Mirabella rode until she reached the dwelling, yet another place of shame, another place of betrayal.
An eye for an eye.…
She dismounted and stormed in, finding Grace in the midst of reading cards. She looked up as though she had been expecting Mirabella.
“And so it has all come to pass,” she said in wry tones. “And you will make them pay, won’t you? ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ ” She shook her head. “I imagine you provide quite a relief being His right arm.”
“They must answer for their sin!” Mirabella cried as she seized Grace by the wrist, pulling her from the table and out of doors. The frail woman put up little fight as Mirabella nearly threw her over the saddle of her palfrey and mounted. “You will answer for yours as well!” she seethed.
“And you, Mirabella?” Grace returned, her tone calm and cool. “When will you?”
Mirabella said nothing as they cut through the forest, back to Sumerton, back to where it all began.
Mirabella did not bother to stable her horse. She rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and let the beast wander as she dragged Grace behind her into the castle, into the great hall, past wide-eyed servants who paused from their work to cross themselves.
“Where is my father?” she demanded of a fearful Kristina.
“H—he is in his apartments with my lady and Father Alec,” she told her.
“Stay here,” Mirabella commanded of the child, who looked as though demons themselves could not convince her to move.
“Mirabella, I beg you—” Grace began.
“Speak not!” Mirabella cried. “I am through protecting you!”
She pulled Grace down the hall to Hal’s doors, abandoning courtesy and bursting forth.
She held Grace’s hand aloft, thrusting her toward Hal, who had been seated before his fire, a tearful Cecily and Father Alec before him.
“Mirabella, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, rising. His face was streaked with tears.
“Don’t you recognise her, Father?” Mirabella’s tone was low. “Has it been so long that you have forgotten the features of your own true wife?”
Grace stood, mouth parted, tears streaming down her own cheeks as she beheld the broken family before her. “Oh, God … Oh, Hal. …” But there were no words for this. There would never be any words.
And then something went terribly wrong. In all of Mirabella’s plans for revenge, she could not have foreseen it. Cecily and Father Alec rose, their faces wrought with sorrow. But her father, her dear father. …
Hal shook his head a moment as he advanced toward them. At once his face was overcome with an expression of pain too powerful to be attributed to emotion. He seized his temples in his large hands, crying out, before collapsing to the floor.
Cecily was at his side, taking his head onto her lap. “Quick! Fetch Dr Hurst!”
Father Alec rushed past an immobile Mirabella.
“My God, Mirabella,” Cecily said, her tone soft as she fixed her eyes upon Mirabella. “Do you hate me so much?”
Mirabella could not speak; she was rendered mute as her father.
“Apoplexy,” Dr Hurst said. Cecily heard the word as if it were an echo from another time. Indeed, Cecily wondered if she had been sucked through some kind of portal, back to the first time, when her love had willed Hal back.
Would her love be enough now, or would Hal succumb to the betrayal she and Father Alec had only just confessed to him, hoping to confront his wrath before Mirabella revealed it? How his eyes shone with the light of disillusionment when he gazed upon them, his dearest friend and his wife, his most unlikely betrayers. The silence that impregnated the room was suffocating as Hal, still casting his eyes in disbelief from one to the other, tried to find words suitable for such an unprecedented occasion. But the words never came.
Mirabella came, her wrath, her hate; she came at them merciless and exacting, her attack as unlikely and unprecedented as their own betrayal. Never had Cecily imagined this would be the form of revenge Mirabella’s bitterness would incite. It was all too much to take in.
“I’m sorry, Lady Sumerton,” the physician went on, addressing Cecily. “It was severe and he is older now. He will not survive.”
Hal lay abed. The muscles had gone slack on the left side of his face; everything was crooked, as though she were looking at him through a mirror as shattered as her dreams. She sat beside him and allowed no one near.
She would keep vigil over him alone, as any good wife would do.
A moan cut through Cecily’s haze and she opened her eyes, unaware that they had closed, to find the noise had come from Hal. Drool coursed down his chin. She retrieved a cloth, swabbing it clean.
“Cec …” he murmured, opening his right eye as much as would be allowed. It was an eerie blue slit across a face that had gone grey.
“I’m here, my love,” she whispered, squeezing his hand in hers. Tears choked her.
“Far,” he said. “Faralec,” he said again, then with more urgency, “Faralec!”
“Alec?” she asked on a sob. “Father Alec?” She reached out, cupping his face in her hand. “Do you want him, darling?”
“Him … you, yes,” he answered.
Cecily rose, bidding her longtime servant Matilda to fetch the priest. When he came, he sat beside Hal on the side of the bed opposite Cecily.
Hal’s breathing grew laboured.
“Oh, my darling, calm yourself,” Cecily cooed. “We will solve all of this when you are well,” she told him with sincerity. “And I will obey whatever you command, whatever you wish. I do love you, Hal. I’ve always loved you.”
“Forgiven,” he whispered at length. With the utmost effort he raised his hand and with it took Cecily’s, resting it on his chest. His heartbeat was sluggish and erratic. Cecily trembled. He closed his eye for what seemed like an eternity before summoning the strength to seize Father Alec’s hand and place it atop Cecily’s. “Blessed,” he said, covering the two hands with his own. His hand rested atop theirs, then slid off with a new heaviness. His head lolled to one side as he expelled one long, last jagged breath.
Cecily and Father Alec met each other’s eyes, each alight with tears.
Forgiven. Blessed.
Gone.
19
Mirabella knelt before her prie-dieu but could not pray. She wanted to ask for forgiveness; she longed for absolution. But the only priest who could grant it was unfit to wear the collar. She shook her head in agony, sobbing. It had all gone awry. She had not meant for this, surely they must know she never meant for this. … Had she killed her father, just as she had her mother years before when she tried to stop the heinous act against her person? Her mother had begged her to let go, to forgive. But all her life she clung to the past, to sins that were not hers, sins she assimilated into hers through her own actions, thus mocking her mother’s last request. Now her father perished to an apoplexy, the very thing she had once lied to him about when asked how Sister Julia passed. Divine retribution. No one could ever tell her there was not such a thing. Her life was proof.
What had she become?
She rose in a flurry of black damask and headed for the stables. She would go to James Reaves, sweet James who once wanted her. James would comfort her; he would understand. He would know what to do.
She rode alone to Camden Manor, now in the process of being rebuilt and in the hands of Sir Edward’s younger brother William, the Sheriff of Sumerton. He had retained what was left of the staff with James as steward.
James received her in the great hall, which still smelled of new lumber and fresh rushes.
“Oh, James …” she began, breathless. “Please … accept my apologies. I was harsh.”
“There is no need,” he said, his tone formal but gentle.
“My father died,” she said, her voice breaking as she threw herself into his arms. “And I have been so disillusioned by life!”
James’s arms went about her in a limp embrac
e. He patted her back a moment before disengaging.
“You have my sincere condolences,” he told her. “Lord Hal was a good man, truly kind and without guile. He will be missed.” He arched a brow. “How fare the Lady Cecily and the children?”
Mirabella swallowed burning bile. “The children are handling the situation with as much grace as they can, dear things. And Cecily … she is Cecily.” Her voice was laced with an anger she tried to suppress.
James did not comment. “I wish the family well. This will be a hard time. You are all in my prayers.”
Mirabella blinked back tears, taking his hand. “Oh, James … James, we must have speech. I was wrong. You see, I know I was wrong now, to refuse your hand. Forgive the impudence of my timing, James, but … may we … may we try again?”
James withdrew his hand, backing up. “Now is hardly the time to discuss such things,” he said.
“Then when?” she persisted. “After the interment? You may call whenever you like.”
James shook his head. “I’m sorry, mistress. You do not understand. … I am married.”
“Married?” Mirabella breathed, backing away. “So soon?”
“With all due respect, did you expect me to wait for you to come to your senses, mistress?” he returned. “And how long a period would have been acceptable to you? I am sorry that I chose to move on. I am not getting any younger; I put off my dreams long enough, and when you dashed them all I saw no reason to wait. You are not the only one to have suffered disillusionment, mistress.”
Mirabella shook her head. “No … James, no. You are angry with me. You are hurt. You cannot be speaking true—”
“Her name is Cynthia,” he went on. “And she is a good girl. We are like minded, but she is gentle; she is not always fighting battles she can never win. I am sorry, my dear, but it is true.”
Mirabella’s face contorted in pain. James married. Her James, her last dream, her last hope for redemption, for something real and lasting. Now he was someone else’s dream, someone else’s to hold, to love. Someone else would pray with him, would converse with him, would take care of him, have his children, and Mirabella would be alone, abandoned as she had always been. Oh, God, how would she bear it?
There was no hope for her now. There was no saving her. Any chance for salvation was stolen from her the day Alec laid eyes upon Cecily once again, slipping away with brutal finality when Mirabella rejected James’s proposal, leaving her nothing but hatred and regret, those miserable, ever-constant companions.
She turned her back on James as the world had on her and ran.
Hal’s body was cleansed and prepared for interment. Harry was sent for while Emmy was tended by faithful nursing staff. Kristina clung to Cecily’s side, her eyes bewildered.
“But why did he die, my lady?” she asked, her voice strangled by tears.
They were in the solar. Though Kristina was not a demonstrative child, she now sat on the settle as close to her mother as possible. Cecily wrapped her arm about her shoulders and held her to her heart, stroking the silky locks of blond hair as much for the girl’s comfort as her own.
She drew in a breath. “Your father was a strong man, Kristina,” she told her. “And he lived through an apoplexy when first we … married.” She swallowed at the word, wondering what Grace’s presence now meant for her marriage and the legitimacy of her children. She sighed. She would deal with that as it came. She went on. “He regained his speech and the use of his limbs. But this second apoplexy … it was too much for him to bear at his age.”
“It was Mirabella, wasn’t it?” Kristina’s voice was low.
Cecily started, recalling the scene, Mirabella’s frenzied eyes and Grace’s shamed countenance. Was it? Could she blame Mirabella or was this apoplexy a long time coming?
“Why do you say that, child?” Cecily prodded in gentle tones.
“I am not a fool,” she told her. “I see how Mirabella is—so … angry. She thinks no one notices. She’s a high-minded wench half the time, always wanting us to see things as she sees them. If we disagree, we are wrong. Isn’t that so?” She did not wait for an answer. “And I saw Mirabella heading for his apartments that day; she looked taken by the devil himself. I know she had something to do with it; you will not tell me different!”
“I will not try,” Cecily said, giving her daughter a reassuring squeeze. “I do not know what forces work for and against us, Kristina. I can tell you it is God’s will and expect you to be satisfied with that … but I would be a hypocrite.” She swallowed a sob. “It is hard for me to accept how life has turned out, hard for me to credit God for all of it when we have made our own mistakes and now must live with the consequence, not only to ourselves but to the innocent as well.” A vision of Emmy swirled before her mind’s eye. She bit her lip and shook her head. “At times, Kristina, I have acted out of my own self-interest and have made others suffer for it. Mirabella has done the same. Both of us will live with our sins the rest of our lives. The one thing I know for certain is that God will hold us accountable in His time.”
“Oh, my lady, I cannot see you ever doing anything wrong,” Kristina assured her as she nuzzled against Cecily’s shoulder. “Not out of meanness like Mirabella. You may be selfish at times, but everyone is. And you are sorry. That is all God asks.”
Cecily smiled. “If it were that simple …” She wiped a tear that had strayed onto her cheek. “But I see that Father Alec has instructed you well.”
“He is a good man, my lady,” Kristina said. She sighed. “I suppose he will marry you now and take care of us since we’ve no one.”
Cecily’s heart pounded in her chest. “My darling, whatever would make you say such a thing? He is a priest.”
Kristina shrugged. “He loves you,” she said simply. “And he needs you more than he needs to be a priest.”
“It is not possible,” Cecily said, flustered. “And we must not speak of it. We are in mourning for your father. We will be taken care of, no matter what happens.”
As she said the words she knew what her next course of action must be.
It was time to confront Lady Grace.
Cecily found Grace housed in a suite of apartments reserved for guests. She had not made an appearance since Hal’s death two days before; no one save Cecily, Mirabella, and Father Alec was aware of her existence.
Now she sat before a small fire, clad in homespun, her hair, more white than blond now, arranged in a braid over her shoulder, looking every bit the opposite of a countess.
When she saw Cecily she rose and dipped into a curtsy.
Cecily waved for her to sit, taking a chair opposite her.
“I do not know where to begin,” Cecily confessed as she gazed upon her. “I want to know everything.”
Grace averted her head a long moment, taking in a quavering breath before starting. “Every dream I had was with Brey. Hal and I, we had no marriage. There was too much hurt; we could not be salvaged. Brey’s death drove home that fact. We would have made each other miserable and the cycle of pain would never have ended. I saw how far gone I was. I wanted to end my life. I tried to … only to wash up down the Thames.” She offered a wry smile. “I could not even kill myself right.”
Cecily shook her head, her gut churning in disgust.
“I saw that it was my chance to begin anew,” Grace went on. “I began to make my way back to Sumerton; I wanted to be in a land familiar to me and near all of you, that I might monitor everyone’s progress. In the forest resided an old woman versed in herbs and white magic. She took me in and taught me her ways. I gave up the spirits. I took care of myself. The life of simplicity suited me far more, I realised, than the one of luxury that I once believed I craved more than anything. Not only did I have a new life, but I felt I was a new person, a better person.”
“I am glad that you underwent such a transformation,” said Cecily. “But you must know what this means. You are still Hal’s wife; you are entitled to all this.”
<
br /> “I know that. Do you not think if I desired it I would have made my presence known long ago, before you ever married him and began a life together?” Grace shook her head. “You have no need to fear me, Cecily. I will not deprive you or your children of your rightful inheritance. Harry will remain Hal’s legitimate heir.” She bowed her head, sighing. “Mirabella underestimated the course of events that her hatred set into motion. She will be haunted by her choices, mark my words.”
“And you?” Cecily asked. “What will you do?”
“I will return to the forest. I only ask that now that you know of me, you will see me now and again. That you will be my friend.”
Cecily hesitated, choosing her words with care. “I cannot say I condone any of your actions,” she confessed. “But we neither of us are innocent women and have to answer for our own sins. I am relieved to see you well; I appreciate the hardship you have known before making this choice and the hardship you have known since; it could not have been easy watching our lives progress and not taking part. But I am glad that you found yourself,” she added. “And I will be your friend. More than that, I will see that you are granted an annuity as such that will see you through the rest of your days.”
“It is not necessary,” Grace told her.
Cecily leaned forward, taking the older woman’s hand. “But it is right.”
Grace dissolved into tears, clutching Cecily’s hands in hers. “You are a good woman, Cecily. I am proud of you.”
Cecily’s lips quivered as she took her in her arms.
Despite the conflicting emotions and the tragedy, it was a good reunion.
Father Alec tried to quell his rising sense of dread. After all, what more could happen at Sumerton? How much worse could it get? He would leave. After he saw that Cecily’s affairs—the irony of the term was not lost on him—were put in order, he would return to London, Cranmer’s summons or not.
Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 28
