Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  Cecily was so struck by the reaction her loneliness for Hal had inspired that she did not want to sleep alone that night. Since their wedding guests had departed they had taken to sleeping in separate chambers, and though Cecily was still not ready to consummate the marriage, she thought it would do no harm to at least sleep beside her husband. And so she followed him to bed that night.

  “This place is too large. Our apartments are on opposite wings,” she told him. “It is silly. And it does become so cold. …”

  “If I did not know you I would call you a vixen,” Hal told her with a throaty chuckle. “I do not know, Cecily.” He drew in a breath. “To be honest, it is far easier for me to be honourable if we are in separate chambers.”

  “Oh,” Cecily said, bowing her head. “I suppose I did not think of it like that.”

  “Do not think I am turning you away …” he reassured her. “But I am afraid I will lose control.” He bowed his head. “And I do not want to frighten you.”

  Cecily smiled. “You could never frighten me, my lord.” She strode toward him, reaching up to stroke his beard. “We are joined together under God, Lord Hal. Our bed is sacred and I am not afraid of what may take place in it. We will sleep beside one another. Whatever happens is meant to be.”

  “Dearest girl,” Hal murmured, drawing her into his arms for a tight embrace.

  Cecily crawled into his bed, drawing the covers to her neck as she watched him remove his doublet, revealing beneath it, to her utmost horror, a hair shirt. “My lord!” she cried.

  “Oh, this,” he said with a careless shrug. “I suppose you have never seen me unclothed before. … I—It is my penance.”

  “For what, my lord?” Cecily asked him, crawling out of bed to approach him. “For sins you have more than paid for?”

  Hal shifted from one bare foot to the other, averting his head, as though caught committing some grievous sin instead of trying to repent for one.

  Cecily drew in a breath. How much sadness this man has known! she thought as her eyes found themselves resting on the sandglass Hal kept on his bedside table. Brightening, she retrieved it, tipping it back and forth, watching the grains of sand slide from one end to the other.

  “Do you know what this represents?” she asked him in soft tones.

  “Time,” he answered, matching her tone with his own.

  “This kept time in the past,” she told him. “Each grain of sand represents every old sin, every old hurt.” Cecily headed toward the bay window, unlatched it, and pressed it open. For a moment she held the sandglass by her fingertips. “God forgives, my lord,” she reminded him. “Our sins to Him are as these grains of sand.” She let go. The sandglass plunged to the earth, shattering. “Cast to the winds. Forgotten.”

  She approached Hal, removing his hair shirt. “We will have a new sandglass, one that keeps time for our now.” She smiled. “No more hair shirts. No more punishments. Now is a time to begin again. First with a bath to cleanse your wounds,” she added with a smile. “And then a healing ointment. It is time to heal, my lord. Time to renew and start again.”

  Tears glistened off Hal’s cheeks as he regarded her. “Cecily …” he breathed in awe. He opened his arms. Cecily ran into them, holding him close.

  Hal turned down the bed and Cecily crawled in once more. He slid in beside her, wrapping his arms about her to hold her close.

  “I meant what I said, though,” he told her. “About waiting. I never want to hurt you, Cecily.”

  “I know,” she said, squeezing him about the middle. “I know.”

  And after a warm bath was ordered for Hal that the cleansing of his self-inflicted wounds might start, they passed another chaste night.

  To his surprise, Hal found that his love for Cecily made this easy to do.

  Cecily awoke to the ringing of bells. “I haven’t heard the like since Queen Anne’s coronation!” she cried, running across the rush-strewn floor to the window, flinging it open to a burst of warm air. Below, the gardener was clipping at the ivy that crawled up the side of the castle like a great searching hand. “What news, sir?” she cried.

  “That’d be the birth announcement, milady!” he shouted back with a smile of his own.

  “Oh!” she cried, pressing her hands to her cheeks in excitement. “Have you heard? Is it a prince?”

  The old man shook his head. “A wee princess,” he said. “Poor little mite.”

  Cecily’s heart lurched as she thought of the new queen, who had held the hopes of a kingdom in her womb. Now she would be considered a disappointment, and after all the grief she went through in her elevation to queenhood. Oh, the poor lady … Cecily found her hand straying to her flat belly, wondering how disappointed Hal would be in her should she bring him females.

  Of course there was no need to fret about that at the rate they were going. Hal was so respectful of her sensibilities that Cecily ruefully believed she would not become a mother till she was forty and toothless.

  Cecily pushed the thought from her mind as she waved to the gardener. “Well, God keep her!” she cried, shutting the window. Hal had risen and dressed.

  “A girl,” he breathed. “Poor Harry.”

  “Poor Harry!” Cecily cried. “The poor queen! She must be mad with fear.” She paused to call for Matilda. “Everything is different in Henry’s England,” she said. “He put one queen aside for providing naught but a female. Nothing will prevent him from doing the same with her.”

  Hal waved the thought away with a laugh. “He wouldn’t want to go through all that trouble again. That was a six-year ordeal! No. Our Queen Anne is young and has proved herself fertile. So the first one’s a girl; it will make the birth of their prince all the sweeter.”

  Cecily recalled the confident woman riding in her litter all covered in gems. “I suppose if anyone can hold a king she can,” she said.

  “Only because his eyes have not beheld you,” he said with such profound sincerity Cecily was touched.

  “Who would want to be a queen when they could be your wife?” she asked him, and found that it was not mere cleverness that motivated the retort.

  She meant it.

  Sir Edward Camden was visibly shocked when Hal called upon him with Cecily on his arm. The rheumy eyes lit with pleasant surprise, however, abating the knot of awkwardness in Cecily’s gut as they were shown into his solar.

  “Well, isn’t this wonderful!” said the old man as he limped to his chair. He flagged down his steward. “Albert, send for my wife,” he ordered, returning his attention to Cecily. He drank her in with his eyes; it was not a comforting assessment. Cecily shifted in her seat. “So pretty,” he murmured, stroking his beard.

  Cecily bowed her head. “Thank you, sir,” she replied, entwining her hand in Hal’s, who offered a squeeze of reassurance.

  “I had thought on your wedding day that your beauty was exaggerated by the stunning attire. … I see now I was wrong,” Sir Edward said, wagging his bushy grey brows at her. “And still so young; imagine when your beauty has reached its peak! Hal, you’re a lucky man!”

  “You honour me with your fair words, sir,” Cecily said, stifling her annoyance and feeling an immediate sympathy for his wife, who was making her entrance.

  The men in the room rose, offering bows, while Cecily inclined her head with a timid smile at the pale-faced girl who seemed to drown in her pink taffeta gown. Sir Edward wrapped his arm about her waist, then, to Cecily’s utter shock, squeezed her rump. The girl averted her flushing face with a grimace.

  “Here she is!” He laughed. “This is my Lady Alice.” He jerked his head at Cecily. “You remember Lady Cecily, Hal’s young bride.”

  Cecily rose. “I am afraid we were prevented from getting better acquainted due to all the wedding festivities.” The smile she offered was warm. “I am glad for the opportunity to know you better.”

  Alice extended her hand. Cecily took it, noting a sense of desperation in the squeeze offered.

  “Sha
ll we leave the men to their conversation?” Alice asked, Cecily’s hand still in hers. “I should love to show you the tapestry I have been embroidering.”

  Cecily nodded.

  “Behave yourselves, ladies!” Sir Edward called after them as they quit the room.

  As the girls navigated their way through the manor they encountered a passel of children, boys and girls of ages varying from four to what looked like Cecily’s own, running about like a band of wild Scots. While some screamed and squabbled, leaping and turning about in somersaults, the older lads paused to gawk at their stepmother and her guest, causing goose pimples to rise on Cecily’s flesh as she averted her head to find two of them engaged in a mock sword fight on the table of the great hall!

  “Oh, these?” Alice quipped when noting Cecily’s overwhelmed expression. “Yes, the house is positively crawling with them—and there used to be more.” She grimaced. “Thank God two have married and two have become monks—not that there is a pious bone in the body of any Camden,” she went on as they walked. “Nine were born of his first wife,” she explained. “The last five are from the second. I suppose the reason for their deaths warrants no explanation,” she added with a smirk. Then to the boys: “Can’t you pretend civility for one blooming day, at least in front of the company?”

  The boys paused a moment, looked at her, then shrugged and returned to their amusements.

  “A pox on you all, then!” she murmured.

  Alice did not relinquish Cecily’s hand till they reached her apartments. There she collapsed against the wall, giggling. “Oh, thank God you’re here!” she cried, trading her weariness for animation. “I shall go mad without some gentle society!”

  “I see why!” Cecily cried before she could help herself.

  Alice, a plain-faced, auburn-haired girl with keen brown eyes and a boyish figure, exuded cheer and good humour despite circumstances that Cecily regarded as intolerable. Her heart constricted with a mingling of empathy and admiration for the girl as she watched her swagger to the large embroidery frame across which was stretched plain white fabric.

  “My tapestry,” she said, with an elaborate hand gesture. “As you can see, it’s nearly done.”

  Cecily laughed. There was not a single stitch on it.

  “I call it ‘Clouds’, ” Alice went on.

  Cecily laughed harder, till her gut began to ache. Alice added her own laughter; it was a robust sound that bordered on hysteria. When the girls wiped the tears from their eyes, Cecily noted that Alice’s expression had converted from one of merriment to tragedy.

  “You married an older man, too,” she said in soft tones. “Does he treat you well?”

  Cecily’s throat constricted in guilt as she thought of gentle Hal. She almost did not want to admit her good fortune, lest she make the poor girl regard her lot as even more pitiable.

  “He is a good man,” she said.

  “He is not rough with you?” Alice asked, lowering her eyes.

  Cecily’s heart sank. Now she understood more than ever why Mirabella took the veil. Sir Edward was the type of man Mirabella had referred to when she shared her fears. At once Cecily hated him and all men like him.

  “It must be wonderful,” Alice said in wistful tones. “Edward is an ass and his sons, the older ones, they’re just as bad. My only relief comes when they go carousing in Lincoln.” She shrugged, then offered a rueful smile.

  “Oh, my lady!” Cecily cried, taking her hand once more. “I am so sorry.”

  Alice shook her head, drawing in a wavering breath. She wiped her eyes, then brightened. “Do you want to see my children?”

  “Very much,” Cecily answered.

  Alice led her to the nursery. A two-year-old girl just out of swaddling bands toddled toward them, stretching her arms toward her mother. Alice lifted her up, squeezing her tight as they made their way to a cradle in which was snuggled another infant girl of about eight months. She scrutinised the visitors with earnest brown eyes.

  “My daughters,” Alice said. “Ellen and Margery.”

  Cecily’s heart lurched with an unexpected longing as she reached down to caress the silky cheek of the baby. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re girls,” Alice said, her tone soft with fear. “And I pray I can ward them off to the convent as soon as they are able.” She lowered her head, kissing the blond hair of the baby in her arms. “It is not good to be a girl in this house.”

  Cecily did not know how to address the statement, or if it even should be, so remained silent a moment while Alice set little Ellen on her unsteady feet once more.

  “Is it very painful having babies?” she decided to ask.

  Alice laughed. “I’m still here,” she told her. “And I had Ellen when I was about your age. It isn’t pleasant, but we’re all proof that it can be done.”

  Cecily offered her own uncertain laugh.

  “It is harder afterwards,” Alice said, her tone contemplative as she regarded the cradle. “They are so foreign, you know? The nurse takes them and there is naught to do but have more.” She offered that rueful smile again, a smile that Cecily was certain was her feeble attempt at masking immense pain. “They grow on you, though,” she added with her infectious chuckle.

  Alice blew a kiss to Ellen, who returned it with a little giggle as they quit the nursery and alighted to her apartments. Alice sent for some bread and cheese and they took to playing a game of chess. Alice proved herself quite the strategist and bested Cecily at each turn.

  After three games Sir Edward’s voice rang through the hall. “Ladies! Supper!”

  Alice grimaced toward the sound, then turned to Cecily.

  “I hope you come again,” she said, her eyes lit with anticipation.

  “I shall,” said Cecily. She cast her eyes toward the tapestry frame. “We will work on your tapestry together.”

  “I will like that.”

  Cecily stood. She could not wait to go home, to throw herself in Hal’s arms and tell him that no bride was more blessed than she.

  The longer Father Alec Cahill served as a secretary in Archbishop Thomas Cranmer’s bustling household, the more he was able to distance himself from his former life at Sumerton. Even had he the inclination to reflect upon the past, he would have little time for it. Almost every waking hour was devoted to assisting the archbishop in the management of his personal affairs, and as Father Alec learned more about Cranmer he found his admiration for the man evolving into genuine affection. The man was never anything but amiable, despite an enormous amount of pressure, but the archbishop carried himself with a poise, graciousness, and remarkable gentleness that Father Alec respected. It was, to his delight, a regard that was mutual, for Cranmer had nothing but kind words to bestow upon him, praising his sincerity, wit, and easy manner.

  “We are two nobodies who were elevated by great Some-bodies!” Cranmer would tease, his squinty brown eyes narrowing even more as his lips curled up into a gentle smile. “You by your fortunate encounter with Erasmus and the Earl of Sumerton and me by our loving Sovereign! To think it was all because I made the suggestion for him to interview men of learning when he was pursuing his annulment from Princess Dowager Catherine. ‘I had the right sow by the ear,’ he had said,” he added with a chuckle.

  It was an overwhelming circumstance for both, who emerged from relative obscurity to hold positions other men envied. What was most remarkable, however, was the genuine affection both held for their employers. Cranmer loved King Henry and Father Alec loved Cranmer. Subtle, gentle, and kind, the Archbishop of Canterbury stood for many of the reforms that Father Alec held dear. If Cranmer could keep that certain sow by the ear his reforms had a chance of being brought to fruition.

  Working closely with Cranmer gave Father Alec the opportunity to observe his “loving Sovereign”, who fairly radiated with the light of his own power. Despite the king’s magnetism, Father Alec found himself far more drawn to his scintillating wife Queen Anne, a fascinating woman of sh
arp wit and humour. Bent on keeping the court spiritual, the queen gave all of her ladies prayer books to hang from their girdles at all times and encouraged acts of charity to the poor. She was a glib creature, unafraid to speak her mind, and often challenged the king to daring duels of wits regarding matters of religion and affairs of state. It was clear she was in favour of reform, and for this Father Alec admired her.

  For all his admiration, however, he feared for the dark-haired girl whose edgy nature and intensity was too reminiscent of Mirabella Pierce. Such traits may not favour her. Already the king’s affection was waning; she had brought forth a girl, a burden and liability. Anne would have to prove herself, and quick, if she wanted to keep her place at his side.

  And King Henry would be a difficult man to be beside, Father Alec noted as he recalled the moody, charismatic man with a laugh as robust as his appetites. Father Alec could hardly disguise his disillusionment, for it became obvious to him that the king’s split with the Pope had nothing to do with reform or doctrine and everything to do with getting his own way. Father Alec kept his peace around the king, wary of the man who daily demonstrated a range of startling emotional extremes. At the slightest provocation, his boisterous, merry nature that was so much larger than life could convert into a temper tantrum with disastrous consequences for the offender. Despite this, Cranmer’s deep affection for the king was real.

  “There is a thread of the divine in him,” Cranmer had told Father Alec with conviction when they returned from Westminster one evening. “Our king is ordained by God to rule and I am ordained by God to serve. As servant to the king I must try to guide him, mentor him … protect him. Above all, however, I must obey him.” Cranmer turned searching brown eyes to the priest. They flickered with fear. “We all must.”

  The advice was sobering, alluding to the power King Henry had, power given by none other than God. His ways, God’s and Henry’s, were not always easy to decipher and yet they must be accepted. For God’s will and Henry VIII’s were one and the same.