Betrayal in the Tudor Court

“What else did you do?” asked Brey, his tone fringed with impatience.

Father Alec offered a conspiratorial smile. “I camped with Gypsies, I preached to bandits and vagabonds—I was held at knifepoint on more than a few occasions.” He chuckled. “I met greatness in humility and humility in greatness.”

“Wasn’t your family terribly worried?” Cecily asked him.

Father Alec’s face softened. His hazel eyes grew distant. “My family was gone by then, victims of the sweat.” He offered a sad smile.

Mirabella reached out, laying a hand over his. “It was God’s will,” she said, her green eyes grave with conviction.

Father Alec withdrew his hand. “Yes … thank you, Lady Mirabella.”

Mirabella offered her sweetest smile, her heart clenching.

“Then we are orphaned together,” commented Cecily, raising saddened eyes to the priest, eyes made wistful with the pain of loss.

Father Alec’s eyes revealed fondness as he cast them upon the child. “That we are.”

“Yet I suppose no Christian is really orphaned. God is always our father,” Cecily added then, her face brightening with hope. “And He sends us people to look after us and help us, even though our parents were called to Him. Like the Pierces and you for me. That way we need never feel all alone.”

Father Alec’s eyes softened with unshed tears. “No … we are never all alone.”

Mirabella’s gaze darkened. She had spent hours discussing matters of faith with Father Alec and with unending patience he had indulged her, all while praising her intellect. Yet Cecily’s oversimplified generalisation, along with the mutual loss of their parents to the dreaded sweat, connected her to the priest in a way Mirabella’s devoutness and keen mind never could.

She should not resent her for it. It was unchristian, uncharitable. She was above such things. Yet her gut wrenched and ached with unwelcome jealousy. Cecily was endearing; she was sweet without pretence. Her light permeated the darkest reaches of any room and any heart. Mirabella could not emit these qualities, not because she was not in possession of them but because she preferred her solitude. Her light was secret, sacred, preserved for God and a handful of others, one of them being Father Alec. To see his eyes light with admiration for another seized her with a sense of envy new to her.

She blinked several times. She must not think this way. Cecily was to be a sister to her and to resent a sister was tantamount to resenting Brey or her mother and father.

Besides, Cecily was just a little girl and everyone was sweet to little girls. Mirabella had no reason to fret.

Grace needed another distraction. Curse Lent and its damnable deprivation! It was all observed with falsehood, as was most everything Catholic. It was a religion of pretence and ritual, meant to satisfy the illiterate multitudes grasping for visuals. Those with any intellect at all did not appreciate with awe the carefully calculated “miracles” the priests concocted to keep their parishioners in thrall. Grace was never impressed. As it was, whenever she attended mass she could not stop calculating the cost of the exquisite chalices, statues, and other artwork gracing the chapel. And the extravagance of the bishops and priests she had encountered had filled her with unholy envy of its own account.

Grace had heard of Tyndale and Luther, and though she agreed with their various suggestions for reform, she was not a woman impassioned by conviction. Her beliefs were not fervent enough to pursue the New Learning any more than cling to the so-called True Faith. She valued her life, after all. Grace could admit with a dark chuckle that one of the only reasons she resented the wealth of the Church was because she wished to appropriate it.

Thus the matter of the New Learning was only reflected upon during Lent as she wondered what these reformers would do with the season. She couldn’t imagine it being made any worse; however, given the reformers’ views on simplicity it likely would not be any better.

So it was that Grace needed another diversion; the melancholy was lurking again in the shadows of her mind and brooding over religious and philosophical doctrine would not assuage it. Matters of religion became too heady for Grace and were best left to Father Alec to puzzle out with moony-eyed Mirabella. Meantime, Grace would plan an entertainment for May Day to usher in the spring.

The girls would need gowns. Grace lay back in her bed, steepling her fingers beneath her chin in thought as she envisaged little Cecily and Brey in another matching ensemble. The two were a perfect pair! What a boon the little baroness was! Not only did she bring in a worthy dowry, but she was the presence of beauty and poise. And Brey loved her; they were together all the time, playing as children do. Grace could not refrain from emitting a naughty giggle as she imagined the games they would turn to when adolescence struck. No doubt theirs was fated to be a love match; Grace could see it.

With this to lighten her heart, Grace summoned Mirabella and Cecily. She would invite them to participate in the planning process. Both girls needed to learn; after all, they would be running their own grand households someday and it would give them something to do during the interminable weeks of Lent.

The girls entered her bedchamber, rosy cheeked and breathless from their revels outdoors. Grace offered a bright smile.

“Is it a nice day?” she asked them.

“Lovely!” Mirabella cried. “You should come out, my lady, and take in the air. ’Twould be good for you.”

Grace reached for her cup of wine and took a long draught, then set it beside her, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief. “Yes, perhaps …” she said offhandedly as she patted the bed. The girls sat, Mirabella at her feet and Cecily at her side. “Now. I’ve summoned you both to help me plan a grand occasion.”

“Another one?” Mirabella groaned.

“Yes, Mirabella, another one,” Grace said, weary of the girl’s aversion to all things pleasant. “A sort of Beltane celebration to bring in the spring.”

“Beltane! But that’s a pagan festival!” Mirabella cried, scandalised.

“Oh, bother, Mirabella, I didn’t say we would be dancing naked round the bonfire, did I?” Grace returned, thoroughly irritated. “It’s just that I thought this would give us an opportunity to … well, to be together,” she added with a wistful smile. “I thought to order some fabrics and we could design the wardrobe—”

“During Lent?” Mirabella interposed, wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

“Oh, my lady, we can plan our own dresses?” Cecily cried, her little face flushing with delight. “Can mine be blue?”

“Blue would be splendid, Cecily—it will bring out your lovely eyes,” Grace conceded, endeared to the good-natured child. “Blue silk trimmed with lace, perhaps?” She reached out to stroke the child’s cheek.

“I think it’s wonderful!” Cecily turned toward Mirabella. “We shall have a good time, Mirabella, with your lady mother. You’ll see! You would look stunning in red—red organza or velvet!” She returned her gaze to Grace. “Don’t you think so?”

Grace nodded; truly Mirabella was an exquisite child, far more beautiful than she knew. A red dress would accentuate all of her assets and if she ever decided it pleased God to smile …

“I think this display is despicable!” Mirabella huffed, rising from the bed. “My lady, it is Lent, the time of repentance and restraint. To plan such an occasion now, especially one that rings of Beltane, is an affront to God.”

“Oh, my self-righteous girl …” Grace shook her head. “Who needs Father Alec with you around to keep us in check?”

Mirabella turned on her heel and quit the room, leaving Cecily to sit stunned, lip quivering, beside Grace, who wrapped her arm about her shoulders and drew her to her breast.

“There, now, no worries, Cecily,” she soothed. “If I told Mirabella the sky was blue she would say it was brown just to disagree. We shall never see eye to eye, I’m afraid.” She stroked the child’s silky hair, taking comfort in it. “You would still like to help?”

“Yes, my lady,” Cecily said, offering a timid half smile.

Grace relaxed against her pillows. She retrieved her cup from the bedside table. “Empty,” she murmured, scowling. “Cecily, be a lamb, won’t you, and fetch your mistress another cup of wine?”

“Yes, my lady,” Cecily answered as she crawled out of bed to do Grace’s bidding.

Grace watched the child’s competent little hands fill her cup with the soothing, crimson liquid. How good it was to have such an acquiescent child about!

“I should like it very much if you spent more time with me,” Grace told her on impulse as Cecily handed her the cup. “It pleases me to be in your company.”

Cecily smiled, offering another engaging flush of the cheeks. “Thank you, my lady.”

Grace drank her wine. As it surged through her, warming her trembling limbs and calming her racing heart, she smiled. She would get through another Lent.

She had a ball to prepare for.

Hal Pierce spent Lent playing dice with a few other less observant members of the local gentry. He didn’t mind the deprivation, the penance. He considered his life one endless Lent as it were, so the season had little effect on him. And a little dice was harmless enough. He never lost too much; he was careful with his assets. He would not deprive Brey of his rightful inheritance. It was fun, that was all, just a bit of fun. And he needed fun.

Hal was not a drinking man, he was not a whoring man, and that was more than could be said for most men. Thus he took some measure of pride in himself for being able to go through life with such uncanny restraint. A bit of dice and a hand of cards were his rewards.

He had married Grace at the age of eighteen. His heart contracted at the thought. She was the beautiful daughter of a wool baron from York and had brought with her a generous dowry. They got on as well as could be expected, though like most marriages, it did not begin as a love match. Since their wedding day they had been tested with rigorous consistency. His parents were ailing, both passing within the first two years of his marriage, leaving the running of the household and management of the vast lands that surrounded it to the young couple. Yet they endured and with endurance came love. They embraced their mutual passion for fun and good company. They shared a love of hunting, hawking, and dancing. Grace became the perfect social ornament. If he focused on those elements he could forget the rest, the lonely nights when their home was not teeming with guests, nights spent in separate bedchambers, nights of solitude and reflection on events that could never be changed.

That was when Grace slept with a decanter at her bedside. And that was when Hal played dice.

Because Hal was the only child of the previous Earl of Sumerton it was his hope to fill the house with children of his own. That there were only two and a succession of miscarriages could not be helped. It was the will of God, he supposed, and he cherished his blessings. Brey was a wonderful child, sweet and bonny. And Mirabella … well, he was certain Mirabella would come into her own when softened by marriage and children. It was his hope that she would abandon her fantasy of becoming a nun. Though he would never deter her, it was not the life he had dreamed of for her.

Dreams … Nothing had gone as expected. In that his life was a constant illustration.

He sat now, thinking of this life as he shook the dice in clammy hands, surrounded by other men who wondered after their own lives, all of them convening to stave off their own terrible loneliness for one night. They would listen to the rattle of the dice, the melody of their chuckling, the bawdy jokes.

And they would pretend to be happy.

Thus Hal would get through.

Father Alec was witnessing a change in the Pierce household. Though it had been lively with a superficial sort of energy, he could not say his patrons were happy people. Yet when Lady Cecily came … He was under no illusions. The little baroness worked no miracles. The Pierces were still imbued with their own respective vices. Yet she infused in them a tranquility that he had not seen before. Her innocence, her trusting nature, her resilient cheer endeared her to all she encountered. Brey had a playmate, a companion, an outlet for his restlessness. Mirabella had an affable girl-child to treat as a sister and pupil, someone with whom she could tout her knowledge, someone she could nurture and lead toward her perception of Right. Lady Grace adored the girl and spent entire afternoons absorbing her serenity; she was a buffer to the antagonism experienced with her own daughter. And Lord Hal was fond of her as well; she was his hope for the future. It was from her womb that would descend all future Pierces.

She was of no exceptional talent; she was the type who mastered all she attempted with competence. If she possessed any gift worthy of note it was in her ability to manage people. Though she was playful, she displayed no signs of being a coquette; she would not manipulate her way through life as would a woman of the court. No, it was her sweetness that won hearts. Her sweetness, her sincerity, her acquiescence, her comforting presence.

Cecily was that rarest of things. A soul of complete integrity.

Father Alec drank her in as well. She was as a daughter to him. Perhaps it was because the other children had living parents that inclined Father Alec to believe they needed him less. Perhaps it was that Cecily shared his acute awareness of loss. Or perhaps it was that she was so uncomplicated. So genuine. Whatever it was, Father Alec found that with her he could be as close to a true father as he would ever get.

Of course it was not productive to think like that.

Father Alec did not regret the choice he had made. What other alternative was there at the time? The priesthood made sense. He was the second son of a Welsh country squire. As such, his fate lay with the Church. He did not resent this. He needed an education and the only ones of his class with access to an education of any true merit were priests. Chastity seemed a small enough sacrifice for the enrichment of his mind and soul.

He found other ways to relate to his fellow man and being a tutor was one of them. It gave him the opportunity to experience a little of what he had chosen to forgo. He lived with the Pierces; through them he witnessed the pitfalls and triumphs of a family. He could not deny that he was still on the outside, a bystander living vicariously through others. The emptiness of it all enshrouded him and more often than not he felt like a fraud, a man dressed as a priest for a masque.

Then Cecily came and with her a new sense of fulfillment, a new sense of connection.

He cursed himself. He should not feel that need. He should be resigned to his lot, the lot that he chose. Yet what harm was there in pretending? Was he not called Father for a reason? He chose to be as loving as a father to God’s people, to guide them, to nurture them. Surely God could not fault him for that.

So he pretended. Cecily called him Father and he revelled in the temporary fantasy that he was a family man, that he had a daughter.

That she called him Father not because he was a priest.

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