by D. L. Bogdan
“I thought you hated Sumerton Place,” Mirabella said.
“You were brave enough to stay there once,” Cecily returned. “And you were right; it is just a house and cannot be held responsible for what happened in it. Besides,” she added, a tear in her voice. “Brey loved it there. He wouldn’t want us to hide from it. It would be like hiding from his memory.”
“But to bring Lady Grace?” Mirabella challenged. “You cannot imagine she would want to confront the memories there after how long she ran from them, from everything.”
Cecily shrugged. “That is her decision. As for me, I still consider her a member of this family and would enjoy her company. Of course, Mirabella, you are free to do as you please.” She cocked a brow. “But you, Master Cahill? What make you of it?”
“To be in the thick of it ... would be more than I could hope for,” Alec said.
“Then we will make ready,” Cecily decided. “If we are lucky we will make it in time for the coronation!”
Cecily and Grace opted to take a second coach with baby Emmy and follow behind Mirabella and Alec. A small baggage train and ensemble of guards accompanied the travelers. They were not halfway to London when Cecily’s coach broke an axle. Unruffled, Cecily waved Mirabella and Alec onward.
“We’ll be along; we have plenty of help!” she shouted when Alec poked his head out his window, his expression a silent offer, perhaps even a plea, to assist, which Cecily responded to with a bright smile, gesticulating once more for them to keep going.
After the carriage rolled out of sight, Cecily sat back in her seat, a smile of satisfaction curving her lips.
“You never intended to go, did you?” Grace asked, the corner of her own mouth tilting into a smirk.
“But, Lady Grace, we broke an axle.” Cecily’s tone heralded exaggerated innocence. “What could we do, and me falling ill besides?” With this she brought a hand to her forehead, emitting a dramatic sigh. “No, this is where Master Cahill needs to be, and without me as a distraction to him; I’m sure Mirabella will provide distraction enough,” she added with a wry laugh. “Meantime, the threat of heresy no longer hangs over his head and he will have the support of his beloved Cranmer and be free to pursue what he loves, at least in part.” She drew in a breath, her shoulders squared. “I will send a messenger shortly explaining that circumstances have arisen which will prevent us from making the journey. A messenger has already been sent to Cranmer announcing Master Cahill’s impending arrival.”
Grace’s laugh rippled forth in sheer delight. “Pray tell, what did it say?”
“Simply that I am sending Master Cahill to him and ...”
... Please help him. The reforms the new government will be pushing through with your guidance mean more to him than anything. It is my sincere prayer that he can be a part of that which he holds in such high esteem even if it is not in the way he once dreamed.
Humbly yours,
Cecily Pierce
Countess of Sumerton
“ ‘Greater love hath no one,’ ” Thomas Cranmer quipped as he looked from the letter to Alec Cahill, who stood before him in his privy chamber as bewildered as if he had just witnessed the Second Coming.
Alec knew his immediate summons to Lambeth Palace upon their arrival could not be a coincidence. When he and a disgruntled Mirabella received the dispatch stating Cecily could no longer make the trip, he knew he had been the victim of a bizarre, albeit loving, swindle. Once again, Cecily had obeyed the convictions of her heart with nothing but the sincere desire to help him. Try as he might, and contrary to Mirabella’s opinion on Cecily’s “deception,” he could not resent it.
Cranmer stood up from where he had been seated behind his writing table, linking his hands behind his back as he circled it. He leaned on a corner and fixed Alec with a penetrating gaze.
“This marriage ...”
“Is a deception of the highest degree,” Alec finished before he could help himself. “She confiscated my private papers and still has them hidden, used statements against me to fabricate suspicion of heresy, only to pay the sheriff off that he might abet her with the renunciation of my vows and this ... this ... unholy union!”
Cranmer smiled, nodding as if indulging a temperamental child. “It is not an easy situation you have found yourself in,” he said at length. “Do you plan to seek an annulment? Surely whatever papers she has of yours hold no power considering that the ruling family are the premier Protestants in England at present.”
“It matters not,” Alec told him, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Either way I would be a fraud. I broke my vows last summer, Your Grace. So you see, no matter if an annulment is granted or not, I could never return to the priesthood.”
Cranmer seemed unaffected by this newest revelation. “Do you maintain your relations with the woman in question? Do you feel you or she is intentionally sabotaging your purpose for her sake?”
“No,” Alec said, entertaining Cecily’s selfless actions once more. “She has only tried to help my cause and not stand in the way of it and reconcile me to my purpose, whatever that is now.” He emitted a heavy sigh. “As far as my self-sabotage, I did that when I chose this marriage over a saint’s death.”
Cranmer nodded in understanding. “Well, we none of us can predict how we’d react under those circumstances,” he said. “And while I cannot condone the breaking of your vows, nor can I condemn you for it. You are not the first man of the cloth to falter. You will not be the last. But you cannot think this would hamper your being welcomed back into the fold.”
“I no longer feel worthy of my calling,” Alec confessed brokenly. “Breaking my vows is the least of it ... my cowardice, my inability to become a martyr for God.” He shook his head, swallowing a painful onset of tears. “How can I in good conscience return?”
Cranmer’s smile was gentle as he laid a hand on Alec’s shoulder. “I commend that you do not easily forgive yourself, but you cannot put yourself above our Father, Who forgives all iniquities. Before you decide on any course regarding your marriage and your calling, you must forgive yourself. You will be immobilized otherwise.”
“Your Grace, you have treated me with nothing but compassion and I thank you,” Alec said, dipping over the archbishop’s hand and placing upon his ring a reverent kiss. “And if I have disappointed you, I seek your forgiveness first.”
“There is naught to forgive, my friend, but only that you seek your own forgiveness,” Cranmer said, disengaging his hand, bowing his head as though embarrassed by the display. “We have known much suffering these past few years, and many changes. But now is a time for healing and a time for reflection. For our sufferings are about to be rewarded.”
Alec nodded, knowing the archbishop was referring to the great religious reforms that were no doubt in store under the reign of young King Edward.
“And while you are coming to terms with your personal struggles, you can still be of use to me,” he went on, his voice infused with hope. “I need a mind like yours for my panel of gentlemen I am consulting for my latest work, a book that will outline the tenets of our faith.”
Alec’s heart constricted at the honor. “I am at your disposal, Your Grace.”
Cranmer clapped his hands with a decisive smile. “Right. Then we shall set to this great and noble process. Welcome back, my friend.”
Welcome back, indeed, thought Alec with a rueful smile, once again congratulating Cecily’s prowess at getting him to London and thus, he hoped, to his ultimate destiny.
There was but one thing Mirabella could think to do while in London and that was to somehow contact Mary Tudor. The newly restored princess was said to be mourning her father and would not be present for her younger brother’s coronation, thus Mirabella opted to write her in the hopes that she could seek refuge in her company. She needed time to reflect in a neutral place unaffected by the tragedies that preyed on her life like relentless falcons. Perhaps with the princess she could do just that. And if Her Highness
advised her to annul the marriage and let Alec go for the sake of their common cause, she would do so.
The missive, a lengthy mingling of confession and events since their last encounter all those years ago when Jane Seymour presided over the Christmas festivities, coupled with condolences for the king’s death (which she wrote with a trembling, unconvinced hand), was dispatched, leaving Mirabella anxious and restless as she anticipated her response.
Meantime, Alec spent much of his time at Lambeth Palace, conspiring with the heretic Cranmer no doubt. No amount of praying seemed to dissuade him from his path and anger surged through her at the thought that all of her loving actions had been in vain. She could not save him if he would not save himself.
The two existed in separate spheres, both awaiting the coronation of the child-king and wondering what the new reign would portend. Alec was filled with such palpable hope and optimism that he was compelled to treat Mirabella with a formal kindness he had not afforded her since before his imprisonment. Relieved at the apparent truce, Mirabella could but be amicable in turn, leaving the two to maintain a quavering peace at best.
The response from Princess Mary was prompt, drawing Mirabella from the unwanted reflections day-to-day living brought. She nearly shouted for joy when she received the messenger of what might be her only ally, and broke the princess’s seal without delay.
Mrs. Cahill,
Your actions disgust us in a way we shall not stoop to describe. You have allowed your resentment to compromise your sanity and any decent contribution you could have made to our cause has been undermined by your despicable, shameful behavior. The priest, if a heretic, should have been left to die for his sin, but instead you sullied your own virtue in the misguided attempt to save him. Perhaps you should save yourself. In any event, yours is a life we desire no affiliation with and we caution you to keep your distance from court. As sister to His Majesty our views are held in suspicion, but our brother is merciful thus far. We cannot anticipate how merciful he would be to one of your station. God be with you, Mirabella, for we certainly are not... .
Mirabella read the words again and again, as though with each reading some covert message of friendship could be discerned in between the lines of the callous dismissal, to no avail. The princess had abandoned her. Mirabella was alone.
Balling the letter in her fist, she thrust it into the fire that blazed in her chambers. She stood alone, watching the flames devour the message and convert the hateful words of the Tudor woman to ash. And unto dust ye shall return... .
“Some wine, missus?”
Mirabella started at the voice of her young servant Nan. Sniffling, she nodded, beckoning the girl forward with a slight wave.
The girl edged near, setting the tray of warm spiced wine on her breakfast table.
“You may stay and drink with me,” Mirabella said, knowing it mattered not if one of “her station” crossed the unspoken boundary that separated master from servant.
She had no one else.
Nan shifted. “Are you quite sure, my lady?”
Mirabella smiled with quivering lips. “Would I have said so if I was not? Come!” she ordered, taking her cup fireside and sitting in her chair.
The girl poured herself a small cup and sat on the rug before the fire. “Thank you, my lady.”
Mirabella nodded, sipping the wine, letting the warmth surge through her limbs. She looked into the glass, pondering. “Would that wine were a miracle potion,” she mused in soft tones.
“Wine is the oldest miracle potion, dependent on what miracle the missus is hoping to rouse,” Nan said, her voice sweet.
Mirabella glanced at the girl, her bright blue eyes sparkling with youth, her red curls glossy, infused with a luster from within. Tragedy hadn’t dulled her yet. She had yet to be robbed of her joy and beauty.
“How do you mean, child?” Mirabella asked, grateful for any distraction from the words of the princess’s letter that stood bold before her mind’s eye, quite intact from the flames.
“Well ...” The girl grew guarded, shifting her eyes fore and aft. “What type of miracle are you supposing to obtain?”
Mirabella laughed at this. Imagine! A servant girl the purveyor of miracles! Her heart sank. Yet a miracle had once been bestowed upon the humble son of a carpenter... . Mirabella yielded herself to the intrigue. She could play this game.
“All right ... supposing I wanted a love potion?” she quipped, her tone rich with false cheer.
“Ah ...” Nan’s smile was conspiratorial. “To inspire Master Cahill to fall in love with you?”
Mirabella scowled. “What do you mean? Master Cahill is my husband and—”
“Pardon me, missus, how often have you seen a married couple truly in love?” Nan challenged her.
Cecily and her father, Mirabella thought with a sigh. Cecily and Alec ... but then they were not married. But nonetheless, Cecily never had to fear not being able to inspire the love of a man. The heat of anger replaced that of the wine and she trembled.
“Are you well?” the girl asked.
“Quite,” Mirabella snapped. She drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly, willing some modicum of patience to return to her. “Right, then. So. A love potion. Tell me about love potions.”
The girl laughed, a sound that rang slightly derisive. Mirabella bowed her head, embarrassed.
“My lady, it is my belief that none exist,” Nan told her. “Though there are enough potions for every other ailment. There are potions for warts, for relieving the curse of our sex, for burns, and for wounds. But love can only come from God and potions are from man.”
The words shamed Mirabella. That a servant, and a young one at that, could be so in tune to the misguided pursuit of man to be loved when love itself was ordained by God and no other. Love could not be forced—how aware was she of that! It could not be coerced. When the blessing of love was bestowed, it was chosen by the true Cupid—God. From His divine bow Love’s Arrow was driven straight to the heart, and there was nothing to be done. It could not be fought against, it could not be ruled over, it could not be contained. But what of the love that was unreturned? Was it some curse then, some punishment she was meant to endure, to love alone, to find that the object of such emotion was unable and unwilling to withdraw the arrow from her breast?
But is it love?
Mirabella flinched. The gentle whisper in her mind belonged to Sister Julia, her mother, her mother who died for love.
If not love, then what? Mirabella wondered back.
Control. Revenge.
Mirabella shook her head. No! She brought a hand to her temple, as if to massage away the inner conversation.
“My lady, are you certain you are well?” the servant girl asked, cocking her head to regard her mistress in puzzlement.
Mirabella started. She had forgotten the girl. “I said I was and I am, am I not?”
Nan shrugged. “You would know.”
But Mirabella did not know. When was the last time she was truly well? When she was a child with Cecily, running down the snow-covered trail to the cloister, or before her arrival, before she ever set about on this quest for the oneness with God that eluded her at every turn? Indeed, was she ever well?
Mirabella shook off the thoughts with a shudder, exasperated. “I have kept you long enough from your work, Nan. Dismissed.”
The girl rose in a flurry of skirts to obey her mistress but stopped short of the door, turning.
“If I may say, my lady, though there is no love potion that can be relied upon, there are ways to spark forth a man’s desire, if that is perhaps what you mean by love... .”
Mirabella’s heart thudded. If she could not have Alec’s love, could she settle for his desire, for his caress, his kisses, his embrace?
There was no meditating on the answer.
She regarded Nan, a savior in servant’s garb.
“What do I need to do?”
Nan smiled, looking down at her cup of wine, which
now swirled with possibilities.
23
The morning of 20 February dawned cool and crisp. It was a historical day, the day of new beginnings for England, the coronation of boy-king Edward VI. Alec, who had worked alongside Cranmer with tireless devotion to help make this day possible, stood among the throng that awaited the child’s arrival at Westminster Abbey, his heart swollen with pride. Mirabella stood beside him, her natural intensity traded for a strange benevolence of late. Alec cast a sidelong glance at the woman who had become his wife. For the first time he was able to regard her without the usual churning of resentment in his gut. She was an attractive woman; this he had known since she was a girl. Yet at thirty-three her rich dark hair remained untouched by time, her skin was smooth, her figure, unmarred from childbearing, remained trim. Alec could admit that, in her rich green velvet gown with slashed sleeves to reveal fitted undersleeves of pale yellow, his adversary was indeed quite beautiful. A wave of pity overcame him as her life played out before his mind’s eye—bastard daughter of an earl and a nun, betrayed all her life long by secrets intended to protect, and forever steered by a lost cause. On peculiar instinct, Alec reached out to her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and drawing her close, as if in that quick embrace he could gather the girl and not the woman Mirabella to him, the girl he had known when first he came to Sumerton.
Mirabella started at the touch, then tipped her head to him. Her green eyes swam with a mingling of shock and ... he could not discern the emotions. A plea, perhaps. Tears knotted a painful lump in his throat. God, what they had come to... .
Mirabella leaned her head against his shoulder a moment, before he withdrew his arm to point at the entourage that bore the young Edward.
“He comes!” Alec exclaimed. A rush of excitement flushed his tingling cheeks. The tears in his throat vanished as he watched the grand procession.