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 strayed 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 crueller 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 favour 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 lustre. 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 endeavoured 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 grownanxious. 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 labour 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 labour 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 haemorrhaged,” 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.
“What of a Caesarian?” Cecily’s voice, panicked. “You performed it successfully on me—”
Dorothy’s tone adopted another note, one that Mirabella could not discern. Sadness? Fear? “I am sorry, my lady. She is worse off than you were at that point. We best allow her to labour through. The blood loss from a Caesarian would kill her.”
Mirabella’s lips parted as she struggled against emitting a scream. She must be strong. She must not expend strength on a scream when she could save it for this birth. She felt Cecily mopping her forehead with a damp cloth.
“Fetch Alec,” Grace ordered. “Hurry!” Odd, thought Mirabella. Men were not present at birthings and that Grace should want him unnerved her.
Cecily retreated to do as she was bid.
Cecily found Alec seated in the solar before the fire, his eyes closed, his head bowed to his folded hands. Her heart clenched. They had not spoken beyond cursory greetings since his arrival at Sumerton. She could not bear to look at him. Unbidden the thoughts entered her mind, images of him and Mirabella creating the child who was set to enter a life its parents ensured would be a difficult one. She could not think of either of them without resentment churning her gut and bitter bile rising in her throat.
Now she gazed at Alec, as if for the first time since his return. She no longer felt resentment. She could not say it was pity either. What she did know was that neither he nor even Mirabella had asked for what came to pass, despite the irresponsibility of the actions that ushered forth this day.
What’s more, she knew that she would always love him. Nothing could change that. She wanted nothing to change that.
Alec opened his eyes to regard her. They were hazel orbs of sadness and fear.
Cecily rushed forward, on impulse taking him in her arms and sobbing. “She is bleeding, Alec. It is bad, very bad,” she whispered as she held him close, relishing for one moment his scent, the feel of his doublet against her cheek, the heat of his breath on her face. Alec held her in turn in an embrace without awkwardness, without trepidation. It was an embrace between the truest of friends.
Cecily pulled away, taking him by the hand as he rose. “Lord Hal had insisted on being present for my complicated birth; you deserve the same right,” she told him.
“Mrs Mopps and Grace are capable,” Alec said as they proceeded toward Mirabella’s rooms. “She could not be in better hands.”
They had reached the door. As Cecily was about to push it open, Alec stopped her, placing a hand on her arm. “Cecily …”
Cecily turned her face toward his. He was obscured by a veil of tears.
“I have loved none but you,” he said then.
Cecily offered a feeble smile. “I know.”
They entered the room.
How many minutes had passed before Cecily returned with Alec, or was it hours? Pain obscured time. Mirabella supposed she no longer cared; what was time but another of man’s vain attempts at controlling their world? There was no time; there was no controlling anything. Somehow, it no longer mattered. Alec and Cecily were here now and now was all she had.
When at last she was able to draw Alec into focus, she searched his face. His brows were furrowed in concern as he made toward her. He raised his eyes, meeting Cecily’s. His lips parted as if to speak, before he shook his head.
“Don’t say anything,” Mirabella told him as she struggled to keep him in focus. She removed her gaze to Cecily, finding her a willing prisoner to Alec’s eyes.
What use were words with a look like that? Alec’s eyes conveyed nothing but the love Mirabella had tried to extract in vain, love that was given devoid of any expectation or solicitation, love that Cecily’s own gaze suggested was returned wholly and without any anticipation in return.
Mirabella looked toward Alec once more. He had broken the gaze from Cecily, returning his eyes to her. His face bore no trace of the usual bitterness he saved for their encounters. While he did not look upon her with affection, it was not, at least, with hatred. She turned her head toward Cecily once more, Cecily, sister of her youth, Cecily … oh, Cecily. …
“Are you my friend, Cecily?” she asked, her voice a husky whisper, almost unintelligible between her gasps of pain.
Cecily shook her head, lowering her eyes with a forced laugh. “Would I have allowed you to remain here were I not?”
“You will write to me in France?” Mirabella pressed. She had not meant to reveal it now, not just yet … but it did not matter … Cecily would understand. She would let her go. What was life but learning to let go? Her mother’s voice swirled around her once again. The halo of blood that had surrounded her head in death was replaced with the light, the pure and unadulterated light, of eternity.
Forgive. … Let go. … Sister Julia’s lips did not move. How was it that she was there yet not there? Mirabella reached out, finding not Sister Julia’s outstretched hand but Cecily’s.
Cecily had screwed up her face in puzzlement. “France? I do not understand. …”
France. Oh, yes, France … they were talking about France. “I am leaving Sumerton,” Mirabella said as she clutched her belly. How could the pain be sharp yet dull? “I am … taking the baby to a land that will still have me and my faith.”
“Oh, Mirabella!” Cecily shook her head, her tone thick with exasperation. “Faith or doctrine?” she cried as she retrieved the cloth to swab her brow once more. “I swear you and Alec are more alike than I ever conceived of. Both of you devoted to one doctrine or another and never truly to God! Will God care who believes the—the technicalities of his body and blood transforming to bread and wine, or whether or not it brings comfort to those unlearned, those peasants who cannot devote their time to dissecting doctrine, to look upon statues and lovely things devoted to God, so long as He and His son are worshipped and not those—things? Doctrine separates man from God far more than any Romish icon! The rest just makes for a
good debate! If all could but agree that faith is about trust in God and love, there would be no need of reforms!” Her speech was rapid, her tears streaming down her face in an unchecked torrent. When she finished speaking she was breathless, her eyes wide in bewilderment, as though she had been shocked to embark on such a tangent at this of all times.
Mirabella gazed at Cecily as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she had been asleep all her life; perhaps she had always been fumbling in darkness, blinded to all those around her. Now she was awake, the scales removed from her eyes. Before her stood the girl her father had taken on as ward all those years ago and she was meeting her for the first time. The girl would live with her as a sister now. And they would be friends. Mirabella smiled.
“I think it was you who have been called closest to God,” Mirabella said then. Her voice she pulled from some inner source of strength that still allowed her to speak. Was it her strength or Cecily’s? Or the God Cecily described? Strange it should be the same God she had searched for all her life. “All along it was you,” she went on. “You carried out God’s will without question, without hesitation, with the pure-hearted trust that God commands and so admires in children. Oh, Cecily … It was you, never Alec, never me. It was you.” Tears. Oh, how they flowed, warm as the blood that she gave, warm as the sacred blood shed to save them all. …
Your payment … Brey’s voice.
“Ah, yes,” Mirabella answered him. “It is only right that it should be so,” she whispered. And it was. A life for a life. It was the right thing, finally, truly, the right thing.
“Mirabella.” Alec’s voice. Why did it sound sad? The baby was coming. He should not be sad. “I—I have something for you,” he said. In his hands he held a velvet sack. From within it, he produced the sandglass. The sandglass …“We must put a date by ‘November’, ” he said. “You must have this baby now. The rest … the rest can wait. Bring us our child, Mirabella.”
Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 36
