Mirabella could not seem to summon an argument against Cecily’s cool reserve so stood a moment; her helplessness translated into the silence, almost stirring Cecily to compassion. It was a fleeting sensation. She only had to recall Mirabella’s recent betrayals and conniving, never too far from her mind, to quell the notion.
“Is that all, Mirabella?” Cecily prompted, taking up her embroidery once more.
Mirabella offered a slow nod. “I suppose it is.”
She quit the room.
Cecily’s embroidery blurred as tears flooded her vision, tears she would never allow Mirabella to see, tears that were for her and for the friendship that was forever lost.
22
My dear Alec,
It is with the heaviest of hearts that I hear of your plight. There is no sense lecturing you on the decision you have made, I am certain you are punished enough. I cannot say myself how I would fare were martyrdom in question so I will not be such a hypocrite as to judge your actions. The flock has lost a shepherd few can rival, but I am certain God is not finished with you, my friend. Keep the faith that you remain part of His divine will and plan.
I am compelled to share my disappointment that my missive intervening in your case did not arrive until after the measures you took to resolve this unfortunate business. It seems poor Lady Sumerton’s visit to Lambeth Palace was in vain. I suppose I have as much trouble turning things to God’s will as the next man.
Take heart, Alec. I cannot but keep hope that you will return to your calling sooner than later. You must know I will do all in my power to help you. Until then I remain …
Your obedient servant,
T. Cranmer
Archbishop of Canterbury
The hand that held the letter shook as Alec Cahill’s eyes scanned the second paragraph again and again. Cecily had gone to London. Cecily had made an appeal on his behalf, not by scheming or deceit but by love and conviction. And Cranmer, his beloved friend, would have helped him. Would have saved him, perhaps. But they were both too late.
Anger surged through him, anger at the circumstances that quickly converted to anger at God. How could He allow this to happen? Should he have just burned? Now he was without calling and soon without the comfort of a profession now that Cecily was sending the children away. He was cursed, as cursed as Job ever was without any of the saint’s patient acceptance of loss. No matter how he tried to analyse it, he could not come to anything resembling an understanding of why all had come to pass as it did. It all seemed so unnecessary. So futile.
Since his marriage, if indeed the farcical union could be called such, the month before, he had avoided Cecily as much as Mirabella, interacting with the children and few others.
He could not hide any longer.
Letter in hand, he went to Cecily, who lived out much of her days in either her chambers or the nursery. He found her in the latter, rocking little Emmy to sleep. He gazed down at the unfortunate child, almost too big for her cradle now, and reached down to touch her cheek. His heart stirred with a peculiar longing he could not identify.
Cecily raised her eyes to him; they were teal mirrors of sadness. Alec swallowed a lump swelling his throat.
“I have been a bad friend to you, my lady,” he told her, his tone huskier than usual as he sat beside her on the window seat. “I have been so caught up in my own shame and regret that I have been in hiding. And that is wrong.”
“We have all been in hiding,” Cecily said. “Tending our wounds in our own private hells.” She sighed, reaching over to cover his hand with her own. There was a strange comfort in the gesture; in it there were no expectations. He laced his fingers through hers.
“I did not know you appealed to Archbishop Cranmer until today,” Alec confessed then. He indicated the letter with an incline of his head. “If only …”
“No ‘if onlys’, Alec,” Cecily insisted, squeezing his hand. “Else you will drown in them.” She shook her head. “I saw no point in telling you.” She offered a feeble smile. “But I am glad that you know.”
Alec turned on the seat, taking both her hands in his. “I have never railed at God’s will so much as now. No matter how I try, I cannot wrap my mind about the sequence of events.”
“It isn’t God’s will, all this,” Cecily told him. “It was Mirabella’s. God allowed it to happen to teach us something, though I am hard pressed to discern the lesson myself.” She sighed. “As it is there are too many present concerns to waste a moment dwelling on even the recent past. I have to get the children settled with the Hapgoods.”
“Oh, my Lady Cecily, would that you could keep them with us,” Alec lamented. “They are my favourite, and at times only, diversion.” He sighed. “But I suppose it is not fitting keeping them here with a deranged half sister and her fool of a husband.” He almost choked on the last word.
Cecily bit her lip, shaking her head. “No, Alec, it is not fitting,” she admitted. “And my Lord Hal would have wanted it this way. He wanted them to see more of this kingdom and learn; it is for his wishes and their health and happiness that I am compelled to carry on with this.” She averted her head.
Alec reached out, turning her to face him with a gentle hand on her cheek. “I am so sorry our decisions have brought such unhappiness to Sumerton, to all of us, that such action is now necessary.”
She pursed her lips a moment, blinking several times. “It cannot be undone,” she said in soft tones. “We can all of us only move onward and hope for better days ahead.”
Alec gathered her in his arms, holding her fast. “Oh, my lady, at times it seems God is cruel,” he said, his voice breaking.
Cecily pulled away, meeting his eyes. “No,” she told him, her voice tremulous with conviction. “We are the cruel ones; we mock God with our free will instead of following His and now we cry because we are paying for it.”
Alec could only nod in agreement. Once again, Cecily proved correct. Whether tied to the old ways or the New Learning, Cecily remained closer to God than all of them.
It was reassuring and defeating at once.
Hapgood House was situated on the coast of Devon; the children would be almost as far south from Sumerton as was conceivable in Cecily’s mind. Though the region was primarily set in the old ways, the Hapgoods remained obedient to their king and seemed altogether unruffled by the religious climate, a fact Cecily found reassuring.
Despite the bleakness of January and a journey that seemed interminably long and uncomfortable, Cecily could see that spring would reveal a beautiful seaside haven for her children. Indeed, it was the perfect backdrop to grow up by. As Christmas through Twelfth Night proved to be every bit as steeped in muted despair and awkwardness as Cecily had imagined, the journey became an anticipated event and prospect of excitement for the children. The change of scene helped alleviate the sting of mourning and even Kristina perked at her first sight of the rolling grey sea.
Cecily remained with the children the first week to help acclimate them and acquaint herself more with their keepers. They seemed fine people, if a little overwhelmed by their own children, six girls and four boys, all ranging from ages four to seventeen. Sir Richard Hapgood, a justice of the peace with considerable landholdings, and his wife, Lady Beatrice, an able chatelaine of the bustling household, were in their mid-forties. She reminded Cecily of the evolved Lady Grace, with her forward, no-nonsense manner. They were a hospitable family rife with joyous chaos. Cecily knew by the end of the week what she had suspected all along: that her children were in a good place.
The farewells were tearful, the good-byes laced in uncertainty. When would they see one another again? How much would the children have grown? Would they still love her or would they begin to forget her? How long would it be before her children became polite, noble little strangers? Cecily could not bear to think any more in this vein and comforted herself with the fact that Harry and Kristina were swarmed with Hapgood children to distract them the moment her carriage pulled away.
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But Cecily gazed out the window until the mass of playing children became an indistinguishable dot against the horizon and the coast faded into the sea.
God keep you, my children. …
To cope with the new quietude Harry and Kristina’s absence left Sumerton in, Cecily busied herself with the mundane—the ledgers, the mending, the candle making, the tenants. She was grateful little Emmy was left behind; she could not have endured a house completely void of children, and her younger daughter proved a comfort to her.
And then as January drew to a close, the bells tolled the most extraordinary news.
“He’s dead!” Mirabella cried as she burst into the bower where Cecily had been mending. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips curved into a smile.
Cecily regarded her, puzzled by her happy delivery of news of a death and wondered just how mad Hal’s daughter had become.
“King Henry, Cecily! He’s dead!” Mirabella told her, raising her eyebrows and nodding.
Cecily looked past her to see Alec in the doorway. Her smile beckoned him forth.
“It’s true, my lady,” he told her. “Long live King Edward VI!” he added with a small smile of his own.
“Long live King Edward!” Cecily and Mirabella parroted. “Poor little boy,” Cecily commented. “To lose your father at nine is difficult enough.” She thought of her own Harry. “Let alone to inherit a kingdom in turmoil. What’s going to happen now?” This she directed at Alec.
“His uncle Edward Seymour, now created Duke of Somerset no less, serves as lord protector,” Alec said. “And the Seymours move quickly. The Howards were put down just before His late Majesty’s death; the Earl of Surrey was beheaded on the nineteenth. The Duke of Norfolk lives, however; the king neglected to sign his death warrant. So he sits with a handful of influential papists in the Tower.”
Mirabella shot him a glance at this. “I suppose you think this a good thing?” she demanded. “No doubt the Seymours will see to it that any traces of the True Faith are wiped off English soil forever.”
The sarcastic twist of Alec’s lips that served as a smile was not lost on Cecily. “This is a positive stride for the Church of England, yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“What an exciting time this must be for the archbishop,” Cecily breathed, knowing how important Cranmer was to Alec and how much this transition in power meant to him and his cause.
Alec’s eyes softened with wistfulness. “Indeed an exciting time for us all.”
“We should remove to London,” Cecily proposed suddenly. “Take Emmy and perhaps even Lady Grace and open Sumerton Place.”
“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 travellers. 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 b
reaking 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 immobilised 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 honour. “I am at your disposal, Your Grace.”
Betrayal in the Tudor Court Page 32