Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  Mirabella reached out a trembling hand to trace the mahogany of the timepiece. A feeling of warmth obscured the pain, but it was not the warmth of blood. It was her father’s warmth. She could almost see him carving the dates. She could hear his laugh. Was he laughing now?

  “Yes, the sandglass,” she breathed. “The sandglass that marks our every choice …”

  “Hold on, Mirabella!” Grace cried from the foot of the bed. “The head is coming! Such dark hair! The baby is nearly here. Save your strength and push, darling!”

  Mirabella bore down, clutching the hands of Cecily and Alec beside her.

  “Push!” Dorothy and Grace cried at once.

  Something slid from her. She could not see. She could not focus.

  “A boy, Mirabella! You have a son, and a bluff, bonny boy is he!” Grace exclaimed as the child announced his presence with a lusty cry. She brought the child to Mirabella, laying him upon her chest without cleansing the birthing fluids and blood away just yet.

  “We must name him, Mirabella,” Alec told her, his voice thick with awe. She felt his gaze upon her and the child she lacked the strength to hold.

  He was born in truth, soaring above the deceit and betrayal that stalked Sumerton like a relentless … “Peregrine,” Mirabella said. “Peregrine Richard. Our little bird … our Falcon of Truth …”

  “It is a good name,” Alec conceded as he took the baby to be cleansed.

  “Yes,” Mirabella agreed.

  I am waiting. …

  Brey again. His eyes were no longer laden with disappointment. They were beckoning, appealing. Brey …

  Forgive. … Let go. …

  Her mother again.

  Mirabella returned her gaze to Cecily and Alec, who stood on either side of her bed, the baby nestled close to Alec’s heart. Where he belonged, Mirabella reflected. Alec’s face was washed over with love as he beheld the little one. Somewhere she was aware of Dorothy and Grace discussing her condition. She felt again the cloth wiping clean her body.

  With all her strength she reached out her quavering arms, taking Alec’s and Cecily’s warm hands in hers. His felt so strong, and Cecily’s … it was the hand of a great lady. She squeezed; joy surged through her as she felt them return it. Her eyes threatened to close. Not yet! Please … She brought their hands closer, closer together, till at last she joined them. Alec and Cecily gazed at each other, their faces a blend of exhaustion and surprise. Mirabella allowed her hands to slip from theirs as she fell back against the pillows. They did not disengage.

  The words did not come from her. They were given to her, a gift from God or was it her own father?

  “Forgive me,” she whispered as her gaze found Hal. He stood beside Brey and Sister Julia, reaching out his own hand toward her. Tears strangled Mirabella. “For all the wrongs, forgive me. Care for Falcon. Raise him in love, truth, and light. Teach him … teach him right and love him without condition, as I should have loved all of you,” she begged with all the strength she could summon. “Please, oh please, can you forgive me? Can you care for Falcon?”

  “Yes,” Cecily answered without hesitation, reaching out to stroke her forehead. “I forgive you, my darling. And I will raise Falcon. I shall tell him all the good things that you are.”

  Mirabella’s eyes searched Alec’s face; in it there was no hatred, no resentment. Nothing but compassion shone from his gentle hazel gaze.

  “I forgive you, Mirabella,” he told her. “And I, too, will care for Falcon; I will love him well; he will be a son to bring you pride.”

  Mirabella could not speak. It was done, all done. She could go; it was good and right to go. It was her last gift to her family, to Alec, that she leave them.

  Mirabella smiled one last smile as a single tear trailed down her cheek.

  And then … she let go.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank my agent, Elizabeth Pomada; I am so fortunate to have found not only a wonderful agent in her but also a dear friend. I could not have gotten through this process without my editor, John Scognamiglio, and his wonderful team at Kensington Publishing, especially Paula Reedy and Vida Engstrand. You have all been so encouraging and helpful; my appreciation for your hard work is deeper than I can ever express.

  I would also like to thank Helen Bolton and her wonderful team at HarperCollins/Avon UK for the dedication and hard work they put into the British editions of my novels; they are just beautiful and I am so grateful.

  To the authors, bloggers, and readers who have helped support my work and lift my spirits along the way, you are all indispensable to this process and I am so blessed to have you in my life—you know who you are! And I would not be able to have any confidence in anything I send out without my mother, Cindy Bogdan, who is always the first to screen my work scene by scene. Last but not least, my deep and heartfelt thanks to the love of my life, my husband, my best friend, and promoter extraordinaire—my Kim. All that you do and all that you are is appreciated more than you could ever know. You make my dreams come true.

  Further Reading

  Elton, G. R. England Under the Tudors. London and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1955.

  Elton, G. R. The Tudor Constitution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960.

  Gies, Joseph and Frances. Life in a Medieval Castle. New York: Harper Colophon, 1979.

  MacCulloch, Diarmaid. The Reformation: A History. New York: Penguin Books, 2005.

  MacCulloch, Diarmaid. Thomas Cranmer. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996.

  Power, Eileen. Medieval English Nunneries. Cambridge: Biblo & Tannen, 1922.

  BETRAYAL IN THE

  TUDOR COURT

  Darcey Bonnette

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The suggested questions are included to enhance your

  group’s reading of Darcey Bonnette’s Betrayal in the Tudor Court.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Did Lord Hal and Lady Grace love each other? Could their marriage have been saved?

  2. What was the source of Hal’s guilt? Was it an automatic response based on his upbringing, or was it sincere?

  3. By medieval standards, did Hal make the right choice in marrying Cecily?

  4. Did Hal and Cecily love each other?

  5. Why was Cecily drawn to Father Alec?

  6. Was Mirabella truly driven to her calling as a woman of God, or was this an escape for her? If so, what was she escaping from?

  7. What drew Mirabella to Father Alec?

  8. Describe Mirabella’s relationship with Sister Julia. Did Sister Julia do right by her daughter?

  9. Should Mirabella have chosen James? Would they have been happy?

  10. What was the turning point for Mirabella that drove her beyond the edge of reason? Was there any point in the novel where she could have been “saved”? Was she a victim or a villain?

  11. Did Father Alec make the right decisions throughout the novel? What decisions impacted him the most?

  12. Lady Grace made some extreme choices throughout the novel. Were any of them justifiable?

  13. Cecily and Mirabella’s relationship was complex. Was it founded in genuine closeness or obligation?

  14. What was the Reformation about to Mirabella? What did it mean to Alec? To Cecily?

  15. Who in this novel would you describe as being closest to God?

  Read on for an extract from

  Darcey’s first book,

  Secrets of the Tudor Court

  PROLOGUE

  An Entrance

  Elizabeth Stafford Howard, spring 1519

  He is pulling my hair—it is going to be torn from my scalp, I am sure of it. I struggle and fight against him. The pains grip my womb. I cup my rounded belly with one hand and claw my husband’s wrist with the other.

  “Let me go!” I cry. “Please! The baby is coming! You’re going to hurt the baby!”

  He says nothing but continues to pull me off the bed by my hair. It hurts … oh, it
hurts. To my horror I see the glint of his dagger as he removes it from its sheath. He lowers it in one wild gesture, striking my head near where he is pulling my hair. I am unsure of his aims. Is he going to chop my hair off? Is he going to chop me up?

  “Stop …” I beg as he continues to drag me about the house in front of cold-eyed servants who do not interfere with his “discipline.”

  At long last he drops me on the cold stone floor in front of my bedchamber. The pains are coming closer together. I am writhing in agony. The wound on my head is bleeding. Warm red liquid runs down my face into my eyes.

  He walks away.

  When his footfalls can no longer be heard a servant comes forward to help me to my bed. It is safe now, I suppose. The midwife, cowering in a corner, inches forward.

  “What on God’s earth could you have done to warrant that man’s displeasure?” she asks in her country accent as she wipes clean my face and attends to the dagger wound.

  I look at her in despair. “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I never know.”

  And this is how my child enters this world. I name her Mary, after the Blessed Virgin. Perhaps so named, God will show her more favor than He has condescended to show me.

  1

  Doll’s Eyes

  Mary Howard, 1522

  They tell me my father is a great man and I must be his pretty little lady. I must behave myself and stay clean. I wonder what it is to be a great man. I know that he is a favored servant of His Majesty King Henry VIII, and he is a very brave knight. I try to picture him. Is he tall? Is he handsome? I cannot remember. He is not home very much. I cling to my brother Henry’s hand and await my lord, who is to see us and comment on our progress. Our progress on what, I do not know. On being people, I suppose.

  My sister, Catherine—she is a bigger girl than me and quite haughty—stands beside Henry. My other brother Thomas is at the end, shuffling from foot to foot. We are a pretty row of little soldiers.

  When he appears in the nursery with Mother, another foreign figure to our nursery, he reviews us all. He ruffles Thomas’s blond hair and shakes Henry’s outstretched hand. He compliments my sister on her smart dress.

  He regards me a long moment. “Mary,” he says, as though it is a new sound to his ears. “How old are you now?”

  “I am three,” I tell him proudly.

  He is a great man. I can tell. He is so stately and composed, like a living portrait.

  “Three,” he says. “And what do you know at this great age of three?”

  I think about this. I am not sure how to answer his query. Do I tell him about my letters and numbers, my colors and shapes? What does he want to know? I tell him what I am most proud of.

  “I never have any accidents anymore—not in three whole months. Nurse says I will have a pretty new gown.” I look up at him, beaming.

  He grimaces at this. I do not think my answer pleases him. His lips twitch a moment as he stoops down, picking me up and carrying me to the window. “I shall tell you what is most important, what you should know at this great age of three,” he says, bouncing me a bit on his hip. “You are a Howard.” He looks into my face. “You are a Howard. You belong to the greatest family in the land.”

  I am held by his gaze; his eyes are black, deep as a starless night. They are eyes that command attention. I am captivated and frightened at once.

  I wrap my arms about his neck, pressing my cheek to his, hoping to endear myself to those black orbs that remind me so much of my doll’s eyes in their—what is the word? Lifelessness.

  “Remember it,” he says. “Always remember it.”

  “I shall,” I whisper in earnest.

  2

  Awakening

  1530

  My father grips my shoulders and I gaze up at his narrow face, now creased in a rare smile. His exacting eyes crinkle at the corners. My lips lift in shy response. He is kneeling before me, his knee caught on the frothy pink lace of my gown.

  “A little small for your age, but you’ll do,” he intones in a voice like sustained thunder. He places a silver circlet inlaid with seed pearls on my head. I reach up to finger the delicate headpiece, in awe. This is my first gift from the Duke of Norfolk. In fact, this is the first time he has sought me out for conversation since I was a wee girl.

  He rises and the abrupt movement of his knee parting company with my gown rocks me off balance. I look up. He is a thin man, which gives him the appearance of being tall. His eyes are cold again, his smile converted to a grim line slashed across his face. For a long moment he gazes upon me with eyes that are hard and inscrutable. His hands are locked behind his back. He circles me.

  “You examine her like a horse at the fair,” my mother comments.

  “And so she is,” he snaps. Mother shrinks back. She bows her head and places a curled hand against her cheek, though he did not strike her. She does this every time he speaks to her, as though soothing the sting of a future blow in advance.

  I am too fascinated by my gift to pay attention to their exchange. By now I have removed the little circlet and am ogling the pearls, hoping to capture my parents’ attention once more. Their visits to Kenninghall are too rare. “Is it real?” I ask. At eleven I am already learning to appreciate the measure of good jewels.

  “Silly question—of course it’s real!” he cries, patting my shoulder.

  I clutch it to my chest and scrunch up my shoulders, smiling.

  “Ah, a true Howard girl.” He laughs. “Can’t resist a shiny bauble. Go now, off with you!”

  I run down the rush-strewn hallway, anticipating my maid’s expression when she beholds the finery my father bestowed upon me. What will Bess make of the gift? I am stopped short, however, by the sound of raised voices. I slow my feet and turn, straining my ears.

  “It’s no place for her,” Mother is saying. “I wish you would rethink it.”

  “She is needed at court,” he says. Court? My heart leaps. Dare I hope? “Mary must be in the foreground, not wasting away out here,” he adds.

  “She’s much younger than the other girls,” Mother tells him. “I didn’t become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine till I was about thirteen.”

  “Are you so daft that you think I would expect her to be a lady-in-waiting—to this queen?” His tone is mocking. It grates on my ears. I creep closer toward their voices. “She will be a member of her cousin’s increasing household.” His voice takes on a softer note. “And she will accompany us whenever we visit young Fitzroy so she can see her brother Henry. She’ll love it.”

  Henry! Oh, but I would love it! Mother would be a fool to disallow it! But how can she disallow anything? No one opposes the duke, not even those who want to. He is Norfolk, the premier duke of all England. He is Good King Harry’s foremost military commander, the best soldier and most courageous sailor. He holds a string of impressive titles: lord high admiral, lieutenant of Ireland from 1520 to 1522, and lord high treasurer. How many battles has he, a man I cannot even refer to in my own head as anything but Norfolk, won for our sovereign?

  Would he let the words of my little mother thwart his plans when the whole of England trembles in awe at his very name? I should think not! My heart swells with pride that I should be sired by such a man.

  I smile, anticipating his next words with glee.

  “I’ll be damned if you bring her now, at this time, so she can be influenced by yet another great whore!” Mother cries. I am shocked by this. Not so much by the profanity; my mother is not known for a sweet tongue. It is that she says so to him, this man whom I have been taught to hold in reverent wonder.

  I am drawn from my reflections by the sound of a thump and a series of hard pummels against the surface of what I assume to be his chest. There is a bit more scuffling, followed by an abrupt silence. I creep toward the door, hiding in the shadows. I lean against the stone wall, sweating, my heart pounding. The wall is cool, refreshing against my skin, and I press my cheek to it. With care, I peer around the
doorway to see that my father has Mother’s wrists pinned above her head and is holding her against the wall.

  “Now hear this,” he seethes. “I do not need your permission for anything. She will accompany us where I see fit, and it is most prudent that she be present at court now.”

  “ ‘Most prudent,’ ” Mother mocks, craning her neck forward and attempting to bite Norfolk’s long Romanesque nose. He manages to evade the small catlike teeth. “I know what you’re about, Thomas Howard. You’re scheming again. Isn’t it enough to have your precious niece Miss Anne Boleyn dangling under the king’s nose like so much fresh meat—now you’re to bring little Mary? To what purpose? Who is she to be dangled before? There’s none higher than the king.”

  Norfolk tightens his grip on her dainty white wrists, using them as leverage to pull her forward then slam her against the wall. I can but imagine the pain my mother feels as her back meets with the stone behind the tapestry. I bite my lip and begin to tremble. This is why her little hand curls against her face when he speaks. If I encounter such a man in my husband, I shall never speak against him, I vow.

  Mother goes limp but is held up despite it. Her smile oozes with contempt. “Perhaps it is better if you do take her, dangle her before whom you must, rather than operate like my father and take her away from the man she truly loves, in favor of someone like you.”

  “Ah, yes, the Ralph Neville saga again,” Norfolk says in a tone that suggests the tedium of the topic. He lowers her wrists and pins them behind her back, pulling her close to him. He speaks as though reciting lines from a play. “Ralph Neville, your dearest love. And yet what are the Nevilles to the Howards? The blood of kings runs through my veins, treasured wife.” This he says with the utmost sarcasm. “Have you so soon forgotten your predecessor?”