Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  “It is a good start.” Father Alec offered a small smile. “A place to reflect, to collect your thoughts.”

  “And you, Father?” Mirabella raised her eyes to him. “Can you really remain here? Can you truly abide the travesty our world has come to?”

  Father Alec bowed his head. “I will remain where I am needed and pray that good comes of it.”

  “Then I suppose there’s nothing left to say,” Mirabella said. “Except, if I may ask, will you write to me at Sumerton, Father?”

  Father Alec’s face softened. “I will do that.” He pulled away, bowing. “I must return.”

  “As must I, it seems,” Mirabella noted, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Godspeed, Father.”

  Father Alec’s smile was sardonic as he made his exit, leaving Mirabella to stand alone in a house that seemed far too big and a world that seemed hopelessly bigger.

  15

  At Sumerton Mirabella was pleased to be introduced to her new sister. While in London she had purchased several bolts of fabric to have garments made for her, and Cecily cooed over them with delight. Mirabella went through the motions of helping her plan the baby’s new wardrobe, and as time placed itself between her and the life she had once known she found herself falling into a sort of routine. Mornings were spent with the children; the afternoons she passed sewing with Cecily. The evenings were hers, devoted to prayer and contemplation. When the weather was pleasant, Mirabella went riding with her father or called on his tenants, that she might see to their needs. In this she felt she was at least fulfilling her charitable obligation, and she took to mending clothes for them and caring for their sick, finding the much-needed solace of a purpose.

  Of the rebellion, not a word was said, not even when Robert Aske was hung outside of York Castle in chains, a grisly illustration of what became of “traitors”.

  This and any other horrors remained unspoken. Her family spoke of the children, of impetuous little Harry and Kristina’s latest antics, of Cecily’s plans to increase the family further. Lighthearted things, things that did not require thought or emotion. Or the pain of remembrance.

  Yet everything was forced. There was a palpable discomfort in Mirabella’s exchanges with Cecily and her father. No one wanted an impassioned treatise on the state of religion in England; no one wanted to be uncomfortable. So Mirabella kept her thoughts to herself. She yielded to the monotony of the mundane, quelling her restlessness, quelling her grief, in fact, quelling everything that required feeling.

  When the bells tolled the birth of the long-awaited Prince of Wales, little Edward, relief surged through Mirabella. Perhaps the birth of a living prince would soften King Henry; perhaps this gift from God would show him the error of his ways. … But God had other plans. He always mocked the world with His plans the moment one became complacent. Twelve days after Prince Edward’s birth, the bells heralded the death of Queen Jane, perhaps the last Catholic queen England would ever know. There would be no softening the king now. Time, that invisible army more exacting and lethal than any human one, marched on, relentless. By 1540 the king procured for England a Lutheran bride, the German Anne of Cleves, a woman who was said to repulse His Majesty at first sight.

  Sporadic letters from Father Alec delivered a grim scenario.

  Lady Mirabella,

  Four months after his marriage the king has put Queen Anne aside in favour of a fifth bride, Catherine Howard, executing Lord Privy Seal Thomas Cromwell, the newly made Earl of Essex, asawedding present to the Catholics. Cromwell was the foremost reformer at court. His arranging the king’s marriage to the Lutheran Anne of Cleves proved his undoing.

  My heart goes out to our young Queen Catherine. At fifteen, it would be difficult to know one’s own mind, and I doubt she is espoused to any doctrine. She is ruled through another, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. It is his desire to return England to the old ways. You may yet get your wish.

  Otherwise I am well. My service to Archbishop Cranmer is most rewarding. I contributed to the Bishop’s Book, which helped outline the tenets of our Church of England. In addition, the composition of the Six Articles last year holds true to Catholic tradition as well. …

  Hope warmed Mirabella’s veins like wine. Though she regretted the reluctant nature of Father Alec’s missive, the fact that the True Faith had powerful supporters encouraged her. She rejoiced in the death of Cromwell, the man who had pursued the dissolution of the monasteries with the spite of a jilted lover. No, his was no loss to be sure. This new Church of England was a perversion of the True Faith, a cheap mirror of Catholicism sans the Holy Father. It could never be blessed by God; its followers were bound to suffer, just as Cromwell suffered. They were not martyrs, they were traitors of the highest degree—betrayers of God.

  Yet this strange new faith was important to Father Alec and his palpable disappointment over its possible demise saddened her. His calling was as important to him as Mirabella’s had been to her. She could empathise with his plight. She was grateful he wrote her; she wanted to share his thoughts, his ideas, disagree with them though she might. Whatever his letters revealed, good or bad, Mirabella treasured each word.

  It was all of Father Alec she would ever be allowed to hold dear.

  Winter, 1543

  “We have a new steward,” Alice Camden informed Cecily and Mirabella one afternoon as they embroidered in the bower. “James Reaves. He was the steward for Sumerton Abbey. He seems a gentle and capable young man.”

  “James Reaves?” Mirabella raised her eyes from the garment she had been sewing for little Kristina. “I know him. He was in the Pilgrimage. …” Cecily noted a flush lighting her cheeks. “He is a gentleman, a kind man.”

  Cecily smiled inwardly. Perhaps it would do Mirabella good to have a caller. “Does he have a family, this young Master Reaves?”

  Mirabella shot Cecily a glance, pursing her lips.

  “No, he’s a bachelor,” Alice answered, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I can’t imagine how he has remained one so long. He’s a handsome enough fellow.”

  Cecily cocked a brow. “What does he look like?”

  “Brownish hair—”

  “Blond,” Mirabella corrected. “A sort of dirty blond.”

  “Oh, pardon me.” Alice giggled. “Blond. Hazel eyes?”

  “Grey,” Mirabella snapped. “His eyes are grey.”

  “Ah, yes, how could I forget? Grey eyes.” Alice turned to Cecily. “A nicely made man as well. And such a pleasant disposition.”

  “You must allow him to accompany you to Sumerton one of these days, then,” Cecily told her. “I’m sure he’d welcome a diversion from his duties now and again. And there are some lovely diversions here—”

  “Cecily, really!” Mirabella cried, casting her embroidery aside as she rose. “I’ll not have you playing matchmaker!”

  “How could you insinuate that I would play matchmaker?” Cecily teased.

  “Honestly, you are touchy, Mistress Mirabella,” Alice added. “After all, give credit where it is due. I am playing matchmaker!”

  The two women dissolved into laughter at Mirabella’s discomfort as the girl shook her head and quit the room.

  “We haven’t offended her overmuch?” Alice asked, mirth still misting her eyes.

  Cecily shook her head. “It is good natured. Mirabella knows we worry after her. She isn’t happy. Sumerton bores her to tears. Oh, she is good with the children and loves them well. But in truth she doesn’t know what to do with herself. These past years all she has lived for are Father Alec’s letters, and they are few enough. She needs a diversion herself. And this young James may be just the thing. …” She sighed, swallowing a lump swelling in her throat. “Life hasn’t turned out at all how Mirabella hoped. I know her first calling was to God. But it seems God wishes her to be a part of this world.”

  Alice’s eyes grew distant. “It is a hard enough world to get along in,” she commented. “It is no place for women.” She bowed her head. �
��It is no place for my daughters and me,” she added in a whisper.

  “Alice?” Cecily abandoned her embroidery, reaching out to touch her friend’s hand. Her heart lurched in sudden, inexplicable fear. “What are you about?”

  Alice expelled a giddy laugh, waving the statement off. “Nothing. We are quite well. Really.” She shrugged and made a show of going back to her embroidery. But her manner was distracted and she stitched at random. There was no pattern to her design.

  “Alice.” Cecily’s voice was low. “Is it Sir Edward? His sons?” She leaned forward, stilling her friend’s hands once more with her own. “Do you need help, Alice?”

  Alice’s smile was fixed. Her eyes were bleary. “I am getting all the help I need,” she said. “No worries, Cecily. Truly.”

  “What kind of help? From whom?” Dread pooled in Cecily’s gut. On instinct, her hand fled to the base of her throat.

  Alice shook her head once more. “You are a fussy one, Cecily. I tell you, I am quite well. Better than ever, in fact. I was being silly. Really.”

  With that she returned to her embroidery, leaving Cecily to sit, disconcerted and afraid for her friend without quite knowing why.

  Alice seemed well when she brought James Reaves with her to Sumerton one warm winter day. Mirabella found her heart pounding in a peculiar sense of anticipation as he made his way to her in the solar, where she had been attending little Kristina, who at six had grown into a curious and precocious little girl.

  “My lady.” James dipped into an awkward bow. “I do hope I am not disturbing you. Lady Camden and Lady Sumerton directed me in here. You—you once said I might call and when Lady Camden extended the invitation I thought to take the opportunity.”

  Mirabella smiled despite herself. His unease touched her. She extended her hand. “Of course, Master Reaves. How good it is to see you.” At once a lump swelled her throat. “I was never able to convey to you my deep regret about Master Aske—the Pilgrimage … Oh, Master Reaves, I am so sorry.”

  James bowed his head, placing a light kiss on her outstretched hand. “It was brutal, my lady. Time seems never to dull that grief.” He swallowed several times before raising his eyes to her. Unshed tears sparkled off the stormy grey orbs.

  “I understand, Master Reaves,” Mirabella told him, her voice wavering with sincerity.

  James did not let go of her hand; it was enfolded in his and, strangely, did not feel uncomfortable. “It seems hope for our cause must lie in a different path,” he said then.

  Mirabella sighed. “I cannot imagine any hope for our cause,” she confessed, withdrawing her hand.

  “There’s always hope,” James corrected her. “As long as there is a prayer left on our lips, there is hope.”

  Mirabella smiled at this. There was something innocent about this Master Reaves, something untainted by tragedy and disappointment. Something endearing.

  “Your optimism is refreshing, sir,” she told him. “I am very glad you came.”

  James offered a crooked smile. “I am, too,” he told her. “Perhaps I may call again?”

  “I would like that,” Mirabella admitted. Then, with more confidence, “I would like that very much.”

  James Reaves was as good as his word. He called upon Sumerton often, either with Alice Camden or alone, and Mirabella found that his visits rescued her from the monotony her existence had slipped into. Though James was not a man of high education, he possessed the kind of intelligence many seasoned scholars lacked, that of common sense. With him Mirabella could at last air her opinions on the rebellion, on the faith that she felt Henry VIII was trampling on more and more by the day, and on her lost life. He was a good listener; he rarely interjected his own opinions. He was gentle, quiet, and believed the solution to any problem could be found through prayer. And so together the two prayed on many subjects, and if solutions were not granted from the ritual the very act of praying together brought Mirabella a sense of comfort and fellowship that she had not known since Father Alec. …

  Mirabella was not the only one to notice the changes James wrought in her.

  “You must congratulate me,” Cecily told Hal. Summer had arrived to the place that honoured her with its name, balmy and ripe as an apple ready to fall. Cecily fanned herself idly and giggled at Hal’s puzzled glance. She nodded toward the picture window of the solar, through which Mirabella could be seen greeting a breathless James in the gardens.

  Hal chuckled. “I should have known you were behind this.”

  “I believe Master Reaves has been calling on Mirabella as much as four times a week for the past six months,” Cecily went on. “Perhaps before long there will be wedding bells tolling at Sumerton.” She offered a happy sigh. “He is a dear man, always bringing some token or another for the family. He carves toys for the children, and always has a book or some tasteful piece of jewellery for Mirabella, and even at times brings fresh game for the table. He’s a marvel, Hal. Just what Mirabella needs.”

  “Indeed it seems so,” Hal agreed. He sighed, stroking his beard with an idle hand. “Maybe with him she can find the peace she’s always longed for at last.”

  Cecily smiled. “Let’s hope so.” She rose, placing a hand on her belly. “Then by the time this next baby is born, perhaps Mirabella will be thinking of giving you some grandchildren!”

  Hal’s eyes misted with tenderness. “Cecily … another baby? Truly?”

  Cecily nodded.

  “By God, I am a lucky man,” Hal said as he rose to gather her in his arms.

  Cecily nuzzled against his shoulder. The warmth of her own peace washed over her as a new confidence filled her. Life was good. At last, for everyone, life was good.

  Someday she would curse herself for her naiveté; she knew too well that nothing lasted. Nothing stayed the same.

  Dear Father Alec,

  There has been a tragedy at Sumerton. Cecily was recently delivered of a son, blessed little Charles, but the poor lamb was small and frail and was called to God not a month after his birth, leaving her in an inconsolable state of melancholy. Father is fated to handle grief with grace and keeps much to himself. But I worry after Cecily; for so long she has been all the strength and light of Sumerton. Now her flame flickers, fading; I know not how to stoke it.

  In times like these, we miss your guidance, your sense of calm confidence. How we need it now.

  Blessings,

  Mistress Mirabella Pierce

  “A sign, perhaps, Father?” Archbishop Cranmer asked after Father Alec finished reading the letter aloud in the archbishop’s privy chamber at Lambeth.

  Father Alec cocked a questioning brow. “Your Grace?”

  Cranmer offered his gentle smile. “It is a dangerous time for men of faith. Indeed, it is a dangerous time for any who live in England. One of the saddest duties I ever undertook was that of the interrogation of young Queen Catherine Howard, the poor child. Though no innocent, her fate was … harsh.”

  Father Alec closed his eyes against the memory of the fair young girl as she laid her head upon the block, another victim of Henry VIII. A queen for only two years, she was condemned to death for the crime of loving one her own age. It seemed a brutal consolation that the only light to be shed on such a dark time was that with her died the ambitions of the Catholics at court. By 1543 a new Catherine sat on the throne of England: Catherine Parr, a bold supporter of the reformers’ cause.

  Once again, Cranmer indulged in the disconcerting habit of perceiving Father Alec’s thoughts. “Though our new Queen Catherine is of our persuasion, her influence on His Majesty is shaky at best. Bishop Gardiner will stoke the fires of Smithfield with reformers as long as there is breath in his body. If this queen can be counted in those numbers, he would have her join them.” He trembled.

  Father Alec shook his head. “It is a perilous time.”

  “For simply believing that the body of Christ is mere bread and is not transubstantiated into flesh when celebrating Holy Communion, one can be put t
o death. Our cause is at a disadvantage. We are all but at a standstill.” He sighed, his heavy-lidded eyes softening with sadness. “And our King Henry is not well. The leg injury he sustained at the joust in ’36 is ulcerated. In his pain he grows more agitated, quicker to provoke than ever before. He is unpredictable. One day he may be in favour of reforms, the next we could be put to death for them.” He shook his head. “He has changed. I fear for him,” he added in hushed tones. “I fear for us all.” He bit his lower lip a moment before continuing. “I have long since sent my wife out of England, as you know. I have hidden my work, any work that could be considered … controversial. I pray you do the same.”

  Father Alec nodded. “I have, Your Grace.”

  “Father, would you say you love Sumerton?” he asked then, his tone suddenly light.

  Father Alec’s heart lurched in an unexpected moment of nostalgia. “Love Sumerton? … I suppose I do. My life has been a drifter’s life, you could say. Sumerton afforded me the only home I ever truly knew, besides with Your Grace, of course.”

  “Do not flatter me, lad.” The archbishop chuckled. “Though it has pleased me to have you in my service. You are a man of rare insight. As such, I fear for you. I have read your work; I know your thoughts and I will leave them unspoken, for it is too dangerous a time to voice anything which might oppose His Majesty’s at times contradictory will. You could be compromised. You are a priest and unfortunately more expendable than higher men who have already lost their lives to the stake.” He rose and paced before his fire. “I believe God has plans to utilise you in a time when England sheds the veil of ignorance at last. I believe you will help shape our faith and bring in a new age. But for that, Father, you must be kept safe.” He offered a pointed gaze. “And this is not a safe place for you.”

  Father Alec’s heart dropped in his chest. He shook his head. “You are sending me away, Your Grace?”