by D. L. Bogdan
“It is harder afterwards,” Alice said, her tone contemplative as she regarded the cradle. “They are so foreign, you know? The nurse takes them and there is naught to do but have more.” She offered that rueful smile again, a smile that Cecily was certain was her feeble attempt at masking immense pain. “They grow on you, though,” she added with her infectious chuckle.
Alice blew a kiss to Ellen, who returned it with a little giggle as they quit the nursery and alighted to her apartments. Alice sent for some bread and cheese and they took to playing a game of chess. Alice proved herself quite the strategist and bested Cecily at each turn.
After three games Sir Edward’s voice rang through the hall. “Ladies! Supper!”
Alice grimaced toward the sound, then turned to Cecily.
“I hope you come again,” she said, her eyes lit with anticipation.
“I shall,” said Cecily. She cast her eyes toward the tapestry frame. “We will work on your tapestry together.”
“I will like that.”
Cecily stood. She could not wait to go home, to throw herself in Hal’s arms and tell him that no bride was more blessed than she.
The longer Father Alec Cahill served as a secretary in Archbishop Thomas Cranmer’s bustling household, the more he was able to distance himself from his former life at Sumerton. Even had he the inclination to reflect upon the past, he would have little time for it. Almost every waking hour was devoted to assisting the archbishop in the management of his personal affairs, and as Father Alec learned more about Cranmer he found his admiration for the man evolving into genuine affection. The man was never anything but amiable, despite an enormous amount of pressure, but the archbishop carried himself with a poise, graciousness, and remarkable gentleness that Father Alec respected. It was, to his delight, a regard that was mutual, for Cranmer had nothing but kind words to bestow upon him, praising his sincerity, wit, and easy manner.
“We are two nobodies who were elevated by great Somebodies!” Cranmer would tease, his squinty brown eyes narrowing even more as his lips curled up into a gentle smile. “You by your fortunate encounter with Erasmus and the Earl of Sumerton and me by our loving Sovereign! To think it was all because I made the suggestion for him to interview men of learning when he was pursuing his annulment from Princess Dowager Catherine. ‘I had the right sow by the ear,’ he had said,” he added with a chuckle.
It was an overwhelming circumstance for both, who emerged from relative obscurity to hold positions other men envied. What was most remarkable, however, was the genuine affection both held for their employers. Cranmer loved King Henry and Father Alec loved Cranmer. Subtle, gentle, and kind, the Archbishop of Canterbury stood for many of the reforms that Father Alec held dear. If Cranmer could keep that certain sow by the ear his reforms had a chance of being brought to fruition.
Working closely with Cranmer gave Father Alec the opportunity to observe his “loving Sovereign,” who fairly radiated with the light of his own power. Despite the king’s magnetism, Father Alec found himself far more drawn to his scintillating wife Queen Anne, a fascinating woman of sharp wit and humor. Bent on keeping the court spiritual, the queen gave all of her ladies prayer books to hang from their girdles at all times and encouraged acts of charity to the poor. She was a glib creature, unafraid to speak her mind, and often challenged the king to daring duels of wits regarding matters of religion and affairs of state. It was clear she was in favor of reform, and for this Father Alec admired her.
For all his admiration, however, he feared for the dark-haired girl whose edgy nature and intensity was too reminiscent of Mirabella Pierce. Such traits may not favor her. Already the king’s affection was waning; she had brought forth a girl, a burden and liability. Anne would have to prove herself, and quick, if she wanted to keep her place at his side.
And King Henry would be a difficult man to be beside, Father Alec noted as he recalled the moody, charismatic man with a laugh as robust as his appetites. Father Alec could hardly disguise his disillusionment, for it became obvious to him that the king’s split with the Pope had nothing to do with reform or doctrine and everything to do with getting his own way. Father Alec kept his peace around the king, wary of the man who daily demonstrated a range of startling emotional extremes. At the slightest provocation, his boisterous, merry nature that was so much larger than life could convert into a temper tantrum with disastrous consequences for the offender. Despite this, Cranmer’s deep affection for the king was real.
“There is a thread of the divine in him,” Cranmer had told Father Alec with conviction when they returned from Westminster one evening. “Our king is ordained by God to rule and I am ordained by God to serve. As servant to the king I must try to guide him, mentor him ... protect him. Above all, however, I must obey him.” Cranmer turned searching brown eyes to the priest. They flickered with fear. “We all must.”
The advice was sobering, alluding to the power King Henry had, power given by none other than God. His ways, God’s and Henry’s, were not always easy to decipher and yet they must be accepted. For God’s will and Henry VIII’s were one and the same.
Father Alec tried to believe this.
10
Cecily was determined to fulfill at least part of her wifely obligations to Hal and decided if there was one thing she could do for him it would be to reestablish his place in society. Before the scandal of Lady Grace’s last entertainment, Hal had been included in the uppermost realm of the elite and his was considered enviable company to keep. Now he lived in obscurity, retaining friendships with a select few. Cecily knew well he feared never being able to emerge from the shadow of his late wife’s indignity, but now he had a new wife. And this wife would make herself the most charming, sought-after hostess in the land. If at first they would not come for Hal, they would come for Cecily, out of curiosity if nothing else.
She enlisted the help of her new friend, Lady Alice Camden, hoping to rescue the girl from her wretched household as often as possible, as she organized her first grand entertainment. Drawing on her many lessons in the running of a household from Lady Grace, Cecily planned an exquisite menu and set to hiring the finest musicians in northern England for the guests to dance to. The castle was sweetened, all the rooms cleaned and aired, made ready to be filled with people, with friends.
She did not only plan to enchant the nobility, those many connections that had been made with Sumerton since before her time; she wanted the respect of Sumerton’s tenants as well. Cecily rejuvenated another tradition Hal had let fade away since the fall of Lady Grace, that of holding feasts on saint’s days, inviting all of their tenants to partake. Cecily’s heart swelled at the joy of the peasants, whom she introduced herself to, trying to learn as much as she could about each of them and their families. She planned to call on them and attend to their needs in the manner of a true lady.
In the span of a few months’ time, Cecily had made tremendous progress, demonstrating all the organizational skills of one called to run a noble house. As she planned her debut, Cecily invited the nobility, local gentry, bishops, artists, and thinkers to dine at Sumerton. She and Alice referred to these evenings as “audition suppers,” where Cecily would establish her reputation as the charming, hospitable, and fashionable Lady Sumerton. She entertained her guests by playing her lute, at which she had become quite accomplished through the years of hoping to impress Mirabella and Brey. She also sang ballads that brought tears to men’s eyes.
With the ladies she shared her flawless embroidery and discussed household management, flattering them with her display of eagerness to learn from their wisdom. Though she kept herself educated on the latest news from court, including both politics and gossip, she could never be accused of offering opinions containing the faintest scent of scandal. Cecily remained witty, vibrant, and smiling alongside a husband whose own exuberance grew with each passing day.
Her reward was the compliments he received on her behalf.
“Lord Hal,” one g
entleman had told him at the end of an evening as he clasped his hand, his gaze never leaving Cecily’s face, “you have yourself a true lady.”
Cecily glowed under the praise.
To her great satisfaction, the invitations requesting Lord and Lady Sumerton’s presence began to pour in and they did not refuse a single one. When the time came for their great entertainment, the castle was overflowing with guests to the point where some had taken to sleeping in the stables.
She spent the evening dancing in a satin gown the color of yellow topaz. No cruel whispers reached her ear this evening. Forgotten was the fact that she and Hal had married before the period of mourning had elapsed and the image of Lady Grace as a figure of scandal had faded; gossipmongers were too caught up in the charms of Lord Sumerton’s new bride to obsess over the antics of the old. Cecily was grateful to be the distraction. She did not want Lady Grace’s name to be sullied any longer. If the only way for that to happen was in her being relegated to obscurity then so be it; Cecily was certain Lady Grace, with her wry wit, would understand. As Cecily reflected on this she wondered what Brey would make of her strategy to restore his father. Yet in his restoration was not Brey’s memory being honored as well? Cecily bowed her head, offering a quick prayer to him, hoping he knew that her every action was motivated by love. The squeeze she received from Hal’s hand in her own sent a wave of reassurance through her and she lifted her face to him. The tenderness shining forth from his sparkling blue eyes told her everything she needed to know. Her heart swelled.
“How can I ever thank you for everything you have done, for the life you have returned to this empty place?” Hal asked.
“If I have made you happy in any way, Hal, it is in an effort to thank you.” She cupped his face between her hands. “Because I am so grateful to you for being the man that you are.”
“I wouldn’t be anything without you,” Hal said, his voice catching as he held her close.
Cecily closed her eyes, nuzzling against his chest.
I have done a good thing, she thought with an air of triumph.
The Sumertons’ triumphant entertainment brought a close to a season of socializing as Lent made its stoic approach. Cecily found herself thinking of Mirabella and sent her a letter once a week, updating Mirabella on all the news, but the responses she received were rare, brief, and impersonal.
Hal heard from Mirabella even less.
“Perhaps it is the marriage that has upset her,” Hal said softly one night as they sat before the fire, burning low in its hearth. “You are so young, after all... .” He rose to fetch the stoker.
Cecily bowed her head. She admitted to being troubled by that thought as well, but Mirabella’s absence from their daily lives made it easier for her to accept the probability that she was disappointed.
“I suppose we have to acknowledge the fact that we just are not a part of her world any longer,” Hal went on in decisive tones. “I only wish we could visit now and again... .”
“Strange to think how easy it was for us to visit the convent when we were younger,” Cecily mused as she stared into the embers, swallowing a rising lump in her throat. “But that was due to Sister Julia.”
“It was due to my generosity,” Hal corrected. “A generosity that continues. It is unfortunate, Cecily, but even the holiest institutions can be bought.”
“Then why not see her?” Cecily asked him. Her stomach lurched with a peculiar dread as she imagined him beholding Sister Julia again. “We could go together,” she added.
Hal smiled, leaning on the stoker a moment and massaging his forehead with his fingertips before speaking. “I would much rather she came here.”
The knot in Cecily’s stomach eased. She sighed, fearing she was betraying her relief. “Perhaps something can be arranged,” she said hopefully.
“Perhaps,” Hal said as he approached her, taking her hands in his.
“Hal ...” Cecily bit her lip. She cursed herself for her need to know. “If you saw Sister Julia again ...”
Hal met her eyes with a steady, unyielding gaze. “I would say, ‘Sister Julia, I would like to present to you my wife, Cecily, Lady Sumerton.’ ”
Cecily dissolved into tears of gratitude and embarrassment as she wrapped her arms about his neck. He embraced her with one arm, then began to shrug his shoulder several times.
“I ... can’t ... raise ...”
Cecily pulled away. “Hal, what is it?”
His eyes were panic stricken. “M’arm,” he said through the right side of his mouth. “Cec—”
“Hal!”
Hal slipped from her arms to the floor.
“Apoplexy,” Dr. George Hurst said after examining Hal. They stood at the foot of his bed, and though Cecily listened to the physician’s words, her gaze did not leave Hal’s sleeping face.
Don’t take him, was her urgent plea to God as she regarded Hal, rendered useless by a force no one understood. Please don’t take him, too!
“It can cripple a man for life; it can kill him,” Dr. Hurst went on. “No one knows how and no one knows why.”
Cecily’s heart pounded as she sat beside Hal, reaching out to clasp his limp hand. “So you do not know if he will ever recover?”
The old man shook his head. “Regrettably, no. I do know that the longer my lord remains asleep the less likely it will be that he recovers. I am afraid it is in God’s hands now. I shall pray for you both, my lady.”
Cecily offered a brief nod of thanks as the kindly physician quit the room. She was alone. She collapsed to her knees beside the bed, never loosening her grip on Hal’s hand.
“Please, God,” she prayed in fervent tones. “Please do not take him. He is a good man, a young man without heirs to succeed him. And he is my everything. Please ...” She sank her head onto the mattress, sobbing and repeating her prayer till her throat was raw.
At last she fell into a dreamless slumber, snuggling against her unconscious husband. She would not let him go.
She had enough will to sustain them both.
“My lady, you cannot mean to take this on yourself!” Matilda, the maid, cried as Cecily undressed Hal and ventured to change his linens for the first time. “Such work is beneath you—such work is beneath me!”
Cecily whirled upon the servant, raising her hand, then lowering it in shock. She had never thought to slap anyone before.
“I am his wife, Tillie!” Cecily told her. “Did I not take a vow that required my presence in sickness and in health? Who then is better suited to care for him?”
Matilda bowed her head. “But he may never recover—”
“That is the last time you will say that unless you wish to be dismissed,” Cecily said. “Lord Sumerton will recover and anyone who cares for him will speak nothing but words of encouragement. Why, look, already the color has returned to his cheeks!”
Cecily searched his pallid face. “Well, they are a little rosier,” she insisted as she drew the covers back. She bit her quivering lip. She had never seen Hal unclothed before and never imagined it would be under these circumstances that she would behold him for the first time. Ashamed that he must suffer such an indignity, she averted her head as much as was possible while she completed the task of cleansing and changing him.
A hand rested on her shoulder and Cecily tilted her face toward Matilda.
“God bless you, my lady,” Matilda told her, her voice wavering with tears.
Cecily reached up, squeezing her faithful servant’s hand. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Tillie,” she told her.
Matilda shook her head in wonder as Cecily sat by Hal’s side once more and commenced to chatter with him about nonsensical things, things that seemed far removed from where they were just now.
Hal did not awaken for three days and when at last he did open his right eye, bringing the face of his precious Cecily into focus, he found his body would not obey him. His left arm and leg were all but numb. His mind told them to move, but they would not. He groaned i
n frustration, finding that the left side of his mouth was not inclined to be useful either.
“Hal!” Cecily cried, flinging her arms about his chest and kissing his cheek. Tears streamed down her alabaster cheeks. “Oh, Hal, you’ve come back to me. I knew that you would.”
He attempted to smile.
“Can you move at all?” she asked him.
“Yes,” Hal said as he shook his throbbing head. He scowled. He didn’t know why he said yes when he meant no.
Cecily smiled. “Well, we have time to work on that later. First you must eat. I have broth all prepared for you and bread and some cheese.” She fluffed the pillows behind him and, with a strength he had no idea she possessed, pulled him into an elevated position. “Here now, take this.” She clasped his right hand, placing a cup of wine in it. “Drink.”
Hal’s hand trembled as he raised the cup to his lips. Half of it poured down the side of his face. He thrust the cup into Cecily’s hands in despair. He longed to rail against the fates but didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth so remained silent.
“It will take some time, Hal,” Cecily said. “You only just woke up.” She held the cup to his lips, dabbing away at each stray rivulet of wine. After he had taken in his fill she fed him some warm fish broth, then soaked bread in it, breaking off tiny pieces and placing them in his mouth. She did the same with the cheese.
Tears rose in Hal’s throat as he regarded her. “What life for now you?” he asked, frustrated that the words should come out so out of order and again unable to make sense of it. They were right in his head.
“What do you mean?” Cecily returned, the translation not at all lost on her. “I am your wife, Hal. My life is dedicated to taking care of you as you take care of me.” She straightened. “Come now! Take some more broth. We must get your strength up.”
Hal sipped the broth, allowing his tears to trail down his cheeks, tears of shame and gratitude, love and fear.