by D. L. Bogdan
It was early summer when he received the package from a messenger of Sumerton. Exasperated, he opened the plain wooden box to reveal the sandglass Cecily had bestowed upon him and Mirabella at their farcical “wedding” feast. He sighed as he scanned the dates, wondering why the women of the place he once considered his fondest home had the need to send him something so cryptic.
A fresh etching caught his eye. 20th February. King Edward’s coronation day. He swallowed. Of course it would not mark that event but the moment he fell deeper into sin with Mirabella. He resisted the urge to smash the sandglass against the opposite wall of his small quarters. Drawing in a breath, he set the sandglass on his writing table and reached back into the box, where, to his shock, he found papers. Not a random missive these, but his own private papers that Mirabella had confiscated and threatened to sentence him to death with. All of them, every word, bound, protected, and intact.
He looked, mystified, from the papers to the sandglass, then retrieved the heavy timekeeper to gaze upon it once more.
She had set him free and returned his papers. Why? Were her motives pure at last or was this simply a subtler torture device?
He squinted as his fingertips found a much fainter etching in the mahogany.
It read simply: November. No specific date.
Alec’s heart began to pound as he looked from 20th February to the lightly carved November beside it. Almost against his will, he counted the months. He began to shake his head, his breathing coming in rapid spurts. No ... No ...
Mirabella could not have devised a better instrument of agony had she commissioned it from the Spanish Grand Inquisitor himself. Yet ... was it? Momentary hope surged through him. It could be another lie, another machination to bind him to her. He could pray. The truth would be revealed one way or another.
There could be no avoiding it. He would return to Sumerton.
In November.
The baby had quickened. Life stirred within Mirabella’s womb, kicking, stretching, and making its presence known, dispelling completely any remaining doubts as to her condition. Sumerton passed a hot summer that set Mirabella into fits of sweats that caused her to throw her blankets aside in a fit of irritation and bathe her face with cool water to evade the effects of the heat. Relief was found when September yielded itself to a crisp October. As her belly grew, the baby grew more active. Grace insisted it must be a girl, for Mirabella carried high. Cecily, though she remained uninvolved in the day to day of Mirabella’s progress, conceded the point, admitting that she had carried both Kristina and Emmy so high that she suffered great discomfort when she was kicked in the ribs. It mattered not to Mirabella the child’s sex as long as she could give birth, and soon. She hated every minute of her pregnancy and found little consolation in the vibrancy of the life within. The sooner she was delivered, the sooner she could begin her life anew.
As it stood, Mirabella’s life was immobilized. She could not bring herself to rise from her bed. She lay, rubbing her swelling belly and thinking, always, of the past. The missed opportunities and the opportunities stolen from others. Now she was an unwanted resident of Sumerton, kept out of obligation, nothing more. Despite whatever Grace believed about redemption, there was no rectifying what she had done. There was no asking forgiveness. Yet were rectification and forgiveness truly necessary? As yet she was unsure if she was sorry. Did she regret her moment with Alec, the moment that inspired life to renew itself within her? Did she regret saving his life, no matter that he wasted it on the New Learning? Indeed, his life would have been put in jeopardy. She may have rushed that process, but in doing so she removed him from suspicion. She supposed it had worked in his favor, considering the exalted position he held in his beloved archbishop’s household.
If she had only been let alone years before, it all could have been avoided. If she had been allowed to remain at the convent to practice her faith as she chose, to devote her life to study and oneness with the God of the True Faith. If she had been allowed that, life would not have come to pass as it did. It was the fault of the king, the mad King Henry. Him and that devil Cromwell, may the demons devour his soul! Archbishop Cranmer could not be excluded from blame, nor even could Father Alec himself. Nor could her own family, whose betrayals and deception spurred her toward the calling that was forever denied her.
She was blameless.
For the hurt she caused in response to the hurt inflicted she had made reparation. She freed Alec. She respected Cecily and made peace with Grace. She wrote lighthearted letters to Harry and Kristina and devoted hours each day to baby Emmy. She had set things right.
As to this baby, she had not intended it. The act that conceived the child had been her last feeble attempt at making their marriage real. It had been in vain, all of it. She couldn’t hold him with her love; she did not expect the baby to make any difference. If he had hated her before, this would serve to further drive the spikes of his resentment through her palms. There was naught to be done now but tell him the truth, as Grace instructed. His reaction she neither anticipated nor despaired over. Regardless, she planned to remove to France as soon as she was well enough to travel upon its delivery. There she would seek refuge with some of her other exiled sisters. The child would be her gift to the Church, the true and only Church, and would be groomed for Holy Orders no matter the sex. It was the greatest offering she could think of to demonstrate her love for the Lord and her sincere desire to attain forgiveness for her sins real and imagined.
Hope surged through her. She would get through this. She would endure and, in the end, be happier than any at Sumerton.
She may have lost her cause with England, but what of that? England was only a small part of God’s great world, as irrelevant to His will as a candle’s extinguished flame. Its light would be doused from her life forever, replaced with the flaming torch of the higher purpose she had been meant for all along... .
“My lady ...”
The whisper cut through the fitful slumber Cecily had slipped into at her writing table. She found herself roused by a gentle hand on her shoulder and realized she had fallen asleep before her ledgers, her head resting on her folded arms. Embarrassed, she recovered herself and met the owner of the voice.
“Lady Grace,” Cecily began with a smile. “I did not know I slept.”
Grace offered an apologetic smile. “I am sorry to have woken you,” she said. She drew in a breath. “I have come to tell you that Master Cahill ... Alec ... he is here.”
Cecily’s face tingled. “He waited long enough,” she said in hard tones. Her breathing quickened with her heartbeat. She brought a hand to her cheek and swallowed, bowing her head. “Strange how Mirabella’s was the summons he obeyed, even if it was a bit delayed.” She bit her lip, averting her head. “I do not know why it is strange. They were married. They are having a child. I ... don’t ... know ... why ... it’s ... strange—” she began to gasp as she dissolved into sobs.
Grace rounded the writing table to take Cecily in her arms. “My darling, you know the marriage and the child were all under the harshest of circumstances,” she told her as she rubbed her back. “Now, now. Be strong. You have been strong all of your life. You grieved when it was time to grieve and put grief aside when it was time to work for the interests of yourself and those in your life.” She drew back, tipping Cecily’s chin up with a fingertip. She nodded with a smile. “Keep being strong, dear heart. Everything you need is inside of you.”
Cecily’s lips quivered as she found a foothold in composure. She drew in a quavering breath and nodded her assent, knowing that she was putting her trust utterly in Grace’s confidence in her strength, for she was desperately short of it for herself.
Cecily reached out, squeezing Grace’s hand. “I cannot see him just now,” Cecily told her. “Please. Let me gather this strength you so believe me capable of for a time before ... before I face him.”
Grace cupped her cheek in one hand, brushing aside the rose-gold hair that had stray
ed from beneath Cecily’s hood. “Do what you must, my dear,” she said, leaning in to place a kiss on her forehead.
As Grace quit the room Cecily wondered what it was she could do to recover herself and to face all that must be faced, praying all the while she could avoid the inevitable for any amount of time God was generous enough to allot.
God, in your divine mercy, Cecily begged, remember us. Be kind.
Grace found Alec lingering in the great hall near one of the trestle tables, his hand tracing idle patterns on the wood surface, his expression wistful. Upon seeing her, his hazel eyes swam with tears. Grace blinked rapidly. He was a handsome man, though the year’s events had aged him considerably, streaking his fine chestnut hair silver, creasing his gentle face with a subtle patchwork of lines. Grace approached him, taking his hand.
“I am Mrs. Forest,” she told him in hushed tones, offering her sardonic smile. “I am a lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Sumerton.”
Alec nodded in understanding. His lips trembled. Grace took his hand.
“Come, my old friend,” she beckoned, and together they made for the place she sensed he dreaded most: Mirabella’s apartments.
“We have witnessed much at Sumerton,” she observed as they navigated the maze of hallways that led to their destination. She looped her arm through his, squeezing his hand. “And if it has taught us anything, that which we have found to be the hardest is that fate is crueler than God.” She stopped walking; they stood before the door, the ominous door that seemed to hold the fate of Sumerton behind it. “God is forgiveness, light, and love. Fate is immune to the railings of man; his cries for mercy, vengeance, and justice fall upon ears that are far worse than deaf. They are”—she fixed him with a hard gaze—“uninterested.” She rested her hands on Alec’s shoulders. “To ensure yourself the benevolence of one you must have the favor of the other. Pray God might command a gentler fate to those who love Him.”
Alec drew in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut a long moment.
Then opened the door.
Alec found Mirabella abed. She lay there, her dark locks flowing around her shoulders in thick waves, pale and drawn beneath her olive complexion. Bluish circles surrounded green eyes that had lost their once luminous luster. Upon seeing him they filled with tears she blinked away.
Alec edged forward. “So,” he began, his heart pounding. He did not know how to proceed, what to say. What was there to say? What was there to do? He sat in the chair that had been positioned near the head of the bed. “Are you well?”
Mirabella bowed her head. “I am tired. I am in pain often,” she admitted in soft tones before raising her eyes to him once more. “But I will survive as so many others before me have.” She sighed. “I am glad you came, Alec.” She reached out, taking his hand in hers. He could not will himself to respond to the touch. His hand lay limp in hers.
“The papers ...” he started, swallowing an unexpected onset of tears. “I thank you for their safe return to me. I ... appreciate the gesture no matter the motivation behind it. It seems whatever you have done in your life for your own will has somehow been met at every turn by the will of God to do good in the lives you wished to destroy,” he could not help but add, shocked at the bitterness of the statement, let alone that he had voiced it.
Mirabella remained unruffled. Her lips curved into a wry smile as she withdrew her hand.
“What do you want from me now, Mirabella?” Alec asked, then. Better to hear it now, that he might prepare himself.
“Nothing,” Mirabella stated.
Alec paused. “Do you expect me to believe that?” he asked as he rose. “That after all the hell you have wrought upon me, upon everyone, that now, now that you have taken me from all I love, you expect nothing? ”
“Yes,” Mirabella responded without hesitation. “I expect nothing. Our marriage was dissolved and rightly. I meant what I said when I told you of your freedom. I want nothing but to impart the truth. You need not offer any compensation for the support of this child. My father’s will ensures that I want for nothing.” She cast her eyes toward her belly. “Neither of us will.” She sighed. “You know the truth now, Alec, and can do with it what you like. Return to London, return to all that you hold dear and real. If you desire to know the child, know the child. If not, I will not bear a grudge.”
Alec shook his head. “I cannot abandon my child. I will do right by it. I will know it.” He sat once more, resting his hands on his knees. “And I will once again congratulate your ability to keep me from everything I dreamed of as surely as if I had been martyred.” He locked eyes with her. “I can never return to the priesthood now, not ever.”
Mirabella scowled. “Come now, no histrionics, Alec.” Her voice remained cold, annoyed. “We both know your blessed reforms will be pushed through and priests will be allowed not only to marry but father children. That yours is a bastard will not be uncommon—it is not now.”
Alec averted his head. “I will hold you to all you promised me, Mirabella.” He fixed her with hard eyes. “If you betray me again, you will pay.” His voice was low as he struggled to keep his resentment in check. All the prayers for the ability to forgive her faded away like morning mist and he cursed himself for it. “You will allow me into this child’s life, you will expect nothing from me in the capacity of a husband or lover or even, for that matter, a friend. I am this child’s father, nothing more, and God help you if you go back on your word.”
Mirabella nodded her assent.
He rose. “There is nothing more to be said. I will remain to see this child safely delivered and then I will return to London.”
“I am indifferent to where you go,” Mirabella said. “I will be removing to France.”
Alec paused. He endeavored to remain calm.
“The child and me,” she added.
Alec tipped his head back, regarding the ceiling a long moment, begging God for the patience and the resilience to endure. At last he met her gaze.
“I am indifferent to where you go as well,” he said at last. “Wherever you are, I will still make time and opportunity to know my child.”
He turned to quit the room, swallowing a strange urge to cry.
“Alec.” Mirabella’s voice was a breath above a whisper.
He stood a moment, back turned. He no longer wished to look at her.
“Alec ...” Mirabella’s tone was stronger yet bore no malice. “Please.”
Expelling a sigh, Alec turned toward her.
“Can you ever forgive me, Alec?” she asked, her eyes lit with unshed tears.
Alec paused. Could he? Was she sorry? Did it matter? God did not command forgiveness based on the sincere remorse of those who needed it. Indeed, the unremorseful were a higher priority than the repentant. They needed it the most. But Alec ... did he forgive her?
He beheld the woman on the bed, the woman who had wrought so much pain in every life she touched. Now she lay, swollen with child, and despite being tolerated at Sumerton, she was not wanted, not truly. The pity that had seized him the day of King Edward’s coronation, the day this child was unwittingly conceived, washed over him.
He offered a slow nod. “I can never forget what you have done, Mirabella, do not expect that of me. But I do forgive you.”
It had not been as hard to say as he imagined. More surprising, it was not hard to mean.
Mirabella’s sigh was shaky. “Thank you,” she whispered.
With that, Alec quit the room.
The pains started on 26 November. The baby had ceased its activity two days prior and Mirabella had grown anxious. Her belly was taut, her ankles had swelled to twice their size along with her fingers to the extent she had to remove her rings, and her back ached. Her heart raced and her throat was always scratchy. When her labor started, cutting through her abdomen sharp as a warm dagger, she cried out as much in relief as pain.
Grace attended her along with the midwife Dorothy Mopps, who had delivered three of Cecily’s children
. Cecily was also present.
“You attended me with Emmy,” she told her in soft tones as she took to one side of her while Grace took the other.
Mirabella’s breathing was shallow. “Where is Alec?” she whispered, hating the panic that mounted within her.
“He has been informed and waits in the solar,” Grace told her. “He is praying.”
Mirabella nodded. Appropriate, she thought, for she no longer had the strength to pray or think of anything beyond the pain. Why must renewing life cost such pain and suffering to the mother?
“I still neglect to see why Eve should bear such punishment when Adam chose to partake of the fruit as well!” she exclaimed when her labor had progressed well into the night with no sign of abating.
Cecily emitted a laugh at this. “You know, I said something similar when first I started my courses,” she told her. “You will endure, Mirabella,” she assured her.
Mirabella raised her eyes to Cecily. For the first time her voice echoed the woman she knew before she learned of her betrayal with Alec, the honorary sister of her youth. Her face bore no malice, no hatred or anger.
Mirabella sighed, relieved as at once the room swirled before her. The pains seared through her, each as merciless as the one preceding. Something warm was rushing from between her legs. She began to sob.
“She has hemorrhaged,” she heard the steady voice of Dorothy Mopps explain to the women beside her.
“I feared as much,” Grace said. Mirabella felt a warm cloth daubing at her woman’s parts and legs.
