The Sumerton Women

by D. L. Bogdan

  Mirabella sat in a stiff-backed chair nearest the queen. “I hardly know where to begin, Your Majesty.” But she did begin. Through sobs the story tumbled out, word upon ugly word, and before long, with the exception of Sister Julia’s relationship to Mirabella, the queen learned the tragic account of the sisters of Sumerton Abbey. “I can neither dream nor fathom any other life for myself outside the convent. I do not know what to do, where to go, where I belong... . I heard that you are kind.” Mirabella’s tone was soft, timid. “That you have begged the king to preserve the monasteries—”

  Queen Jane averted her head. Her voice was very soft. “And did you also hear our husband’s response to our pleas? That we should not speak of such things else we should meet the same fate as ... as ...” She did not finish. Soft blue eyes fell upon Mirabella. Tears glistened against the queen’s pale cheeks. “God bless you for thinking we had the power to intervene on your behalf. But we do not... . I do not. You have heard my motto, have you not? ‘Bound to obey and serve’?” The queen offered a sad shake of the head. “My duties here are very specific. You must understand the repercussions for not meeting them. I cannot afford to direct my attentions elsewhere. It was naïve of me to try.”

  Mirabella regarded the queen, stunned at her dropping the royal we, at her condescending to share such personal thoughts with her.

  Mirabella expelled a tremulous breath. “No,” she said at last. “It was I who was naïve.” Tears paved cool trails down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she daubed them away with her kerchief. “I am sorry for troubling you, Your Majesty.”

  “We are sorry we cannot be of help,” Queen Jane said, returning to protocol once more. “Please do not be under the impression that we were not deeply moved by your story; we are touched that you would share it with us. If there was something we could do ...” The queen trailed off, shaking her head once more. “We will keep you in our prayers, be assured.”

  Mirabella nodded, numbed at the revelation that raged through her, the thought that perhaps prayers were not good enough. In good faith she had told this woman all, this woman, supposedly the most powerful in the land. She did not want her prayers. She wanted action. But not even this exalted personage could be of help. She was just another lamb to Henry VIII’s merciless lion.

  “Meantime,” Queen Jane was saying, “we extend our hospitality to you. Stay with the court for Christmas. There is someone we would like you to meet.”

  Mirabella could only curtsy and nod. “It will be an honor,” she managed to say.

  And with that the audience was over.

  14

  At the Christmas celebrations held in the sumptuous great hall of Windsor, Mirabella noted tapers rising from golden candlesticks, treasure no doubt stolen from one sacred place or another. She trod rich carpets that once warmed the floors of cathedrals, her head bowed to disguise the effort it took to choke back her disgust. When the floor beneath her feet became a blur of warm tears, a gentle voice beckoned her, so soft, in fact, that it took a moment for Mirabella to register it as being real and not a whisper of Divinity.

  She raised her head to find Her Majesty, surrounded by her attendants. The little blond woman offered an ethereal smile. “Mistress, we are so pleased you have chosen to remain with us.”

  Mirabella offered a low curtsy, swallowing the painful lump of disappointment swelling her throat, disappointment in a humanity that never failed to prove its great capacity for failure, disappointment in all that had been lost, and the greatest disappointment, that she, as a member of this useless mass, had no ability to reclaim it. She was a voice struck dumb. A woman and a bastard, nothing more.

  “Mistress Pierce, may I present His Majesty’s daughter the Lady Mary?” The queen’s gentle voice proved a respite from her introspection.

  Mirabella raised her eyes to the slim, dark young woman beside the queen. Dressed in a modest gown, boldly wearing a rosary at her hip and a crucifix at her throat, she had the carriage of her rightful but long-denied title: princess.

  A woman and a bastard, like her.

  For the first time since her arrival, Mirabella found her lips curving into a smile of warm sincerity. She curtsied once more. “My lady.”

  “Her Majesty has told me a great many things about you, Mistress Mirabella,” Lady Mary said in soft tones, but unlike Queen Jane, there was an underlying intensity fueling each word. “I should like to promenade with you.”

  “Yes,” Mirabella said, hope surging through her veins, causing an unexpected giddiness.

  Linking arms, the two women began to walk through the crowded hall, through the carefree revelers who were no doubt celebrating a richer Christmas than last year, their pockets fattened from robbing the Church. Mirabella trembled, enraged and disgusted by the display of blatant disrespect for all that was once held holy and sacred.

  It seemed Lady Mary’s thoughts followed a similar path. As soon as the two women found themselves a peaceful alcove in the hall, her dark eyes narrowed. “I know what they did to you, mistress. You and countless others. Our faith has been raped,” she stated. Mirabella flinched, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the attempt to steal her own virtue that instead robbed her mother of her life. How small a price would it have been to sacrifice her chastity rather than Sister Julia? She swallowed bitter tears, concentrating on Lady Mary’s words. “Raped and made sacrifice to avarice,” Lady Mary went on. “His Majesty is promising to negotiate with Aske. There will be no negotiations. You know that. Perhaps even Aske knows that.”

  Mirabella was told as much. She did not want to acknowledge the truth in Lady Mary’s words, but there it was, naked. Raw. Cruel. “Then ...” She swallowed an onset of unexpected tears. “Then there is no hope?”

  “Not while one reformer lives in our kingdom. Not while one Cranmer or Cromwell lives to corrupt the conscience of His Majesty and lead him into darkness,” answered the bastardized princess.

  Mirabella bowed her head, recalling Father Alec and his devotion to Archbishop Thomas Cranmer. For him to see so much to admire in a man must mean there is something there to ... No. Father Alec is as corrupted as the other reformers like him. At this Mirabella’s throat contracted. Father Alec could not be corrupted. Misguided, perhaps, but never corrupted.

  “But how can the reformers be driven out? How can the True Faith ever be restored if so many are enveloped in the Lie?” Mirabella asked again.

  “Do you know my bloodline, Mistress Pierce? Do you know my grandmother was Isabella of Castile?” With this, Lady Mary drew herself up to her full height, standing as proud as the royal blood running through her veins gave her right to.

  Mirabella offered a slow nod.

  “She was a warrior-queen,” said Lady Mary, her voice laden with conviction. “And she didn’t have to drive the Infidels and Jews out of Spain.”

  Mirabella shuddered. No, the great Queen Isabella devised another way. The Inquisition. And looking upon her granddaughter, a woman of equal ferocity and drive, convinced Mirabella that the Lady Mary bore as much hatred, as much single-minded devotion to an ideal, so she would not hesitate to bring the Inquisition to England had she the opportunity.

  Something about the insinuation caused Mirabella to shiver. She pulled her cloak tight about herself, knowing nothing could ward off the internal chill.

  “Surely His Majesty would not bring the Inquisition here,” Mirabella said.

  “No, that is too much to hope for,” Lady Mary answered, her tone low. “However, when God is merciful and restores me to my rightful claim ...” As any treason-fearing subject would, she let the thought hang.

  “My lady!” Mirabella cried, struck at the boldness of the insinuation. “But the line of succession, the ... the—”

  “The bastardy?” Lady Mary’s tone was flat. “I am a Princess of the Blood, just as my mother was. No one can take that away from me. It is God’s will that I be restored, for God knows the truth of my legitimacy. For my restoration, I will thank the L
ord for seeing me through my struggles by someday guiding this kingdom to the one True Faith.”

  The courage of her grandmother and the conviction of her mother, Catherine of Aragon, made for a formidable woman, thought Mirabella. She should admire this woman, draw comfort from her unswerving determination. And yet why with each word spoken did a terrible fear surge through her?

  “I want to assure you that your fight has not been in vain,” said Lady Mary. “Such devoted servants to Christ and his cause deserve to be rewarded—and not by what their perverted philosophy of rewards is.” She indicated the Christmas festivities, a display of drunkenness and overeating few could rival, and all off of gold plate plundered from holy houses.

  “I thank you, my lady,” said Mirabella, wondering if Lady Mary was deluded or brilliant, wondering how she thought she could manage to be reinstated as princess and have her rightful place in the succession.

  Yet with or without the title, Lady Mary had powerful allies and was not without assets. She was the king’s daughter, she was strong in mind, though weak in body. Despite that, she was determined and shared the same goal as Mirabella, the return of the True Faith to England.

  Sometimes blood had to be shed for the glory of God, Mirabella reasoned. There was nothing to fear in the Lady Mary’s plan for justice.

  Then why couldn’t she stop trembling?

  “Come,” Lady Mary said, cutting through Mirabella’s reverie. She seized her hand. “Let me present you to Master Aske.”

  At this Mirabella brightened. Together the women rose, crossing the hall to where a band of men surrounded King Henry. Laughter swirled around the group, the loudest of which was emitted from His Majesty. The trembling returned. Mirabella had yet to be presented to the king.

  “Ah! My daughter!” he cried upon seeing Lady Mary, though his beady blue eyes did not reflect the joy of his exclamation. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”

  “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 graying 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 merry as 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 honors 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 honor 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, realizing 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 honor. I believe the king recognizes 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 gray 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 labor. 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 ex
perience 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 labor 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?