The Sumerton Women (35 page)
“ ‘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.
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... .
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.
? 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.
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.
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