standstill.” He sighed, his heavy-lidded eyes softening with sadness. “And our King Henry is not well. The leg injury he sustained at the joust in ’36 is ulcerated. In his pain he grows more agitated, quicker to provoke than ever before. He is unpredictable. One day he may be in favour of reforms, the next we could be put to death for them.” He shook his head. “He has changed. I fear for him,” he added in hushed tones. “I fear for us all.” He bit his lower lip a moment before continuing. “I have long since sent my wife out of England, as you know. I have hidden my work, any work that could be considered … controversial. I pray you do the same.”

Father Alec nodded. “I have, Your Grace.”

“Father, would you say you love Sumerton?” he asked then, his tone suddenly light.

Father Alec’s heart lurched in an unexpected moment of nostalgia. “Love Sumerton? … I suppose I do. My life has been a drifter’s life, you could say. Sumerton afforded me the only home I ever truly knew, besides with Your Grace, of course.”

“Do not flatter me, lad.” The archbishop chuckled. “Though it has pleased me to have you in my service. You are a man of rare insight. As such, I fear for you. I have read your work; I know your thoughts and I will leave them unspoken, for it is too dangerous a time to voice anything which might oppose His Majesty’s at times contradictory will. You could be compromised. You are a priest and unfortunately more expendable than higher men who have already lost their lives to the stake.” He rose and paced before his fire. “I believe God has plans to utilise you in a time when England sheds the veil of ignorance at last. I believe you will help shape our faith and bring in a new age. But for that, Father, you must be kept safe.” He offered a pointed gaze. “And this is not a safe place for you.”

Father Alec’s heart dropped in his chest. He shook his head. “You are sending me away, Your Grace?”

“For your own good, my friend,” the archbishop reassured him. “And I believe Sumerton is just the place. It is tucked inconspicuously in the north country. There you may write, you may work, and not under the shadow of the axe,” he added with a wry laugh. “They are a fruitful people, are the Pierces you served. Two living children now, is it? They will be in need of a tutor, I am sure. Oh, Father, take heart. We will keep correspondence. And you will return when it is safe—and it will be safe again someday, Father, I promise you.”

Father Alec struggled to keep his mouth from standing agape. He knew it was the right thing, that he would not dare go against his mentor’s authority. But to leave London, to leave his dreams behind, to leave the hub of all religious decision and reform for the country of Sumerton, where news travelled slow and life commenced in a sort of suspended reality so alternate to what he came to know and treasure in London … His stomach churned.

“My friend, I appreciate how difficult this is for you,” Cranmer told him in gentle tones. “But you are too crucial to England’s future to make a martyr of you. I will not have it. I pray you will understand and forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Father Alec assured him. “And I am honoured that you hold me in such high esteem, that you believe me to have some place in our land’s future. But I admit it is almost unbearable leaving.” He bowed his head. “I am avowed to obedience, however. And I suppose it is God’s will. One can never get too comfortable.” He shrugged, swallowing an onset of petulant tears.

“Consider it a sabbatical,” Cranmer suggested. “A respite where you might compose your thoughts in relative safety. Not that you should get careless; I advise you conceal your work with the utmost caution. But it will be easier for you there. And you will prove a comfort to the family as well.”

The family. Hal and Cecily and Mirabella. How had the years changed them? Would they fall back into the easy friendship they once shared? Or would it be awkward returning to them? Yet he could not deny that it would be an honour educating a new generation of Pierces. It was perhaps a perfect cover.

“It is settled, then, Father,” Cranmer stated, bringing Father Alec from his reverie. “You will return to Sumerton and wait this out. When the time is right, we will know what to do with you.”

There was no argument to make. He would obey his dear friend and mentor and remove to the manor where so many memories were made. There he would live, he would dream, he would work.

And wait.

16

“F
ather Alec returning to Sumerton?” Mirabella cried as Hal made the announcement in the gardens. It was a warm autumn evening and the women savoured their time in the outdoors before winter set in. Together with the companionable James Reaves they watched the children romp and play.

Cecily raised her head to Hal, a spark lighting the eyes that the loss of baby Charles had dulled.

“I just received his dispatch,” Hal affirmed with a grin. “He has offered to resume his post as our tutor.”

“Oh, Hal …” Cecily murmured, her heart stirring with the first real hope she had known since the baby’s death. Everything had become such an effort for her; it was almost impossible to take any pleasure in day-to-day life. Her mind was tortured with thoughts of her little one, the warm weight of him in her arms, the feel of his downy soft hair against her cheek, his sweet, clean smell. How subtle, how quiet, was his passing. She had put him to bed one night, blissfully unaware of the fact that it was to be his eternal slumber. It seemed suffering had become her unwelcome companion. It haunted her, these thoughts, and wracked her soul with guilt; if she or the nurse had only checked on baby Charles more that night, perhaps they could have foreseen, maybe even prevented … Yes, it was a good thing that Father Alec was returning. Perhaps he could offer her counsel as he had in days gone by.

“We shall make ready his old apartments,” she said, her tone decisive. “And celebrate his return with a feast!”

“Set the preparations in order, my darling,” Hal told her as he leaned in to kiss the top of her head. “Give our friend a proper homecoming.”

Cecily reached up, cupping Hal’s cheek in her hand. This was a much-anticipated homecoming. Reuniting with one of the most integral figures in her childhood filled her with renewed purpose and would be a welcome distraction from her grief. Father Alec would prove a loving instructor to her children and the impartial friend the family needed to guide them through.

Mirabella anticipated the priest’s appearance with a pounding heart. All the preparations had been made. Mirabella helped Cecily oversee the freshening of his apartments and even stocked a trunk with newly sewn shirts for his use. Two boars had been slaughtered and the kitchens were busy making ready a feast in his honour. Cecily had even assembled a group of tenants to serve as musicians for the occasion. Like Lady Grace before her, it seemed Cecily was a master of revels.

Even Mirabella found herself choosing her wardrobe with more care the day he was set to arrive. Red had always been her colour in years gone by and she wore a sumptuous velvet dress of rich crimson with slashed sleeves to reveal fitted taffeta undersleeves of gold. Her dark hair she wore curling past her shoulders with a simple red and gold headdress.

“My God, Mistress Mirabella, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” James Reaves told her upon seeing her that day in the gardens.

Mirabella smiled, proud of dear James. Never did he lose his faith; never did he seem to even question God’s will. He was an example of acceptance and she strove to emulate him.

“My lady,” he went on, taking her hand. “I did not know the proper time to say this, but … I have spoken to your father and—and he gave his blessing. … Mistress Mirabella, it is my hope that I could plight my troth to you.”

The colour drained from Mirabella’s cheeks. Marriage? To James? She could not trick herself into believing this would not happen someday. They had grown close. There seemed an easy chemistry between them. They shared similar beliefs and enjoyed each other’s company. But marriage? As ever she was reminded of when the abbey’s treasures were confiscated and her virtue almost compromised. As ever she was reminded it was her mother’s selfless act that preserved her. James was one of the few to know of that tragedy. He tended her himself, after all. And yet the thought of being his wife … the thought of abandoning the last vestiges of her dreams to domesticity …

“My lady?” James furrowed his brows. He squeezed her hand.

“Mirabella! He’s here!” the voice of young Harry was heard exclaiming as he burst through the gardens, trampling every flower and shrub that had the misfortune of finding itself in his path. At eight he was the image of Brey with his shock of curly blond hair and sparkling blue eyes that betrayed his enthusiasm for life. “Your friend, the priest you told me so much about! He’s riding up now!”