Betrayal in the Tudor Court

by Darcey Bonnette

  He held little Cecily close, drawing what comfort he could from her and hoping she could do the same.

  Mirabella had kept vigil by her brother’s bedside. After the physician came and left she had bathed Brey herself, preparing him for his long rest until the Lord came to claim his sweet soul on Judgement Day. When Father Alec returned from the abbey he had tearfully anointed him and together they had sat, hand in hand, praying for gentle Brey.

  Now that Father Alec was with the rest of the family and she was alone, she felt a peculiar comfort wash over her. Brey was gone and yet more than ever she felt his presence, gentle and encouraging. His death was a sign to her, the sign she had needed but did not want, not in this form, that it was far past time for her to pursue her destiny.

  After Brey’s interment she would enter the convent and no one would stop her.

  Until then she would try to be what comfort she could to her family and poor little Cecily, who would no doubt be lost without her bosom companion.

  But now, just now, she wanted to be alone. She wanted to be with her brother.

  She took his hand, holding it in hers, casting her eyes at the face, so serene in his eternal sleep. Such potential, now gone, all gone. She could not think of it.

  It was God’s will. She must tell herself that.

  She believed it, truly.

  The family broke fast the next day in silence. None were attired in black as they had not brought mourning clothes with them. It seemed a mockery to go on donning the colours of life when one of the liveliest things in their world was no more.

  Father Alec, struggling to remain collected, shifted his eyes from one member of the family to another in growing concern. Lady Grace drank cup after cup of wine undeterred. Lord Hal stared at his plate, picking at his bread with fumbling fingers. Mirabella did not eat but sat, staring at the table before her without seeing it. Cecily, her eyes swollen and red from sobbing the night through, her lips puffy and nose chapped, held her piece of cheese without eating it.

  “There is nothing left now,” Lady Grace said, breaking the suffocating silence with her low voice as she stared into her empty cup.

  “More wine?” a servant asked.

  Lady Grace scowled, waving the servant away. She shook her head, pushing her cup away from her. It fell on its side with a clatter, causing Cecily to start and Mirabella to avert her head.

  “Nothing!” Lady Grace screamed.

  “My lady—” Father Alec began.

  “No!” Cecily clenched her fists, rising. “You still have your daughter. You cannot forget her!”

  Lady Grace fixed Mirabella with a hard glare. Then, to everyone’s horror, she began to laugh. She rose. “I have no daughter.” She smiled. “As I said. I have nothing.”

  “Grace!” Lord Hal seized her wrist. Lady Grace withdrew it.

  Mirabella stared at Lady Grace, her mouth agape, her eyes filled with tears. “You cannot mean it, my lady. For all that has been, I am always your daughter. Please … take comfort in me.”

  Lady Grace shook her head, her disconcerting laughter low in her throat. “You are not mine. You have never been mine. You belong to your father, that much is so. But I am not your mother.”

  “Stop!” Lord Hal commanded.

  But it was too late. The words were out.

  Lady Grace tipped back her head and laughed. The grating, joyless sound pierced Father Alec’s ears. “Ask your father about her. Who was she, Hal? Ah, yes. Julia was her name. The daughter of his father’s treasurer. The jewel of his family, his gift to the Church. Sister Julia. So holy. So pure. So irresistible to the lusts of a hot-blooded nobleman.”

  “For God’s sake, Grace!” Lord Hal screamed.

  Mirabella quit the table, Lord Hal chasing after her.

  Cecily sat, stunned and trembling.

  Lady Grace’s face went slack. She held out her cup. Wordlessly, a servant filled it.

  Father Alec shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the scene. At last he sighed. “Perhaps, since you found it appropriate to favour the young ones with this knowledge now, you would like to explain further to Lady Cecily,” he said at last.

  Lady Grace regarded the startled girl before her, her heart clenching in agony. What had she done? All that she was capable of doing, it seemed. Wreaking havoc, destroying lives. But she did nothing that had not been done to her! Was she not destroyed, irreversibly destroyed, years ago? Since then she had slowly degenerated into despair.

  And now she was required to explain.

  “You were never to know,” Hal told Mirabella, who lay face-down on her bed, sobbing, her shoulders quaking as he sat beside her to rub her back. “It had been agreed to long ago, to save us all. To save you. And your mother.”

  “Which one?” Mirabella seethed as she sat up, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, the gaze she fixed upon her father accusatory.

  Hal bowed his head, his heart sinking. “Both, I suppose.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Julia was the daughter of my father’s treasurer, it is true. She was set to enter the convent; it was her calling, like you. I was newly married to Grace then, a woman I had not set eyes on till my wedding day. Julia Grayson had been a childhood companion and it so happened that she grew into a beautiful woman—”

  “This talk is vile,” Mirabella spat, her voice thick with horror.

  “Yes, Mirabella, it is vile. It is shameful and all that is bad. But you must know,” said Hal. “I cannot undo what has been done. Now that you know the truth some sense of it must be made.”

  Mirabella was silent.

  Hal continued. “I was drunk when it happened. Had been out with the lads. My memory of the actual night is so hazy … suddenly all I knew is that I was with her. It was one time only.”

  “You … violated her?” Mirabella’s voice was low as the realisation settled upon her. She shook her head. “Only one time? As if it would make a difference if it were one time or a hundred for what you stole from her! One time. That is all it took? One time?” She clicked her tongue in incredulous disgust.

  Hal nodded, his face wrought with shame. “My father told me from my earliest childhood days till manhood to rise above my peers, to hold myself to a higher standard: God’s standard. He said that women were creatures of God to be protected and cherished, never misused as many men are wont to do, and that few sins were as selfish and wicked as adultery. I failed my father; I fell short of everything he taught me. I failed God. And in that failing my guilt has plagued me; no self-imposed torture is enough to expiate it. I have repented for that ‘one time’ ever since. I have begged God for a forgiveness I am not worthy of, but, Mirabella, you must know how sorry I am for taking that woman’s innocence. I have worn a hair shirt since that day. I—”

  “It does not matter,” Mirabella said, shaking her head. “You took what was not yours, a gift that was saved for God alone, and you broke your marriage vows to do it.”

  Hal bowed his head, tears trailing slow, even paths down his cheeks. “Yes. I deserve all of your hatred.”

  “You have it,” Mirabella said, her tears dry, her voice hard. “Tell me what happened to my mother.”

  “She was with child,” Hal said. “She kept it to herself a long while. She still planned to enter the convent after the child was born. It was kept quiet. A dowry was arranged that no abbess could refuse and I would raise the child—you—acknowledged. It was only right and fair. I would not let my child be raised by anyone else. I had brought you into this world and would be responsible.”

  “And Mother?” Mirabella inquired. “Or should I say ‘Lady Grace’?”

  “I went along with the plan,” Lady Grace told Cecily, who sat silent, riveted by the haunting tale. “What else could I do? I was not about to be disgraced by a bastard, legitimised or not. Better the child be seen as mine. I had heard of other women humiliated by their husbands who allowed their bastards by servant wenches run of the house. I would not be one of them. So the servants were dis
missed and our house was run with a skeleton staff. I had taken on peculiar fancies during my ‘condition’ and could not abide any number of people about. I padded my gowns and received guests. But I never allowed servants to attend me—it was odd, of course, and earned its share of gossip. But it was a small sacrifice compared to what life would be if the truth came out.

  “As for Mistress Julia, she was housed in a cottage with a well-paid midwife, who delivered ‘my’ daughter, bringing her to me under the cover of night. Thank God she hadn’t been born a boy or Hal would have gone so far as to make her his heir, no doubt,” she added as tears gathered like storm clouds in her eyes. “But I had Brey. I had the heir. And now he is gone. Gone.” She raised her eyes to Cecily. “Now you see why I have nothing.”

  Cecily shook her head. “But you do not. You chose to live as Mirabella’s mother; it did not have to be. She could have been raised by a nurse and still be acknowledged as Lord Hal’s. The gossip would have faded; your dignity could have been spared in your character, in how you handled the crisis. Instead you lived a lie, allowing the hatred to cripple you until you caused more agony for yourself than need be. Because of that you have become a source of gossip anyway. Mirabella is not to blame for that. She is not to blame for any of it; you cannot punish her for her father’s sins.”

  “You do not understand!” Lady Grace cried, slamming her fist on the table. “I wanted to love her! I tried to love her! But from the moment she was born all I could see was that woman. She served as a constant reminder of my husband’s indiscretion, taking after her mother in every way, from her looks to her fervent devotion to God. She has mocked my good intentions at every turn! She has been nothing but an affront to me!”

  Cecily bowed her head. Too much pain. She was drowning in it. She covered her ears with her hands and allowed her head to sink onto the table.

  She could not bear to hear more.

  Father Alec drew in a breath. His voice was soft. “If your mission today was to make everyone feel as aggrieved as you, my lady, you have been successful,” he said at last.

  Grace pushed back her chair, letting it fall to the floor behind her with an angry thud as she fled the table.

  “Do you believe I am sorry, Mirabella?” Hal asked his daughter in urgent tones as he seized her by the shoulders. She withdrew with a jerk. Hal’s hands fell limp and useless to his lap. God, she was afraid of him. He did not want her to be afraid of him. “Ever since that terrible night I have tried to make it up to you by giving you the best life I could think of, with the best of everything—gowns, tutors, anything. I have tried to make it up to Lady Grace, to the convent, to everyone I sinned against. I’d make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem if I thought it would expiate my sins. I would do anything. Oh, Mirabella, please forgive me.”

  “I am bound by God to forgive you,” Mirabella said in hollow tones. “But you cannot think that anything will ever be the same between us.”

  Hal buried his head in his hand. “No … I could never expect that.” He reached up to stroke her face. Mirabella pulled away. “Can you understand the depth of my remorse?”

  “It is not important for me to believe how sorry you are,” said Mirabella. “But for God. He alone can read the sincerity of your heart. I pray for your sake you are as repentant as you appear.”

  Hal nodded. He sniffled. “I do love you, Mirabella. It matters not how you came to be but that you are mine. I have never viewed you as anything but a gift from God.”

  Mirabella nodded to acknowledge the statement. When Hal could see she would say no more he rose. With one last look at her, he made his retreat.

  Mirabella flopped back on her bed, staring at the canopy until it became obscured by a veil of tears.

  6

  Day yielded to night. Cecily crept into Mirabella’s apartments and the two girls held each other, sobbing themselves to sleep. Father Alec sat up with Hal in his apartments while Hal begged for absolution. Father Alec, who knew the man was sincere if nothing else, gave it. He had known the story since Lady Grace’s infamous display at her last entertainment so many years ago. He could not say he was shocked. Such things happened with more frequency than one supposed.

  “The damndest thing, Father, is that I do love Grace,” he said. “Yet I failed. I failed her. I failed everyone. God knows how I’ve tried to make it up to her. …”

  “It seems to me you are both to blame,” Father Alec observed. “You have been at odds, her with her drink, you with your guilt … it has separated you far more than Mirabella or the initial betrayal ever could. And now with Brey’s passing … it will take a long time to heal from this. But if you want to, if you both have the desire, you can. All of you. I would very much like to help you.”

  “I accept the offer, Father,” Hal told him. “God knows how much we need it.”

  Father Alec reached out, taking his friend’s hand. “Jeremiah chapter twenty-nine, verse eleven, tells us: ‘For I know the plans I have made for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans for hope and a future.’ ”

  Hal bowed his head over their joined hands and sobbed.

  Grace could not sleep. Memories swirled in her mind, relentless, comforting, painful. She recalled when she first learned she was with child. She had two miscarriages before Brey and when she felt him stir within her she knew he would live. With each stretch and kick, she revelled in her estate. She would be a mother, a real mother to a child who was hers. Hers and Hal’s and no one else’s. A child born in the light and the truth, not surrounded by darkness and lies. He was born, golden and beautiful, happy and serene. All his life Brey was happy, growing from a happy baby to a happy boy. His laugh was like no other; it was like the tinkling of icicles on the pines. It was heartfelt with sincere joy.

  He was to marry Cecily. Together they would bring her grandchildren and a legacy that she was partially responsible for. Now he was gone. Cecily would marry someone else; she would no longer be a part of them. Mirabella would go; she would join her precious convent. Even if she did not, she would leave. Grace’s actions had chased her away. There would be no redeeming their already-fractured relationship. And Hal … How could Hal ever forgive this? This was to be Their Secret.

  Grace had lost everything.

  She climbed out of bed, throwing her wrap about her shoulders.

  Carefully, noiselessly, Grace slipped out of doors.

  “I have nothing,” she said to the great manor that loomed in the darkness.

  “We cannot leave without her!” Hal cried the next morning as the family prepared for the long, unhappy journey home for Brey’s interment. “Where in hell would she have gone to? Has anyone seen her?”

  Cecily and Mirabella shook their heads. They clung to each other, both fragile and frightened, battered by the whirlwind of events that had left its brutal mark on the last few days.

  At once Hal’s steward rushed in from out of doors, leading in a young, startled boatman.

  “What’s this?” Hal demanded.

  “News, my lord,” said the steward with an apologetic bow.

  “M-milord,” the boatman stammered. “I was in front of your house when it happened. … I had trouble bringing up my oar. Something seemed to be grabbing at it. I jerked it up and … that’s when I saw it. I thought it was riverweeds tangling it up, but it was not. It was a lady’s wrap.” He choked back a sob.

  “No …” Hal whispered to the servant, who offered a reluctant nod.

  Cecily’s shoulders began to convulse with silent sobs. Mirabella held her close, her body rigid as she absorbed this new onslaught of tragedy.

  The two men led Hal to the scene. In the bottom of the boat was a bloodied wrap and a tangle of blond hair. Gingerly, Hal fingered the sopping wrap. His hand trembled when he encountered the hair entwined about the boatman’s oar.

  “Is it hers, my lord—the wrap?” the man asked in anxious tones.

  Hal offered a slow nod, his blue eyes stormy with bewilderment.

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nbsp; “She must have been caught on a branch before the current carried her off,” hazarded the boatman.

  Hal clutched the wrap to his chest. He began to shiver uncontrollably as he sobbed. “Oh, Grace … oh, Grace …” At once he regarded the stunned assemblage, his face lit with an epiphany. “She may have survived,” he ventured at last. “We will alert the proper authorities. Any females of Grace’s description pulled from the Thames shall be examined.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Hal’s steward answered in gentle tones.

  Hal would be appeased. There would be a thorough search. But all knew no one survived the Thames. Brey was gone. Grace was gone. And all in three days. The amount of time it took for the Lord to die and rise from the dead.

  How would Hal ever survive this? Could he ever rise above it?

  After two weeks of Hal dashing off to examine the bloated corpses pulled from the Thames on a daily basis, Father Alec accompanied him to his apartments. He laid a hand on Hal’s shoulder.

  Father Alec’s lips quivered. He did not want to say it. “Hal, we must return to Sumerton. Brey needs to be interred properly. It does not mean we have to stop searching for my lady, but we must at least begin to face the prospect—”

  Hal jerked his shoulder from his friend’s grip, drawing a hand up over his eyes as though by doing so he could blot the latest tragedies from his vision. “I know! By God, I know!” He removed his hand, fixing Father Alec with an angry stare. “And after? After I have faced that I drove my wife to her death? After I have returned her son to his final resting place? Then what?”

  Father Alec bit his lip. Once again, he took Hal’s shoulders beneath his firm grasp. “Then, my dear friend, you keep living. As we all must. There still remain those in your care who depend on you.”

  The priest had to summon all of his willpower to meet the naked pain lighting Hal’s eyes. He held the blue gaze, allowing his own eyes to fill with tears. He reached up, cupping his friend’s cheek in his hand. There were no words for such grief.