Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  “Mother!” Brey cried, running toward her, throwing his arms about her tiny waist. She was caught off balance and the boy all but held her up in his strong embrace.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as her eyes met those of Cecily, who offered an encouraging smile. Father Alec, who had been playing chess with Cecily, rose and offered an elegant bow.

  Mirabella stood by the fire, her face sombre.

  Lady Grace held out a hand to her.

  Mirabella remained where she was. “Do you expect me to congratulate you on doing something you should have done years ago?” Her tone was laced with bitterness.

  “Mirabella!” Brey cried.

  Lady Grace’s arm fell to her side. “No, it is all right. Mirabella is … correct.”

  Mirabella bowed her head. “Still, it is good to see you about, my lady,” she told her in grudging tones.

  “Thank you,” Lady Grace said.

  Father Alec addressed the matter at hand. “Are you certain you would want to make such a long trip, Lady Grace? It might be quite taxing.”

  “I want to go,” said Lady Grace. “And the children deserve to go. We have all been shut up here long enough. And,” she added in thoughtful tones, “if I do not leave here now I never will. Those who were in attendance that night will scoff. Let them scoff. They will whisper. Let them whisper. I will go.”

  “Oh, Lady Grace!” Cecily cried as she joined Brey in embracing her again. “We will all take care of you!”

  “I am happily outnumbered,” said Lord Hal as he cast fond eyes upon his wife. “I suppose we best get packing.”

  With this the children and priest left the room to sort through their belongings and prepare for the most exciting event in the kingdom.

  Grace was about to do likewise when Hal caught her hands.

  “Grace … you have no idea how proud of you I am,” he told her, his voice wavering with tears. “I admit that I had given up on you. I am sorry.”

  “You were right to give up,” said Grace. “I did.”

  “Is this our new start?” he asked her, his eyes lit with hope.

  Grace nodded. “Yes, Hal. This is our new start.”

  Hal drew her toward him, then pulled back. She was so fragile; he could feel every bone.

  “Come now, you won’t break me,” Grace teased in sad tones.

  He drew her near once more, holding her for a long time.

  Cecily had never been to London before. The manor on the Strand overlooked the sparkling Thames and Cecily could watch the river traffic, a procession of barges making their way to the Tower of London, ships, and little rowboats containing delightful characters. The elegant manor stood as an understatement compared to the palaces that lined the famous street. Nonetheless, it was beautiful with its collection of Italian art of which Lord Hal was so fond. Sumerton Place had its own courtyard bearing lush gardens and a large fountain with porpoises on it that had been a gift from the Duke of Norfolk, a reward to Lord Hal’s father for fighting beside him at Flodden Field, where was slain James IV, King of Scots. Cecily marvelled that they did not visit the manor more often; she could not imagine returning to the isolation of the countryside when they could be so close to the happenings of court.

  There was not a more exciting place in the world, Cecily decided as they prepared to ride in the procession that would traverse Queen Anne from Cheapside to Westminster Hall. Merchants peddling souvenirs to commemorate the special event, ladies and gentleman of the nobility, urchins waiting to pick pockets, clerics and prelates, soldiers and shining knights, horses trimmed in the colours of their noble owners, cats and rats scampering about, eager to feast on any delicacy dropped in their midst.

  The streets, indeed the whole place, teemed with activity, with life.

  “Overflowing to stinking,” Lord Hal muttered as he surveyed the throng for the grand procession, but he was smiling.

  They had brought an entourage of their own for the ride, bedecked in the Pierce colours of yellow and white. Cecily’s horse and attendants wore her colours as Baroness Burkhart of brown and orange. In her russet gown with its brown kirtle threaded with cloth of gold and matching hood, Cecily felt every inch the grand lady. Mirabella, though disapproving of the whole enterprise, was dressed in her yellow and white gown and earned many an appreciative glance. She turned her nose up at each and every one while Cecily waved, thrilled to be favoured with such open admiration.

  At Cheapside Cecily took the opportunity to scrutinise her new queen. She had never seen the old one, who was rumoured to be quite beautiful in her time but after years of strife and suffering became overweight and dowdy. This queen was the antithesis of such descriptions. Bedecked in cloth of gold and wrapped in yards of soft ermine, the queen allowed her raven black hair to trail down her back in sleek waves brushed to a glossy sheen. On her dainty head was a bejeweled circlet and on her alabaster face a triumphant grin. Something about her features reminded Cecily of a mischievous and very satisfied cat. From the comfort of her litter, also swathed in cloth of gold, Queen Anne waved and blessed her new subjects, who seemed none too receptive.

  Cecily’s heart sank. It seemed a shame to think that after years of waiting to become queen she should not be received with more enthusiasm. She was what the king wanted, after all, and it was the duty of his people to accept her. Though a few doffed their caps, most stood silent, their faces a mingling of bewilderment and disgust.

  At one point Cecily heard the queen’s fool shout, “You all must have scurvy heads, since you so fear removing your caps!”

  Cecily cried, “God save the queen!” with extra enthusiasm, encouraging Brey to do likewise.

  Mirabella rode her horse, silent, head bowed.

  Cecily ignored her show of disrespect, turning to take in all around her. Tapestries were hung everywhere and the queen’s badge bearing her falcon symbol was in every corner the eye could fall upon. Hans Holbein, the renowned court painter, had designed a beautiful arch where a tableau was being performed. Apollo and the four Muses played instruments and sang, each a remarkable display of talent. Cecily clapped her hands, enthralled by the sight.

  All throughout the procession they were treated to similar displays of choirs and pageants. Cecily’s heart raced and her head tingled as she marvelled that they were included in such an event.

  “Look!” cried Brey as he pointed to one of the conduits. “Wine!”

  Cecily’s eyes widened in awe. “Is there nothing King Henry cannot do?” she cried in delight.

  “Nothing,” Father Alec murmured, taking in the sights about him with the same interest. But his eyes were not wide with awe. There was something else in them, something Cecily could not quite decipher.

  It was very akin to fear.

  The next day they witnessed Queen Anne’s coronation at Westminster Abbey. Cecily was able to get a closer look at the woman King Henry so desired. She was small, save for the curving belly she displayed with pride, with tapering limbs and delicate hands.

  “Where’s the sixth finger?” Brey whispered.

  Cecily searched for the rumoured deformity, but to her dismay, the queen’s hands were hidden beneath her resplendent sleeves. She shrugged and placed a finger to her lips, urging Brey to hold his peace.

  Under a cloth of gold canopy the queen walked with measured steps. Her train was carried by her cousin the delicate Mary Howard. It was said the queen’s aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk, so disapproved of the new queen that she refused to attend. Cecily’s heart churned in sympathy. It must be difficult being Anne Boleyn.

  Queen Anne took her place in St. Edward’s Chair and allowed the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown her. The choir burst out in a Te Deum and Cecily’s heart thrilled with delight at the sound.

  She turned toward Father Alec, whose wide hazel eyes were lit with tears as he regarded the scene.

  But he was not regarding the queen.

  His eyes had fallen upon another, one whose face bespoke eternal gentleness.<
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  Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.

  After the coronation they attended a celebratory feast at Westminster Hall. It was a strange affair, uncomfortable for Lord Hal and Lady Grace, the latter of whom was avoided by all and who with trembling hands tried to sip sparingly from the cup of wine before her, though her eyes lit with undisguised desire for it.

  Mirabella, claiming fatigue, had been allowed to be escorted to the manor by her guard. It was just as well.

  “Now she can’t spoil it for us,” Brey told Cecily, who could not help but giggle, though she chastised herself for being uncharitable.

  Course after course was served and Cecily ate her fill, taking in the splendour of the court that ushered in the new reign of Anna Regina. The Duke of Suffolk, the king’s brother-in-law and steward for the evening, still was handsome at forty-eight as he made sure everything was to the queen’s pleasure. The queen’s cousin Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, also attended. Three years Cecily’s senior, Surrey, though married, stole several admiring glances her way throughout the evening. He was a handsome lad with his aquiline nose and penetrating dark eyes. Cecily offered him a bright smile. She did not know how to flirt but, as she watched the lords and ladies about her, thought this just the place to learn.

  The next day jousts were held at York Place. Cecily and Brey clapped and hooted in the stands as they watched the champions tilt each other. The gleam of the armour, the sweet smell of upturned grass, the clank of the lances against shields thrilled them, and their voices rose in a chorus of gleeful anticipation as they speculated on who would prove victorious.

  Brey reached out to still her clapping hand at one point, leaning over to whisper, “And someday when I am here, besting all the champions with my lance, will I be carrying your token?”

  Cecily scrunched up her shoulders and giggled. She squeezed his hand. “No one else, Brey,” she told him, and on impulse leaned in to kiss his cheek. Brey had turned his head, however, and their lips brushed against each other’s for the briefest of moments.

  Cecily pulled back, flushing deep rose with embarrassment. She bowed her head.

  Brey had averted his head and was making a show of cheering on the jousters.

  Cecily pressed a hand to her tummy, which, for some reason, would not stop quivering deep within.

  “Well, I cannot wait to get back,” Mirabella said, allowing the maid to undress her as she readied for bed that evening. “Such extravagance and waste. Can you imagine if the king invested what he spent on the coronation into charity for the poor? The coronation banquet alone could have fed hundreds for months!” She shook her head. “Sheer waste.”

  Cecily was shamed. It was a waste. Guilt surged through her as she tried to stop reliving what, to her, had been the happiest, most exciting event of her life. Was she a creature of vanity? Did she not care for the world and her fellow man as much as Mirabella? Tears stung her eyes.

  “Would that we all could be treated to such a testament of someone’s undying love,” was all she could think of to say.

  Mirabella grunted in response. “The king’s love is famously fickle,” she said. “Oh, Cecily, but you aren’t thinking of the king, are you? You are thinking of Brey. I saw what happened at the joust.”

  Cecily flushed. “I suppose you have been rehearsing my scolding.”

  Mirabella’s eyes widened. “On the contrary, I was pleased. Do you know how rare it is for one’s love and one’s betrothed to be the same person?”

  Cecily regarded Mirabella, awed that she showed some capacity for understanding. “You mean … you aren’t angry with us?”

  “Of course not,” Mirabella said. “I am relieved and happy. I wish nothing but happiness for you and my brother.”

  Cecily threw her arms about Mirabella, who returned the embrace.

  It seemed London brought about all sorts of unexpected joys.

  The next day was to be devoted to hunting with the court, but Brey woke up nauseated, plagued with a terrible stomachache and remained abed.

  “All this rich food,” Lord Hal told him in jovial tones. “We eat good but never this good!” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like us to stay?”

  Brey shook his head. His brow glistened with sweat. “For what? To watch me sleep? Go ahead. Cecily should be among her own; this has been such a treat for her. And it’s good for us, too, for our name.” He grimaced in pain and gestured for his father to leave.

  “Where’s Father Alec? Perhaps he can sit beside you,” Lord Hal suggested.

  “He’s been at Westminster Abbey, probably bribing someone to allow him audience with Archbishop Cranmer.” Brey laughed. “He’s mad with admiration for the man.”

  Lord Hal chuckled. “I suppose he needed a little time to himself, too. Ah, well, then, if there isn’t anything you need—”

  “Go on, Father. Really. I’ll be fine with Mirabella,” Brey assured him, waving him away with a hand.

  Lord Hal leaned in and kissed his golden hair. “We’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

  Brey smiled to his father’s retreating back and, once certain he was gone, drew his knees to his chest in agony. Deep in his gut, on the right side almost near his leg, something clenched and twisted him into knots of pain. It was excruciating. He could not imagine what he could have eaten to cause such severe indigestion.

  Mirabella attended him with soothing words and cool compresses, but nothing helped. Soon he was retching into the chamber pot.

  “I should fetch a physician,” Mirabella said.

  “So they can tell me I ate too many artichokes?” Brey countered, with a weak chuckle. He clutched his right side, which rebelled against any attempt at laughter.

  “It’s more than that, Brey.” Mirabella’s brows furrowed in concern. “Something is wrong.”

  “Nothing some small ale won’t cure,” he said. “Be a lamb and get me a cup, won’t you?”

  Mirabella backed away, her face lit with fear as she regarded her brother’s writhing form.

  Nonetheless, she went to do his bidding.

  When she returned, she sat at his bedside. “Here, Brey. Small ale.”

  No movement. The tension in Mirabella’s shoulders eased. Perhaps he had found some relief in sleep. She reached out to stroke his face.

  Something did not feel right.

  “Brey?”

  She shook his shoulder. Stillness.

  “Brey!”

  In a terror, she leaned in. No breath. She placed her fingers against his neck. The throb of life had ceased.

  Brey was dead.

  Lord Hal, Lady Grace, and Cecily returned from a happy day of hunting in the company of a young, merry court. Though they were not joined by the king and queen today, the day was just as dazzling and Cecily found herself taken in by the glamorous ladies and handsome lords in attendance. How she wished Brey could have been there! What fun they would have had together sharing their observations!

  They returned to Sumerton Place to find Father Alec waiting. His handsome face was drawn, his hazel eyes lit with unshed tears.

  “Father!” Cecily cried, immediately concerned.

  “What is it, Father?” Lady Grace asked, taking his hand. “Are you well?”

  Father Alec shook his head. He took her hands in his. “My lady … dearest Lady Grace … Lord Hal …” His eyes scanned the anxious faces. He squeezed the thin hands in his. “You must be very strong for what I am about to tell you. Rely on the Lord to give you the strength.”

  “Out with it, Father!” Lord Hal demanded.

  Father Alec squeezed his eyes shut. “It is Brey … he has been called to the Lord.”

  Silence. Then, from Cecily, “No! No! You are wrong! Why would you say such a wicked thing? You are wrong!”

  “Lady Cecily—”

  He could not give her his attention, for at that moment Lady Grace slumped to the floor, unconscious. Lord Hal took to her side, gathering her in his arms, sobbing.
“Oh, God, no! Not Brey! Not Brey!”

  “What happened? He just had a stomachache!” cried Cecily, approaching Father Alec to seize his wrist. Her teal eyes shone bright with tearful accusations.

  Father Alec shook his head. “I do not know, my lady.”

  “Didn’t Mirabella call for a physician?” Lord Hal cried.

  “She did, but it was too late,” Father Alec told him. “It—it was God’s will,” he added helplessly, knowing this was the least comforting of any answer he could supply and cursing himself for supplying it anyway.

  “Oh, Grace.” Lord Hal turned his eyes to his wife, who lay limp in his arms, her breathing shallow, her eyes moving restlessly beneath closed lids. “What are we going to do?”

  Cecily rested her fingers on her lips, her eyes searching the space above Lord Hal’s head for answers.

  “Take Lady Grace to her apartments, my lord,” Father Alec said in gentle tones. “Once she is settled, see to Brey. We shall return home directly that he might receive a proper interment. I shall send a messenger with all the instructions.”

  Obedient as a child, Lord Hal rose to do as he was bid, Lady Grace in his arms.

  Cecily continued to stare at the vacant spot at the foot of the stairwell.

  “Lady Cecily,” Father Alec began. “Oh, my lady, I am so sorry.”

  Tears spilled onto Cecily’s cheeks, rolling and tumbling over one another, racing toward sorrow. “Brey … how could it be? He was here this morning.” Her voice was soft, puzzled. She furrowed her brows in confusion. “I do not understand. We were laughing together yesterday. The joust—” She clenched her eyes shut. “Oh, God, the joust …”

  “My child!” Father Alec cried, unable to bear her pain any longer. He rushed forward, taking her in his arms and holding her tight. She sobbed against his chest. He stroked her silky rose-gold hair. “God will grant us the courage to persevere. He always does. We are made strong through Him—you must believe it.”

  “I know you speak true,” Cecily murmured against his robes. “But these words bring me no comfort. Just now, there is naught to do but mourn.”

  Father Alec could think of no response. She was right, of course. There was naught to do but let mourning run its natural, healing course. But would they ever heal from this? He squeezed his eyes shut against an onset of tears. He did not want to think of the future without happy, golden Brey.