by D. L. Bogdan
“When I thought I was going to lose him I knew I would fight anyone and anything who tried to come between us, even the force of death itself. Death has taken so much from us... . But it yielded its grip over Hal and returned him to me. And now I am to give him a child.” It was at this point that she was overcome with a fear she hadn’t known since Hal was first struck with his illness. She cast wild eyes to Alice. “After everything we have survived I should feel triumphant. But I am more afraid than I have ever been. What if I die, leaving Hal all alone with a little one? Or what if the baby dies? How will poor Hal endure it after all of his heartbreaks. . . and if we both ... ?”
Cecily began to cry, gasping and hiccoughing like a child, as Alice rushed forward to sit beside her, taking her hand.
“Even now you only think of Hal,” Alice observed in awe. “I cannot even fathom such love ...” she said, her voice thick with sadness.
Cecily at once regretted her confession and cast her eyes to their joined hands. Alice squeezed hers in reassurance. “You are stronger than a seasoned knight,” Alice told her in her uncompromising tone. “You will get through this, Cecily.” She smoothed Cecily’s hair off her face. “And when you do, you are going to know a happiness few ever experience. How many of us belong to families who truly love each other?”
Her voice rang with the faintest trace of agony, causing Cecily to shift the focus from her own concerns to Alice’s loveless existence. She stroked her friend’s hand. She felt selfish.
“Thank you, Alice,” Cecily said in gentle tones. “I am very fortunate. Even more so to have a friend like you.”
Alice took Cecily in her arms and held her tight. “Well then!” she exclaimed, drawing back and wiping tears from her cheeks. “D’you expect you’ll have time to call on me in a few months when I enter my confinement?”
“Alice!” Cecily cried, tears of joy replacing those of trepidation as she beheld her friend. “Oh, how wonderful—you know I shall be beside you! And our children shall be companions!”
Alice offered a sad little smile. “It will be wonderful, won’t it?”
As she regarded her friend, Cecily found herself once more overwhelmed with gratitude.
Hers was not a bad lot.
Father Alec Cahill was growing used to the fast-paced routine of Lambeth Palace and had become so comfortable with the archbishop that there were few subjects the two did not discuss. Cranmer had an easy manner about him as well, a quality he shared, and the two were as content in a lengthy conversation as they were in silence. Father Alec intuited many of Cranmer’s needs and was excellent at being at the right place at the right time.
Except once.
Father Alec had been composing a series of devotions and prayers that he tentatively titled Meditations for the Common Man. The work was endorsed by Cranmer in private, but he advised Father Alec to use caution. Despite pure intentions, the book could be considered heretical. And no one wanted to burn. Despite fears for how the piece would be interpreted, Father Alec was proud of it and often sought out Cranmer for advice, which he was always generous about dispensing.
The men had developed an informality between them and it was not unknown for Father Alec to enter Cranmer’s apartments unannounced. He was always received and it reassured him to know there was a place for him to go and a friend to talk to any time he needed. Tonight he needed counsel; Father Alec was frustrated about his loss of inspiration for his book and decided to seek out his friend.
But Cranmer was not alone. A woman was with him. This was not remarkable; there were noblewomen who sought audience with him. But at this time of night and without chaperone ... and the fact that she was clasped tightly in his arms ...
Father Alec’s gut lurched with disgust, and before either could react he rushed from the suite.
Once in the privacy of his own quarters he found himself battling tears.
He is just like old Cardinal Wolsey, he thought, clenching his fists in rage as he paced back and forth before his bed. Once one of the king’s dearest companions and advisers, the cardinal had indulged in all manner of depravity, living the life of a king, taking mistresses, fathering bastards, all while taking great pains to remain in the king’s favor, that he might attain more power for himself. In the end, Wolsey earned the king’s wrath by failing to procure his annulment from Catherine of Aragon and died alone and in disgrace on his way to his own execution. He was an unforgettable example of what lust for worldly gains did to a prelate, the antithesis of what Father Alec wanted to be.
To think that Cranmer could be of his like ... No. It could not be true. He could not wrap his mind around it. Cranmer, gentle Cranmer, who seemed so devout and in touch with God’s desires. No, not Cranmer. Surely his eyes had betrayed him. After all, who did not need a chaste embrace now and again?
But alone and at night?
Father Alec gritted his teeth, his face aching from the intensity of his scowl. He was a fool; priests often had mistresses—housekeepers and servants were the polite terms for it, but they were mistresses nonetheless. The rank of the priest offered no exception; a man was a man and lust was lust.
Father Alec cursed himself for expecting more from Cranmer. He cursed himself for his naïve idealism, his hero worship... . It was all fantasy.
He did not know how much time had passed, minutes, perhaps hours. He did know that when the knock sounded at the door he would face Cranmer. And, out of obedience, he would not be able to question him.
He opened it, kneeling before the archbishop to kiss his ring, then rising and allowing him entrance.
Cranmer sat at the breakfast table, cocking his head, regarding Father Alec with a gentle countenance capable of inspiring a shameless liar to confess of his deepest sins.
“I know you have questions, my son,” he began in his soft voice. “And I understand why you may feel angry and betrayed. Know that what I am about to tell you I reveal because you are one of the few men that I actually trust.” His gaze did not leave Father Alec’s face. “The woman you saw with me is my wife.”
Father Alec’s gut twisted in a knot. Wife? He was uncertain of whether or not this was worse than keeping a mistress. Both were forbidden to a priest... . He could not begin to grapple with it.
Reading his confusion, Cranmer went on. “My son, I was always inclined to marry, to have a family. I did so before I became a priest, but alas, my first wife died in childbirth along with the baby. So I returned to my calling. I lived up to my vows and for a time succeeded at forgoing the love of a woman.” He sighed. “Until I became ambassador to Charles V and was in Germany. There I met Andreas Osiander, the theologian. I fell in love, Father, with his niece and I knew then that I must marry her.” Until this point Father Alec believed he knew Cranmer’s every expression, but this was one he had not seen before. Cranmer’s face reflected the enraptured tenderness of an infatuated youth mingled with the happy bewilderment of a man who is realizing for the first time that his soul mate is the same woman he has been married to for the past thirty years. The expression was fleeting, however, converting to his usual melancholy gentleness as he went on. “I also knew then that it could not be wrong to serve God and love a woman at the same time, for God made man and woman to be companions and helpmates. I knew it from my innermost being, from every facet of my soul. Rather, this tie to the Lord and the world He put me in set me closer in touch with the struggles of men.”
“But it is so dangerous, Your Grace,” was all Father Alec could think of to say. He did not even know how to begin to explore the level of danger it put the archbishop in, with the king, with God... . His head hurt. He put a hand to it, rubbing his temple as he tried to wrangle with this knowledge.
“Yes, it is dangerous,” Cranmer said. “Which is why I am sending her back to Europe, that she might be safe.” Only now did he lower his eyes, though not in shame. Father Alec perceived nothing in the movement but sadness. “We pay for what we want most, Father. Despite that, if what we lov
e is in the realm of the Lord, it is always worth the pain.”
Father Alec swallowed the lump rising in his throat. It would not go down. He slipped from the chair to his knees before the archbishop, taking his hand in his. “I am so sorry for what this is costing you ... and more for what it could cost you. Please, for love of God, man, be careful.”
“I was right to trust you, Father,” Cranmer said. “We are of like mind, perhaps more so than you know. I was careless tonight. It will not be repeated. This is the last time I shall see her.”
He rose, his face set with pained determination. “I do not know if I shall ever see her again ...” he added wistfully, as if to himself.
Father Alec let tears of compassion slide down his cheeks. At once it did not seem so sordid; Cranmer’s agony was in no way comparable to that of a scoundrel like Cardinal Wolsey.
And who was he to say that a priest should not be allowed to marry? He did not set down the doctrine, after all. Imagine all the terrible crimes that could be avoided if they were allowed ... Father Alec’s chest constricted in anxiety. This was dangerous thinking.
This was reformer thinking.
But there was no going back, not after tonight.
This was the night that solidified Father Alec’s support of, if not the New Learning, a new faith, for good.
11
Dorothy Mopps, the midwife attending Cecily, was not at all what Cecily had imagined. She had pictured a gnarly old witch, truth be told, and was reassured by the presence of the young, sturdy woman who seemed to intuit her every need. She was in her midthirties and had boasted of bringing the latest generation of Sumerton into the world. She had attended Alice and would do so again when her time came. Cecily thought this must be a very interesting profession, meeting all the ladies and handling the babies. Had she not been born noble she would have considered pursuing it.
Her musings on midwifery were cut short by the piercing pain in her back. Her waters had broken in the middle of the night and, though it did not hurt, she had screamed frantically for Hal, who immediately sent for Dorothy and her assistants. Alice arrived in the morning and was prepared to sit with Cecily till the baby came.
All of the women reassured her with their own experiences in childbearing. The pain was normal, they told her, she was not going to die, they made sure to reiterate, and that everything would be forgotten when she was holding her new little lamb in her arms.
Cecily doubted that. How could one forget a pain like this? It was excruciating. Her belly was taut with cramps; it seemed as though a dagger was fixed in her lower back, stabbing her but not enough to kill. She panted and cried out with each contraction while Alice swabbed her burning forehead with a cool, wet cloth.
Periodically Dorothy checked Cecily’s woman’s parts to see if she was getting any closer to delivery and each time her broad face revealed disappointment.
“It is taking too long,” she said. “She should be ready by now.”
“Don’t scare her, for God’s sake,” Alice snapped at her, but she was unable to mask the fear in her own eyes.
The last strains of evening faded into night. The apartments were dark, save for the candles, which cast eerie shadows about that Cecily had never pondered before. Was one of them the shadow of Death? She was growing weak and fanciful, she decided, and must concentrate on the birth.
“Isn’t there anything we can do to speed things up?” Alice asked.
Dorothy shook her head, expelling a sigh.
Cecily moaned, yielding to another terrible pain. The night dragged on; there was nothing to measure the time but the light that filtered through the curtains. She knew not how long she labored. Her limbs trembled violently. She did not have the energy to scream anymore, so she whimpered now and again. She could not think of anything, not the baby, not the gentle voices swirling around her. All she could think of was the pain and that she wanted to rid herself of the creature causing it.
The light was gone. Cecily wondered if she was dying, then realized with a sense of wryness that it was night again. Her hair was matted to her head in sweat; she was slick with it despite Alice’s efforts in trying to cool her.
“Cecily.” The voice did not belong to the women but to Hal. Cecily offered a feeble smile. A warm hand stroked her brow. “My love ... you are so strong,” he told her. “Stay strong, my dearest, just a little longer.”
Cecily knew the words were well intended but could not imagine how to implement them. She was too weak to say his name.
Hal was called away and Alice took his place beside her. Cecily closed her eyes and ears. There was nothing but pain; it reverberated throughout her whole body, as resonant as a church bell. She hummed and tingled with it.
Snatches of conversation permeated the fog.
“It is very risky,” Dorothy was saying in her brusque tenor. “But I believe she has less of a chance dying of that than she does if we leave her like this, my lord. She is going on forty hours... .”
She could not hear Hal’s response.
“A Caesarian section,” Dorothy said.
“Mother Mary preserve us,” Alice murmured.
Cecily heard no more. Fleetingly, she wondered if the word Caesarian was derived from the old Roman emperor Julius Caesar in some way, but it did not really matter. She did not know what it was or why it applied to her, only that it might get this thing out and that was enough.
Cecily’s head lolled to one side.
She wondered vaguely if she was going to die.
There was no pain like it in the world, the searing pain of being cut down her middle, this despite a cautious dose of dwale. Cecily was certain her insides would fall out when she felt the scalpel delve into her tender flesh, into her womb. By God’s grace they did not and it was not long before a squalling infant was heard somewhere in the distance. Cecily could not hear much; the pain eclipsed everything else. Her belly burned and throbbed as Dorothy’s needle restored her to wholeness.
“She is not safe yet,” Dorothy told Alice and Hal. “There was a great deal of blood loss and she could get an infection. Her recovery will be long if she does live. But you have a fine, healthy heir out of it and women are easy enough to replace.”
Did she say “heir”?
Cecily tried to open her eyes but could not. She managed a throaty whimper but could not communicate her desire to see the child.
“You ignorant fool. This woman is irreplaceable,” Hal snapped. “And you’ll take care to hold your tongue, madam, if you would like to keep your position lest I drive you out of Sumerton and brand you as a witch!”
Cecily would have smiled if she could. Dear Hal, her faithful rescuer. She wondered if Dorothy knew he was far too gentle to hurt a fly, let alone a woman, and that it was his fear speaking through him.
“Cecily, look,” Hal said, his voice wavering with emotion. “Look at our fine son!”
Cecily managed to open her eyes a slit. In Hal’s arms was a tiny bundle with golden hair and fair skin. Hal held the baby closer, that she might see his little face.
Hal pulled the blanket aside and Cecily gasped.
“Brey ...” she whispered.
Then he was gone and she was engulfed in darkness.
Those first days of Cecily’s recovery were critical, Dorothy warned the terrified household. If Cecily developed a fever or inordinate swelling and pus, she would likely die. She drifted in and out of consciousness while Hal kept vigil at her bedside, never releasing her hand. He spoke to her in soothing tones, telling her of the baby.
“He shall be named Harold,” he said. “Harold Aubrey. But we’ll call him Harry. How shall that be?” Hal still spoke at a deliberated pace, measuring his words and phrases that he might get them out coherently. Speaking was still very difficult for him. But his ability to communicate was the last thing on his mind now as he beheld the frail creature on the bed. His heart surged with admiration for her. She had already demonstrated great strength in the past by nursing h
im through his illness. Now she had lasted through over forty hours of labor to be hacked into as if she were meat to be butchered. The thought of it caused Hal to shudder with fear. He had remained while the terrible procedure had been performed; nothing could keep him out, least of all propriety. He had seen the blood spurt forth from the gaping wound and at seeing it could hardly appreciate what else entered forth, his beautiful son Harry. The only thought dominating Hal’s mind was that Cecily would die; he would lose the only person he had loved with his whole self and he could not bear it.
Cecily sanctioned Hal’s suggestion for the name with a tiny smile before drifting off to sleep once more.
Now and again her eyes would flutter or she would grimace in pain or expel a heavy breath. Hal took these as signs of life, and though he regretted her discomfort, he was reassured by the fact that Cecily had made it through the worst. A week had passed and there were no signs of fever or infection. She would live.
Hal felt it was safe enough to resume some of his duties and leave Cecily’s side now and again, but he took care to spend as much time with her as he could, bringing the baby with him to cheer her, though, to his regret, she showed little interest in Harry thus far. But she was still very ill and he expected it would take time so tried not to worry.
What worried him most was Cecily’s countenance. Once so hopeful and filled with gentle cheer, her expression was now melancholy, distracted. He feared she was slipping into despair and did not know how to revive her. It was not like his illness, which was physical and seemed to respond well to exercise. Her troubles lay somewhere in the soul, somewhere he could not reach. It frightened him.
She never complained, even when she winced in pain, and sometimes he wondered if it would be better if she did, if it would serve as some kind of release. But he knew it was not in her nature. And so all he could do was pray for her recovery both mentally and physically while remaining by her side to offer all the cheer and support he could.
