by D. L. Bogdan
“I didn’t know,” Master Reaves was telling her. “The soldiers ... everything was happening so fast and I was detained. I found you in the chapel unconscious and Sister Julia ... oh, the poor, dear lady ...” He bowed his head, stray locks of blond hair sweeping across his forehead.
“Where is she now?” Mirabella demanded in tones sharper than she intended.
“She has been laid to rest, Sister Mirabella,” Master Reaves assured her. Then softly, “Do you know ... who did it, my lady?”
“It matters not,” Mirabella replied in hoarse tones. “Justice will not find them in the England of Henry VIII.” She rolled on her side, back to the young steward.
“Sister, you cannot mean to keep this quiet!” he cried, resting a hand on her shoulder. She jerked it away, drawing the covers to her neck. He withdrew his hand, backing away. “I am sorry ... I meant no disrespect. It is just that I want to help you. Please.”
Mirabella remained silent.
“Your family,” he said. “They should be informed.”
“I will go to them when I am ready and not before,” Mirabella said in sharp tones, rolling over to face him. “Until then, we will not speak of it to anyone. Please.”
Master Reaves shook his head. “But, dear mistress, why?”
“I am not your dear mistress,” Mirabella hissed. “I am Sister Mirabella, do you hear?”
The bewildered steward nodded. “Yes, of course. But—but you do recall what has come to pass?”
“I do,” Mirabella said. “That changes nothing.” With this she laughed a shrill, joyless sound that caused the steward to shiver. “Do you honestly think I remained to be a mere servant to Lord Morton? No. I stayed to fight for my home, for my calling, for everything holy that King Henry and his—his minions are stripping the land of.” Tears rolled down her cheeks in smooth, slick trails. “But I lost ... I lost.”
He shook his head, this time in sadness. “No, Sister. Any fight for God is won in Heaven, even if we still suffer here.” He leaned closer to her, threading his fingers through hers. She was too exhausted to withdraw. “I will tell you,” he whispered. “I am a convinced Catholic of the old tradition. I abhor the king’s ‘reforms’ and so do a great many others. Even now an army is being raised against His Majesty. It is an army of which I am part. We challenge His Majesty’s authority over the Church and more—so much more!—and we are to march on Lincoln.” A storm of fervor gathered in his gray eyes. They were clenching each other’s hands. Mirabella was sitting up, everything, all the pain, all the turmoil of the last days, swallowed up in the enthusiasm of a man she hadn’t paid a scant of attention to before.
“How many amass?” she asked, afraid to hope.
“A good forty thousand brave souls,” answered the steward.
“Forty thousand!” Mirabella cried. “That is a sizable force! Then perhaps something can be done. Perhaps it won’t have been in vain... .” Her voice broke. She cast her eyes at their joined hands, then slowly disengaged. She could not bring herself to meet his eyes.
He nodded. “All of the vile crimes that have been committed in the name of the king and his perversion of the Church will be avenged.”
“May God bless and keep you, Master Reaves,” Mirabella whispered, sinking back onto the pillows.
The steward’s tone was tender. “But what of you? Do you truly intend to remain here, after everything?”
Mirabella pursed her quivering lips. “I don’t know,” she confessed brokenly. “I don’t know what is to become of me now. I have a family and a home and yet to return to them, to that world, is to return to a world where I am of no use—”
“No use! But you are of noble blood,” Master Reaves observed. “You do have power. A voice at court! You could seek audience with Queen Jane. She is said to be of gentle nature and sympathetic to our cause... .”
Mirabella regarded him with wide eyes. “It is ... our cause, isn’t it?”
Master Reaves offered a slow nod. “More than ever, good Sister.”
Almost against her will, a new purpose began to surge through Mirabella’s veins.
As soon as Mirabella recovered herself enough to keep her composure, she set off to Sumerton. She sent no word, no message bespeaking her ordeal. Her father and Cecily were well aware of the abbey’s closing and that she had chosen to remain with Sister Julia as a servant. Though they had pleaded with her in letters to return home rather than suffer such indignity, she had made it clear that her place was beside her mother.
Now Mirabella bore the painful responsibility of disclosing Sister Julia’s death. She did not want to lie, but neither could she bear to tell the complete truth. If her father knew what really happened, that Mirabella was to blame ... She could not abide it. He must not know. There had to be a way to hide the truth while not offending God. By the time she arrived at Castle Sumerton, Mirabella believed she had contrived a proper account, vague enough so as not to seem too deceitful, detailed enough to satisfy.
So it was with squared shoulders and a high head that she quit her coach and entered the home of her childhood. The castle was a hum of activity. Servants bustled here and there, the guests who always managed to find a warm welcome with the Pierces cavorted with one another at dice and cards, while a new sight, something Mirabella had not expected at all, made its presence known above all others. Children.
A small boy was leading a pack of little ones, waving about a wooden sword. “Enemies afoot!” he cried, charging toward Mirabella. “Who goes there?”
His demand, in an exaggerated brogue, disarmed Mirabella despite everything.
“I am Mistress Mirabella Pierce,” she said in haughty tones of equal exaggeration. “And who, might I ask, are you?”
The child’s face screwed up in confusion as he regarded her, his blue eyes bright and intent under their fringe of thick blond lashes. Brey’s eyes, Mirabella thought, her heart constricting in a moment of anguish.
“Mirabella Pierce?” he returned, his shrill voice a thrill of enthusiasm. “Then you are my sister! I’m Harry!” He dropped the sword with a clatter and rushed toward her, throwing his arms about her waist.
Shocked at the show of unexpected affection, Mirabella wrapped her arms around the child, a lump swelling her throat. She bit her lip. So this was the little brother of whom she had been written. She had never once come to see him, nor did she allow Cecily to bring him to the abbey. Guilt coursed through her. It must have pained her father and Cecily a great deal to think she had wanted nothing to do with their much-anticipated heir.
“Where are you, you little imps?” A musical voice interrupted Mirabella’s reverie.
She beheld the owner of the voice—a very radiant, very pregnant Cecily.
The two women stood before each other in a moment of shock. The emotion between them was tangible; even Harry’s lip began to tremble under its power. At last, Mirabella offered a curtsy.
“Lady Cecily,” she said in low, formal tones.
The tears that were welling in Cecily’s eyes spilled over as she rushed toward Mirabella, seizing her hands in her own. “I have never been ‘Lady Cecily’ to you,” she told her, gathering her in her arms.
Mirabella relished the embrace as she held the woman who had shared most of the important moments of her life. She held Cecily as close as the pregnant belly between them would allow.
Cecily pulled away first, reaching up to stroke Mirabella’s cheek, now slick with tears of her own. “Oh, Mirabella, when we learned of the abbey’s closing we knew not what to do. We followed your instructions, stayed away.” She lowered her eyes a moment as though the thought of it still pained her. “It was all I could do to keep Hal from charging there and collecting you himself.” She sighed. “But at last he agreed honoring your wishes was the best thing we could do for you.” At this her expression converted to one of the child always eager to please. “Did we do the right thing?”
Mirabella could not bear to answer that question. Neither
could she begin to examine the agony her father and Cecily had undergone on her behalf as they wondered what her future may hold now that the dream of a monastic life was extinguished.
Mirabella knew she must say something, however, so nodded. “I do not think anyone really knew what the ‘right thing’ was.” With this she thought of James Reaves, the steward who was probably at Lincoln by now. They knew what the right thing was. She swallowed hard. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve come home. To stay.”
Cecily’s teal eyes sparkled with a joy Mirabella could not fathom her presence inciting.
“Truly?” Cecily pulled Mirabella into her arms once more. “Oh, Mirabella! You have no idea how happy this will make Hal!”
At this Mirabella felt the sadness creeping in, invading the joy of the reunion. She had no right to feel happiness of any kind, not after all she had done. She extricated herself from Cecily, steeling herself against the sensations she had allowed to permeate the discipline she prided herself on, cursing what a few moments in the world outside the cloister had done to her.
“And Sister Julia?” Cecily asked, her tone softer. “Has she chosen to stay on?”
This was it. The beginning of the Lie. Mirabella squeezed her eyes shut a long moment.
“What is it?” Cecily asked, taking her arm. “Mirabella?”
Mirabella expelled a breath she did not know she was holding. “My mother has passed into the next world. An apoplexy. It was ... fast. She knew little pain.”
Cecily’s hand flew to her milky breast. “Apoplexy ... how frightening. Oh, Mirabella, I am so sorry. I’m certain your mother was grateful to have had you with her. She loved you so—”
Mirabella averted her head. “Forgive me, Cecily, but I cannot yet speak of it. I am still too fresh in my grief.”
Cecily hesitated. Mirabella felt her eyes upon her, scrutinizing, searching. Did they detect her guilt?
“Of course,” Cecily said at last. “Do know that when you are ready, I am always here for you.”
Mirabella offered a curt nod of acknowledgment. She sighed in relief. The hardest part was behind her. It would be easier relaying the story to her father now that she had tested it on someone else.
“Where is Father?” she asked.
“Hunting,” Cecily said, then looped her arm through hers as they made the familiar promenade to Mirabella’s chambers. “You must be exhausted. How about I have your things sent up? I will arrange to have some food brought as well and you can take a long rest. By the time you awaken, he’ll be here.”
Her voice was so soothing, the suggestion so thoughtful, that tears stung Mirabella’s eyes once more. She was unworthy of her friend’s solicitude.
Nonetheless, she yielded to it. “That would be wonderful, Cecily. I should like that.”
Cecily wrapped her arm about her waist. “We shall have a great deal to catch up on at supper tonight,” she told her as they walked. “And now at last you have a chance to get to know Harry.”
“That will mean a lot to me,” Mirabella said automatically.
By the door of her chambers they paused. Cecily placed her hands on Mirabella’s shoulders, fixing her with a gentle, significant gaze that caused Mirabella’s heart to race.
“For all that is known and unknown, I am truly sorry.”
She left it at that.
13
A wave of tenderness enveloped Cecily as she watched unchecked tears pour down Hal’s tanned cheeks when he beheld Mirabella. Rested now, she had changed into a black mourning gown that suited her better than a nun’s habit ever had.
“Home at last,” Hal breathed, cupping the back of her head with one hand as he clasped her to him with the other. “Now the family is complete.”
Cecily watched Mirabella’s face contort with pain. All knew the family had not been complete since Brey’s death. And now with the combined blows of her mother’s passing and the abbey’s closing, Mirabella must feel more incomplete than ever. Cecily’s heart went out to her.
The family sat down to a private dinner in the solar while the guests were treated to the usual revelry in the great hall. They feasted off the boar Hal had killed that day, along with some warm bread, cheese, and figs Hal had imported just to satisfy Cecily’s craving.
After Harry had been sent to bed with the nurse, Mirabella imparted the news of Sister Julia’s passing to Hal. His face clouded with fear at the word apoplexy, then quickly converted to grief.
“Hers is a great loss to you, I know,” he said in gentle tones as he laid a hand over hers. “She was a good woman.” He bowed his head a long moment. “A very good woman.”
Mirabella shifted in her seat, withdrawing her hand to pick at her food without eating anything. Cecily covertly watched, wondering if she would ever learn the truths behind her silences, if Mirabella would ever trust her enough to share them. Such moments could not be forced, however. She would never coax or pry. She could only wait.
“I am certain you are aware of the uprising, then,” Hal said, diverting the subject from one source of grief to another.
But Mirabella perked at this. “Yes, I am. Any word?”
“It has been quelled, under threat of the Duke of Suffolk’s army descending,” he answered. “Thanks be to God.”
“Thanks be to God!” Mirabella cried, appalled. “It is for God that the army was fighting! They fought for me! For all those like me, those who simply wished to dedicate their lives to God.” Tears choked her. The words came out in short gasps.
“Mirabella, I know you think that. And perhaps they believed it as well,” Hal told her. “But to fight against a king such as Henry, a king who will move the whole world to obtain his desires, is foolhardy. King Henry will crush those who oppose him with lethal precision. Please be careful, my love. You must not be seen to sympathize with rebels, no matter how you may feel in your heart.”
“There are no rebels to sympathize with now,” Mirabella said in tones thick with defeat. “So you need not worry.”
“This rebellion is far from over,” Hal informed her. “Now it’s being called the ‘Pilgrimage of Grace.’ They are led by a lawyer, Robert Aske, and gather at York.”
Cecily attempted to urge Hal into silence with scowls, eyes, and bared teeth, all hints he did not seem to pick up on. Cecily wanted to scream. Could Hal not see that this latest report incited in his daughter hope, not fear?
“My friend ...” Mirabella breathed. “I wonder if ... if he joins them.”
“We must pray for a safe outcome, that no lives are lost,” Cecily said, hoping to neutralize the conversation.
“Those who lose their lives for God are martyrs,” Mirabella said in hard tones. “Saints.”
Cecily bit her lip, exchanging a fearful glance with Hal, who at last understood the gravity of imparting such news.
It was clear to both of them. Mirabella had not changed at all.
As Mirabella eased herself back into life at Castle Sumerton, she found she was allowed all the solitude for prayer that she desired. She did not pray in the family chapel, where mass was held in the new fashion, but remained alone at her prie-dieu, where she was free to practice the True Faith.
When not maintaining a schedule that was as close to convent life as possible, she was drawn to the boy, to her little brother, Harry, who to her unexpected delight seemed to adore her. He could not comprehend the fact that she was indeed a half sister, not to mention the fact that she was older than his mother. While he was kept ignorant of the technicalities, Mirabella explained that she was born of another mother, many years ago, all the while trying to banish the last images of Sister Julia from her mind, her eyes glazed and sightless, her hair coated in blood... . No! Mirabella must not think of that. She would die if she did.
Instead she focused on Harry. She petted him, spoiled him with sweetmeats, read to him, told him Bible stories, and seemed never to tire of his childish prattle. Together they walked all the trails of her youth, places Father Ale
c had taken her, Brey, and Cecily as children. She told Harry of Brey, of his resemblance to him, of his mother as a little girl and how she had rejuvenated the castle. She told him of Father Alec, a tutor without rival. She even told him a little of Lady Grace, the gentle things, the good things.
“You have a way with him,” Cecily observed one evening after Harry was tucked in bed. Her eyes were wistful as she rested her hand on her belly. With effort she lowered herself onto a sedan chair in the solar. “I am so glad. Sometimes ...”
Mirabella eyed her with concern. “What is it, Cecily?”
Cecily averted her head. “I was very ill for the first few months of his life. Sometimes I feel as though because I missed those first few months, that something crucial may have been lost between us forever.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. “Oh, there is no shortage of love and I am certain he feels it. And yet ... There are times I feel as though I cheated him.”
“You were ill,” Mirabella reasoned, strangely honored to be privy to Cecily’s innermost thoughts. “You could not help what came to pass. You mustn’t punish yourself for that, Cecily.”
Cecily raised her head to Mirabella, reaching for her hand. Mirabella took it, marveling at its perfection. What man could resist such a dainty little hand?
Cecily went on. “I feel selfish for being so glad that you’re home. Sometimes I think I could have borne things much better had you been with us then. That you would have understood what I was going through.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “But you are here now and that is what matters. You’ll see me through this next baby.”
Mirabella shuddered at the prospect. She feared childbirth almost as much as she feared death. She could not imagine waiting in the airless, darkened chamber while Cecily labored with another one of her siblings. The thought of it caused her belly to churn with a mingling of disgust and anxiety.