The Sumerton Women

by D. L. Bogdan

  “This is our ward, Baroness Cecily Burkhart,” Mirabella introduced. “Cecily, Sister Julia.”

  Both curtsied. Cecily stared at the woman in awe. She looked peculiar in her habit, as though dressed for a masque. A courtly gown would suit her far more. A vision of her twirling about a ballroom in a fleet, graceful dance seemed far more appropriate than the idea of her on her knees before a prie-dieu all day.

  Yet Mirabella and the nun were enraptured by their surroundings, as though they could not imagine being anywhere else. Both faces were made radiant; both were indeed in love with God.

  There was something else about their faces, something unsettling. But Cecily could not identify it and as quickly as it was noted it was forgotten.

  The girls returned home just as the dusky hues of twilight began to subdue the snow from bright white to a subtle violet. As they scampered into the great hall they encountered Lady Grace, who rested one slim white hand on her hip while the other clenched a cup of wine. She fixed Mirabella with a dark stare.

  “Where were you?” she demanded. “You were to be home hours ago.”

  “The abbey, my lady,” Mirabella answered, bowing her head.

  “You know you shouldn’t be going without escort, and especially with little Cecily,” she said. “Anything could happen to you in that forest—there could be bandits waiting to do all manner of things to you,” she chided.

  “Yes, my lady,” was Mirabella’s automatic response.

  Lady Grace shook her head, sipping her wine. “You are a fanatic,” she spat, her words slurring. “And while men cherish piety in their wives, such extreme devotion will repulse a future husband. No doubt your father will have to bribe your prospects with a higher dowry as it is, that your high-mindedness might be made more tolerable.”

  “I will not take a husband,” Mirabella told her mother. “As well you know. If a man will find me as offensive as you have always claimed then you should be relieved that I fancy embracing the Church. My dowry would be put to far better use with them than by fattening some lord’s coffers.”

  Cecily began to tremble. She did not fear Lady Grace; most often she was quite gentle with her. Yet there was something in Lady Grace that was distressing. Something dark and to be avoided.

  Lady Grace gritted her teeth, her cheeks flushing. “A dowry will be paid, but I will be goddamned if a cent of it goes to that abbey or any other!”

  “Ladies!” cried Lord Sumerton, who insisted everyone call him Hal, as he made long strides into the hall. He wrapped an arm about Lady Grace’s shoulders, squeezing her tight. “Now, now, my love, we do not wish to frighten little Cecily, do we?” he asked under his breath. Then to Mirabella, “Did you deliver the donation, sweetheart?” His eyes lit with tenderness as he regarded her, but the gentle smile on his handsome face did not reflect in them. At once Cecily believed she had never seen such sad eyes.

  Mirabella nodded. “They were most pleased, my lord,” she told him.

  “You mean to say that the girls were alone in the forest with money?” Lady Grace cried. “God’s wounds, my lord, do you ever think?”

  Lord Hal drew in a wavering breath. “I apologize, my lady. I shall make certain the girls are accompanied on all future excursions.” He cast his gaze upon Cecily, brightening. “And how do you find the abbey, sweeting? Fancy it as much as Mirabella does?”

  “It is a beautiful place,” she answered. “But I do not think I shall ever become a nun,” she added.

  “It is not for everyone,” Lord Hal agreed with a chuckle. “But it is a divine calling and not to be disrespected.” This comment was directed toward Lady Grace, who narrowed her eyes and sipped her wine.

  Lord Hal wrapped one arm about Mirabella’s shoulder, then stooped down, lifting Cecily with the other. Cecily relished his generous displays of affection. He was a kind man, never failing to demonstrate his love for his children. His attentions softened the pang of longing for her own father, who often had been distant and preoccupied.

  “Come now, sweetings, let’s remove to the solar and warm you both up. We shall send for some honeyed milk and bread and cheese,” he told them. “Twelfth Night is coming soon and I need to know what my best girls will be expecting!”

  As they quit the great hall Cecily peered over his shoulder where Lady Grace stood, head bowed over her cup of wine.

  “We have to set to making a match for Mirabella,” Grace told her husband in their bedchamber late that night. “She’ll be fourteen soon. It cannot be avoided any longer.”

  “Of course it can,” Hal returned as he removed his clothing and knelt before his prie-dieu. Grace’s gaze traveled up and down the well-muscled torso, taking in the sight of skin made raw by the hair shirt he wore underneath his fine doublets. She shuddered.

  “A betrothal, Hal,” she amended in gentle tones. Tears pooled in her eyes. She rolled onto her side, back to him. “Just a betrothal.” She would focus on that. Far better than the scars decorating what would have been an otherwise perfect specimen. “Brey’s future is secured,” she went on. “The little baroness will make a fine wife; add all her lands and ten thousand ducats a year into the bargain and you have one of the best catches in England. Which leaves us with Mirabella. An alliance must be made. We do not have to send her away for a long while. She could remain till she is seventeen, eighteen if she likes.”

  Hal crossed himself, then joined her in bed. “A worthy thought,” he said. “Meantime, you will indulge me with peace under my roof.” He rolled her toward him by the shoulder, appealing to her with his eyes. “Please.”

  Grace pursed her lips, scowling. She reached up, tentatively fingering one of the angry red sores. “When will you stop?”

  Hal looked past her at the bedside table where rested a decanter of wine. “When will you?”

  Grace flopped onto her back, staring up at the blue velvet canopy.

  We will remain thus trapped, she reflected. Each in our own twisted vices.

  The thought did not prevent her from leaning over and seizing the decanter, however.

  She drank straight from it.

  She did not need a cup when no one was watching.

  Twelfth Night was ushered in with a feast that many celebrated nobles attended. The children were all allowed to sit at table, though Mirabella excused herself early so that she might devote the night of Epiphany to prayer.

  Cecily absorbed the event with delight, however. She had never been to such a gala. Though her parents had socialized with their peers, Cecily was restricted to the nursery. Now she was allowed to be in the thick of things, to drink in the colors and flavors of the evening. It surpassed the bustling excitement of market day in the nearby town of Sumerton and far exceeded a fair—Cecily never cared for the disorganized chaos of fairs. This was splendid—a perfectly choreographed feast. The table was laden with mincemeat pies, mutton, haunches of venison, a fat stuffed goose, brawn, eels, cheeses, bread, puddings, and tarts. The guests attendant were attired in their finest silks, velvets, furs, brocades, and jewels. It was a display of sensory pleasure and Cecily savored every moment.

  She and Brey, as the only children present, were the center of everything. She was dressed in a silver damask gown with a kirtle of white lace. Brey was dressed to match in a fine silver damask doublet with white hose. Both children’s slippers bore silver buckles encrusted with pearls and they were displayed for the adult guests to pet and admire. Together Brey and Cecily showed the spectators the latest steps they had learned while Lord and Lady Sumerton sat at the high table, their smiles wide with pride.

  After a fleet dance that left Cecily and Brey collapsing in each other’s arms breathless and giggling, Lord Hal rose. “What a delight to watch these children at their revels! And what a delight it shall be to watch them grow in the sacred union we have chosen for them.” He paused, casting fond eyes at the children who stood stock still before the assemblage. “Tonight we would like to announce the betrothal of my son, Lord Aubrey P
ierce, to Baroness Cecily Burkhart.” He raised his cup. “To the future!”

  “The future!” echoed the guests.

  None was more surprised than Cecily herself.

  She stared at her intended with wide eyes, cocking her head, trying to imagine his features sculpted and angled with five, ten years of age added to his seven years. She could not.

  Brey offered a shy smile. “I guess this means we can hunt snakes together for the rest of our lives!” he cried then, as though finding a great deal of refuge in the thought.

  Cecily’s shoulders relaxed as she imagined traipsing through the vast forest of Sumerton alongside of cheerful, gentle Brey. “And we can pick berries, too,” she added.

  “And go hunting and hawking,” he said. “That will be fun.” He cast a sidelong glance at his parents. Lord Hal was leaning in to offer Grace a peck on the cheek. “What else do you think we have to do?” Brey asked.

  Cecily grimaced. “Certainly not that,” she said. “At least not till we’ve grown proper.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, sighing in relief. “Meantime, we shall look for snakes.”

  “Yes,” said Cecily. “I should like that.”

  At once the children were swarmed by well-wishers eager to congratulate them. They were hugged and pinched and kissed. Brey grimaced and wiped the kisses away. Both were soothed from the onslaught by sweetmeats.

  “What a commodity!” Cecily overheard one of the lords exclaiming to Lord Hal. “God’s body, man, I expect this child is one of the wealthiest heiresses in the kingdom. A fine suit—I rather wish I had snatched her up for one of my sons!”

  “Thank you, Lord Norfolk,” answered Lord Hal. “We are most pleased with the arrangement.”

  Cecily’s heart pounded. A commodity. An arrangement. When did a person become a commodity? She had never thought of herself that way. A commodity was a bolt of fabric, a fine jewel perhaps, but her? At once the heat of the room and stench of the different pomanders stifled Cecily. She suppressed the urge to gag as she removed herself from the assemblage. She needed a moment to think about her new estate.

  She cooled herself in the hall. She longed to remove her sleeves and run about bare armed but dared not. She did not want to be unladylike. She rolled them up instead. No one was watching, after all. She sank to the floor and leaned against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes, blinking back tears. She could not stave off the dark thoughts.

  She was betrothed. She wondered what her parents thought of the match. She supposed it was inevitable that she should, as the Pierces’ ward, marry their heir. It was custom. It was one of the main reasons why people took on wards.

  It was good business. She was a good commodity.

  “Lady Cecily.”

  Cecily started at the husky male voice, looking up to find Father Alec standing before her.

  “Are you well, little one?” he asked.

  Cecily nodded, brushing the tears aside with the back of her hand. “Do you expect the Pierces like me?” she asked.

  “I expect the Pierces love you,” answered Father Alec. He paused a moment, then sat beside her. “Why do you ask?”

  “I expect they like me a great deal more for the money and the lands,” she said, scowling at her slippers. “And the title, of course.”

  The priest drew in a breath. “Well, Lady Cecily, I will not lie to you. I am certain your assets made you quite attractive as they thought of securing Brey’s future. But even had your parents lived it is likely you would have been made a ward to someone and allied to their son in marriage.” He sighed. “Someday you will have children, Lady Cecily, and you will want to secure for them the best future possible as well. There are obvious benefits of your wealth that please the Pierces no doubt, but look what else they’re gaining! They will have a beautiful, bright, and sensitive daughter-in-law.” He reached out, seizing her chin between thumb and forefinger. “For all you may be bringing to them, you, Lady Cecily, your soul, your self, are irreplaceably priceless and they know that.”

  Cecily brightened at the thought.

  “This, Lady Cecily, is an opportunity,” Father Alec continued. “You are very young and it may be hard to see now, but you have the chance to shape Brey’s whole life, to mold him”—he offered a brief chuckle—“to train him, if you will, into your ideal husband. You have more influence than you know. What’s more, Lady Cecily, is that you are not going to marry a stranger. You are going to grow up as friends. Few realize how special and rare that is to find in a marriage.” He smiled. “Do you like the Pierces, Lady Cecily?”

  Cecily offered a fervent nod. They were the only people she could call family now and they were easy to like. Easy to love.

  “Do you like Brey?” he asked.

  She nodded again. Indeed, Brey was as sweet a boy as one could find.

  “Then I think you have a better start than most,” he told her, taking her hand in his. He rose. “Come now! You’ll be missed!”

  Cecily rose and followed him back to the celebration.

  She would dismiss her uncharitable thoughts and be what Father Alec said: irreplaceably priceless.

  Lent sobered Sumerton, and though there was still a modest amount of entertaining, it was nothing compared to the rest of the year’s revels. Mirabella enjoyed Lent; in its deprivation of physical pleasures she found solace. Quietude. She spent hours in prayer and meditation, enveloping herself in the rare peace her home afforded during this fleeting time of year.

  When not absorbed in her devotions, Mirabella passed the gray winter days in embroidering, riding, and lessons. One favorite pastime for all of the children became listening to Father Alec’s tales of his travels through Europe.

  “After Cambridge I wanted to see a bit of the world,” he told them one afternoon. “So I traveled abroad. I was given a letter of introduction to study under the great Erasmus; it was he who recommended me to your parents.” He nodded toward Mirabella and Brey.

  “What else did you do?” asked Brey, his tone fringed with impatience.

  Father Alec offered a conspiratorial smile. “I camped with Gypsies, I preached to bandits and vagabonds—I was held at knifepoint on more than a few occasions.” He chuckled. “I met greatness in humility and humility in greatness.”

  “Wasn’t your family terribly worried?” Cecily asked him.

  Father Alec’s face softened. His hazel eyes grew distant. “My family was gone by then, victims of the sweat.” He offered a sad smile.

  Mirabella reached out, laying a hand over his. “It was God’s will,” she said, her green eyes grave with conviction.

  Father Alec withdrew his hand. “Yes ... thank you, Lady Mirabella.”

  Mirabella offered her sweetest smile, her heart clenching.

  “Then we are orphaned together,” commented Cecily, raising saddened eyes to the priest, eyes made wistful with the pain of loss.

  Father Alec’s eyes revealed fondness as he cast them upon the child. “That we are.”

  “Yet I suppose no Christian is really orphaned. God is always our father,” Cecily added then, her face brightening with hope. “And He sends us people to look after us and help us, even though our parents were called to Him. Like the Pierces and you for me. That way we need never feel all alone.”

  Father Alec’s eyes softened with unshed tears. “No ... we are never all alone.”

  Mirabella’s gaze darkened. She had spent hours discussing matters of faith with Father Alec and with unending patience he had indulged her, all while praising her intellect. Yet Cecily’s oversimplified generalization, along with the mutual loss of their parents to the dreaded sweat, connected her to the priest in a way Mirabella’s devoutness and keen mind never could.

  She should not resent her for it. It was unchristian, uncharitable. She was above such things. Yet her gut wrenched and ached with unwelcome jealousy. Cecily was endearing; she was sweet without pretense. Her light permeated the darkest reaches of any room and any heart. Mirabella could not emi
t these qualities, not because she was not in possession of them but because she preferred her solitude. Her light was secret, sacred, preserved for God and a handful of others, one of them being Father Alec. To see his eyes light with admiration for another seized her with a sense of envy new to her.

  She blinked several times. She must not think this way. Cecily was to be a sister to her and to resent a sister was tantamount to resenting Brey or her mother and father.

  Besides, Cecily was just a little girl and everyone was sweet to little girls. Mirabella had no reason to fret.

  Grace needed another distraction. Curse Lent and its damnable deprivation! It was all observed with falsehood, as was most everything Catholic. It was a religion of pretense and ritual, meant to satisfy the illiterate multitudes grasping for visuals. Those with any intellect at all did not appreciate with awe the carefully calculated “miracles” the priests concocted to keep their parishioners in thrall. Grace was never impressed. As it was, whenever she attended mass she could not stop calculating the cost of the exquisite chalices, statues, and other artwork gracing the chapel. And the extravagance of the bishops and priests she had encountered had filled her with unholy envy of its own account.

  Grace had heard of Tyndale and Luther, and though she agreed with their various suggestions for reform, she was not a woman impassioned by conviction. Her beliefs were not fervent enough to pursue the New Learning any more than cling to the so-called True Faith. She valued her life, after all. Grace could admit with a dark chuckle that one of the only reasons she resented the wealth of the Church was because she wished to appropriate it.

  Thus the matter of the New Learning was only reflected upon during Lent as she wondered what these reformers would do with the season. She couldn’t imagine it being made any worse; however, given the reformers’ views on simplicity it likely would not be any better.

  So it was that Grace needed another diversion; the melancholy was lurking again in the shadows of her mind and brooding over religious and philosophical doctrine would not assuage it. Matters of religion became too heady for Grace and were best left to Father Alec to puzzle out with moony-eyed Mirabella. Meantime, Grace would plan an entertainment for May Day to usher in the spring.