Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  And Cecily, what of her? How much more loss could she take? Was it better to live with her resentment than die with her heartbreak?

  Father Alec drew his knees to his chest, bowing his head and resting it upon them. If he married Mirabella to spare his life, he was cheating them both. He could never love Mirabella. It would never occur to him. The marriage would be a farce … and yet, in that was there hope? If it was a marriage in name only, it could be annulled. With little guilt.

  Father Alec raised his head. He believed he was put on earth for a higher purpose, higher than human love, higher than marriage—it would have been an unexpected benefit to future reforms that he truly did not anticipate ever becoming an actuality. If Mirabella was right in one thing, it was that Cecily would want him to live. She was not so selfish as to rather see him dead than not belong to her. He would not have been hers anyway, had reality had its way. He would have departed for London, she would have remained at Sumerton. Till reforms were pushed through …

  He could not allow his plans to revolve around a maybe. There was only here and now and what to do.

  He could see his life and his goals go up in ashes or he could marry Mirabella … but at what cost to his soul! Was sparing the fire in life only saving him for an eternity of flame? He shook his head with vehemence, as if to shake himself from a nightmare.

  But there was no waking, no sleeping.

  There was but to choose.

  Mirabella returned to Father Alec’s cell stony faced. She drew in a breath, daring him to answer. It may seem wrong, yes, but it was the only way! In time, when he worked through the resentment, he would see that they were meant to be, that they had always been meant to be.

  She closed her eyes against what Cecily would make of the union. Could she bear to meet those teal orbs, Cecily’s betrayer once again? But what of Cecily’s betrayal?! Had she not been faithless perhaps this could have been avoided … and yet … had Mirabella waited for reforms that may never be pushed through how else could she save Father Alec from himself? That, more than anything, had been her ultimate goal—yes, that was it, truly. Cecily’s actions only spurred an inevitability.

  She was not saving him from the sin of the flesh but from something far worse: the sin of abandoning his True Faith. She could bear him as a defrocked priest but not a man who sold out his calling to the devil in the guise of the New Learning. Even could he marry then it would not have been right. There was to be a priest or a man, never both. Someday he would see it her way, after time had dulled the sting. Someday …

  If he made the right choice.

  She steeled herself against the possibility that he would choose martyrdom. Could she bear it if he did? Could she ever forgive herself? Yet better to die a martyr than make the wrong choice in life, better to be spared that.

  She had paid Sheriff Camden and his chaplain well should Father Alec make the right choice. Sheriff Camden had shaken his head at her, offering a wry, knowing smile when she made the proposition that should Father Alec renounce the priesthood and marry her, he would be dismissed from suspicion. She would guide Father Alec toward right and keep him, essentially, out of trouble. On its own the proposition would never have stood. Three hundred pounds and an emerald from her father’s coffers the size of her fist sweetened the deal considerably.

  She would not allow guilt to creep in. The world would see her as trapping Father Alec; they would not see it as the selfless preservation of his soul. But no matter. God knew her heart. He knew her intentions and would bless them. … He had to.

  Mirabella laced her fingers around one of the bars of the cell, peering in. Father Alec’s face was drawn, new lines etched upon its countenance as if overnight. She swallowed tears. Jesus endured three days of Hell to get to Heaven; Father Alec could stand a few days in a cell.

  She could bear his silence no more. “Well?” she prodded, her tone husky.

  His eyes were naught but hazel pools of regret.

  “You win,” he said. She ignored the defeat in his voice. “I only hope you realise what your victory will cost us all.”

  Relief flooded through Mirabella, sweet as wine. She tipped her head back, thanking God, before calling the guard. “Fetch the sheriff and Father Michael. Hurry!”

  The guard did as he was bid and within minutes Sheriff Camden lumbered forth with the scrawny, fidgety chaplain.

  Father Alec offered a bitter smirk. “So. You thought of everything.”

  “She did,” Camden said with a slight chuckle as he unlocked the cell. “And I reckon you have more reason to fear life as her husband than pain of death at the stake any day.”

  Father Alec shook his head, refusing the help of the sheriff as he scrambled to his feet. His shackles were unlocked and he took a moment to flex his chafed wrists.

  “And now, my dear Father … Alec Cahill,” the chaplain began. “We shall begin.”

  No, thought Father Alec, his bitterness palpable as he fixed his eyes on Mirabella. Now it shall end. …

  Cecily was exhausted. Cranmer’s assurance had eased her mind somewhat, but she could not bear to sleep at the house on the Strand. The sooner she conveyed the news to Father Alec, the better. She dozed in the carriage on the way back to Sumerton, hiring two drivers to switch shifts, that they may drive through the night, and arrived home earlier than expected.

  Rest did not find her at Sumerton, however. Upon entering the great hall, she found her children and servants in an uproar.

  “Oh, my lady!” Kristina cried, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks as she flung herself into Cecily’s arms. Cecily was unsure if the display was prompted by grief over Hal or a yearning for her company and embraced the child.

  “I’m home now, darling,” she cooed, swaying to and fro. “Now, now, you mustn’t cry.” She raised her eyes to find Harry standing behind her, his expression solemn. He was pale and, somehow, seemed older.

  “Harry … something has happened, hasn’t it?” Her heart slowed; each beat was a painful throb against her ribs.

  Harry bowed his head. “Oh, my lady mother,” he said as he approached her.

  Kristina wrapped her arms about Cecily’s waist, sobbing.

  “Not Father Alec,” Cecily prompted, her throat constricting with tears. “They haven’t—he hasn’t—”

  Harry shook his head. “It is Father Alec; he’s been spared, thanks be to God.”

  The knots in Cecily’s shoulders eased. “Spared! Then this is a cause for rejoicing, not despair!” she said with a smile. “Has the archbishop’s messenger reached the sheriff, then?”

  “No, Mother, I am afraid not,” Harry said. “It appeared the only way to save his life was to renounce his vows—”

  “Oh, the poor, dear man!” Cecily cried as she stroked Kristina’s hair. “I can only imagine what that must have cost him. But soon the messenger will be here and all will be made right—”

  “I am afraid it is worse than that,” Harry told her. “He had to renounce his vows and marry Mirabella, Mother. Apparently that was the only way they would believe he was sincere. Somehow she convinced them that it would curb his—heretical bent.”

  Cecily could not breathe. The arms that had been wrapped about her daughter fell to her sides, limp. He had not said it. He was misinformed. He had not said it. She shook her head. “Harry …”

  Kristina looked up. “It’s true, my lady,” she confirmed. “Mirabella brought him here and told us herself—and I know, my lady, I know in my heart she has done something evil to him, else he wouldn’t have given up his true dream to marry that—that wicked creature!”

  “Oh, Kristina, you mustn’t—”

  “No, we all know it to be so!” Kristina cried. “You didn’t see his face; he was broken, my lady, as broken as a body could be. It was as if they had killed him and she was dragging about an empty shell of who he was. It wasn’t our Father Alec. It was … a ghost.” Kristina shook her head. “And all the while, my lady, Mirabella looked as the cat who
swallowed the cream! She could nary contain her delight, her—her triumph!”

  Cecily lowered herself onto the bench by the trestle table. Kristina and Harry sat beside her. Cecily knew her daughter had estimated the scene with accuracy. Only under threat of death would Father Alec be coerced into such action. He may have had pride, but he was too much of a visionary to sacrifice his life for that pride. And he thought martyrdom, in most cases, foolish and wasteful. Could Cecily blame him? The stake would test any man’s integrity. As to Mirabella’s treacherous hand in the entire affair she could not begin to fathom … To let herself venture into that woman’s head would be tantamount to sacrificing her own sanity. Oh, had she arrived a bit sooner she may have spared him this terrible tragedy. …

  “Where have they gone?” she asked.

  “She said they had to call on some tenants before you came home,” Harry said.

  “She wants to humiliate him, my lady!” Kristina told her. “Can you imagine the cruelty of it, and she who claims to love him?”

  “Oh, my dearest,” Cecily cooed helplessly, almost cursing her daughter’s brightness. Would that she could spare her from the realities of life a bit longer. … She sighed. “We can trust that he is strong enough to bear …” That evil, she wanted to say, but refrained. She was certain her daughter could herself finish the sentence with a few other choice words. She almost smiled.

  On that thought she rose. “I best tell the servants to prepare rooms for them.”

  “You mean to have them back here, Mother?” Harry asked, screwing his brows up in incredulity.

  Cecily nodded. “Your father acknowledged Mirabella as his daughter in his will, providing an annuity and allowing her use of Sumerton for all of her days,” she told them. Though her children were not yet privy to the circumstances of Mirabella’s birth, it remained known, albeit unspoken, that Mirabella was not a legitimate Pierce heir. “And after what Father …” She swallowed an onset of tears. “After what Master Cahill has endured—” Master Cahill! There was the ultimate humiliation, being reduced to nothing but the master of himself, not the shepherd called to herd the Lord’s flock. Cecily’s heart lurched. She drew in a breath, squaring her shoulders. “He deserves nothing less than to be surrounded by the comforts of familiarity and those who … love him.”

  With this she bit her lip and commenced the necessary preparations. She would keep busy; she would go through the motions. Perhaps then somehow the pain, the pain of losing Hal, the pain of losing Mirabella to her bitterness, and the pain of poor Father Alec’s position, would stop.

  He was Alec now, Alec Cahill, formerly of Wales, formerly a priest and tutor and man with honour. A string of formers to follow a name that meant nothing. He held no position, no calling, and felt far less than a man. As they returned to Castle Sumerton that evening, he knew it was Mirabella’s intent to complete his humiliation and punish Cecily for her betrayal once and for all. He had already suffered Kristina’s tears and Harry’s stoic disappointment, but Cecily … God curse him. It was no less than he deserved to see those teal eyes light with pain and shock. He steeled himself against the confrontation to come as they entered the great hall.

  Trestle tables were set up and food was being laid out, great platters of cheese and bread, prawns and boar and sugared comfits. Alec looked about him in wonder. The hall had been strung with pine boughs to usher in the holiday season and candelabras painted the room in cheery hues of gold. Dancing as festive as could be in the hearth was a bright fire. Fire … Alec squeezed his eyes shut against a vision of the stake. He could almost smell his flesh burning. He shook his head.

  And then, somehow, she was there, approaching them. Her black mourning gown only accentuated her ethereal glow and rose-gold hair.

  Alec swallowed an onset of tears. He brought himself to meet those eyes but in them found no condemnation. Only a knowing sadness. But her smile was kind, even sincere, as she extended her hands to Mirabella.

  “My dear,” she said, drawing her near to kiss her cheeks. “Perhaps a feast is out of order considering our state of mourning, but upon learning of your nuptials and the grace of God, Who has preserved our Master Cahill, I thought it was a necessity.”

  Mirabella trembled visibly as she looked about her. “I . ..I thank you, Cecily.”

  “My only wish is that you could have been there to see your father interred. Events deterred us from a proper funeral meal, as I’m certain you recall,” Cecily went on, her tone eerily light. “But no matter. He is with us now and knows all we do.”

  Alec noted even Mirabella had the grace to avert her eyes at the statement.

  “Come, won’t you sit?” Cecily asked as she led them to the high table, where Harry and Kristina were already seated with other members of the local gentry. “Now that Master Cahill is family we cannot deny him a seat among us.”

  Cecily proceeded for her seat at the centre of the table, Hal’s chair vacant beside her. To her left she sat Mirabella and Alec. Before settling herself, she raised her cup of wine to the guests.

  “Please share our happiness with us, so hard won in the face of such recent sorrows,” she announced. “And welcome into our fold the newly married Alec and Mirabella Cahill. While starting his new life here at Sumerton with his lovely bride, it will please me to have Master Cahill continue to tutor the Pierce children.” She raised her glass. “To new beginnings!” she cried, her cheeks flushing. Only Alec was close enough to note the tears lighting her eyes.

  “New beginnings,” he chorused with the rest of the guests. Mirabella had made to clink her cup against his. He withdrew it, averting his head and wishing the cup were large enough for him to drown in.

  The feast was interminably long, as Mirabella expected Cecily intended, and before permitting them to retire she offered the couple a nuptial gift. With great care she presented them with a sack of orange velvet.

  Mirabella untied the drawstrings, sliding the bag down to reveal a sandglass. Her hands trembled as she ran a finger along a series of dates carved in the mahogany top, immediately recognising the birth dates of her sisters and brother, along with the anniversary and death dates of her father.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, raising her eyes to Cecily.

  “It is to keep hours,” Cecily told her as though explaining something to a very small child. “Your good father gave it to me in the early years of our marriage, that we might keep a record of all the important events in our life. Now I give it to you to do the same. For good or for bad, mark the dates, that you might remember where your every decision has led you.”

  The guests who had remained throughout the length of the evening murmured their admiration over the sentimental gift. Mirabella hugged the timepiece to her belly.

  “I shall,” she told Cecily, meeting her gaze. “May it commemorate many a happy anniversary.”

  “As God wills,” Cecily said, her gaze unflinching.

  The face was a portrait of kindness that did not reflect in her eyes. In those teal orbs Mirabella expected a number of emotions, none of which she saw.

  There was only irony.

  21

  At the end of the evening Cecily led them to their newly appointed apartments herself and bid them good night. Mirabella was content to survey the rooms, ones that had been reserved for guests. In them was her prie-dieu, along with a portrait of Hal commissioned just before his death. Her father’s knowing blue eyes seemed to stalk her every move, forcing Mirabella to avert her head.

  “You know more about me than anyone,” she told Alec in soft tones. “My good and my bad … and what was almost taken from me.” She raised her eyes to him. “But what was preserved, I choose to give only to you. I will not allow the past to interfere with your being a true husband to me.”

  Alec shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Do you actually believe this illusion you have created?”

  Mirabella furrowed her brow. “It is no less than what you owe me. I saved your life
!”

  “Saved me?” Alec’s voice was low. “After you turned me in and allowed me to sit in a rat-infested cell, assuring me I awaited my death were I not to wed you … Saved me, Mirabella?”

  Mirabella started. For the first time he had dropped his formal address of “mistress”.

  “It was inevitable,” she said. “I was sparing you in the long run, from heresy charges that would no doubt be your fate, and something even worse. … I could not watch you sell your soul to the devil and had you become a true reformer priest—”

  “Which, as I recall, you said you would ‘let’ me return to once more if the reforms ever were pushed through—” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Wait. That is no longer so?” His laugh was a joyless cackle. “You mean you were lying to me, Mirabella?”

  Mirabella shook her head frantically. It was wrong, all wrong. She knew he’d never see it her way and this was her punishment, his eternal resentment. … Oh, God, what had she done?

  “You don’t understand! It wasn’t like that—you make it sound so sordid, so vile!” she cried.

  Alec placed a hand upon his breast. “What? You mean I made your confiscating of my private papers and having me suspected for heresy, only to tempt me from the stake with promises of life”—he raised a hand as if to exclaim voila!—“and marrying you, to sound vile?” He raised his head. “Forgive the audacity of my assumptions.”

  “Your soul was in jeopardy!” she cried, seizing his hands in hers. “I did save you! Yes, I connived to do it, but it was worth the risk! You’re alive and finally, finally free of the reformer influence that would have cost you your soul!”

  At once Alec’s face softened. He approached her, cupping her face between his warm hands. She trembled. He leaned in, placing a kiss upon her forehead. When he drew back, his eyes were lit with pity. “My poor naïve girl,” he said. “I think you believe that.”