The Sumerton Women (10 page)
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.
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 Judgment 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 colors 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.”
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 favor 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.
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