The Sumerton Women (36 page)
“What do I need to do?”
Nan smiled, looking down at her cup of wine, which now swirled with possibilities.
23
T
he morning of 20 February dawned cool and crisp. It was a historical day, the day of new beginnings for England, the coronation of boy-king Edward VI. Alec, who had worked alongside Cranmer with tireless devotion to help make this day possible, stood among the throng that awaited the child’s arrival at Westminster Abbey, his heart swollen with pride. Mirabella stood beside him, her natural intensity traded for a strange benevolence of late. Alec cast a sidelong glance at the woman who had become his wife. For the first time he was able to regard her without the usual churning of resentment in his gut. She was an attractive woman; this he had known since she was a girl. Yet at thirty-three her rich dark hair remained untouched by time, her skin was smooth, her figure, unmarred from childbearing, remained trim. Alec could admit that, in her rich green velvet gown with slashed sleeves to reveal fitted undersleeves of pale yellow, his adversary was indeed quite beautiful. A wave of pity overcame him as her life played out before his mind’s eye—bastard daughter of an earl and a nun, betrayed all her life long by secrets intended to protect, and forever steered by a lost cause. On peculiar instinct, Alec reached out to her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and drawing her close, as if in that quick embrace he could gather the girl and not the woman Mirabella to him, the girl he had known when first he came to Sumerton.
he morning of 20 February dawned cool and crisp. It was a historical day, the day of new beginnings for England, the coronation of boy-king Edward VI. Alec, who had worked alongside Cranmer with tireless devotion to help make this day possible, stood among the throng that awaited the child’s arrival at Westminster Abbey, his heart swollen with pride. Mirabella stood beside him, her natural intensity traded for a strange benevolence of late. Alec cast a sidelong glance at the woman who had become his wife. For the first time he was able to regard her without the usual churning of resentment in his gut. She was an attractive woman; this he had known since she was a girl. Yet at thirty-three her rich dark hair remained untouched by time, her skin was smooth, her figure, unmarred from childbearing, remained trim. Alec could admit that, in her rich green velvet gown with slashed sleeves to reveal fitted undersleeves of pale yellow, his adversary was indeed quite beautiful. A wave of pity overcame him as her life played out before his mind’s eye—bastard daughter of an earl and a nun, betrayed all her life long by secrets intended to protect, and forever steered by a lost cause. On peculiar instinct, Alec reached out to her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and drawing her close, as if in that quick embrace he could gather the girl and not the woman Mirabella to him, the girl he had known when first he came to Sumerton.
Mirabella started at the touch, then tipped her head to him. Her green eyes swam with a mingling of shock and ... he could not discern the emotions. A plea, perhaps. Tears knotted a painful lump in his throat. God, what they had come to... .
Mirabella leaned her head against his shoulder a moment, before he withdrew his arm to point at the entourage that bore the young Edward.
“He comes!” Alec exclaimed. A rush of excitement flushed his tingling cheeks. The tears in his throat vanished as he watched the grand procession.
Under his canopy, the boy was accompanied by the premier gentlemen in the land. The Earl of Shrewsbury and Bishop of Durham walked beside him, followed by the ever-present John Dudley and Edward’s beloved uncle, famed rake Thomas Seymour, who carried his train.
Alec watched them file into the abbey, where after his anointing the boy would later climb seven stairs to the dais and sit on the throne, fitted with extra cushions to compensate for his unimposing size.
Cranmer, Alec noted with an inner chuckle, appeared a font of calm after three weeks of being hassled and harried and hoping this day would eclipse every coronation before and after. As he began his address, Alec was tempted to mouth along the words. He had read and reread the nervous archbishop’s epistle, reassuring the man that the people and young king would indeed receive his message with the desired effect.
Alec’s heart lifted at what he considered by far to be the most compelling part of the speech. Cranmer’s voice thundered forth with confidence and authority.
“Your Majesty is God’s vicegerent and Christ’s vicar within your own dominions, and to see, with your predecessor Josiah, God truly worshipped, and idolatry destroyed, the tyranny of the bishops of Rome banished from your subjects, and images removed. These acts be signs of a second Josiah, who reformed the church of God in his days. You are to reward virtue, to revenge sin, to justify the innocent, to relieve the poor, to procure peace, to repress violence, and to execute justice throughout your realms... .”
No stronger message to the papists could have been sent. Edward, the “Second Josiah,” had come to reform the Church, to bring about a new closeness with God sans the shiny distractions of Rome. Under the reign of Edward, a new era would begin, that of a purer faith, one that called its practitioners directly to a personal relationship with God without the intervention of others. A faith infused with straightforward simplicity.
At his side Alec felt Mirabella grow rigid. He regarded her a moment. Her eyes were hard, her jaw set. It was evident that Cranmer’s message, a warning to Mirabella no doubt, had been absorbed. Alec shook his head, dismissing unpleasant analysis in favor of watching the coronation proceed.
Crowned with the imperial crown and that of Saint Edward, the young king was at last fitted with his own, one light enough for his head. He was given Saint Edward’s staff, the orb and spurs, and the scepter, which could only be held with help from the Earl of Shrewsbury. The child, though maintaining a regal dignity expected of him, betrayed his youth with his wide eyes as he bit his lip under the weight of the various accoutrements. To his good fortune, he was relieved of them soon enough.
The lord protector, Duke of Somerset, knelt before him first, then a reverent Cranmer. Each man kissed on the cheek the boy who carried their every hope and ambition, after which the nobility knelt before him together, where Somerset declared their allegiance.
It was done. It was formal, written in the heavens and the earth.
Edward, the at once neglected and pampered son of mad Henry VIII, was King of all England.
The celebrating commenced in earnest at Westminster Hall, decorated and freshened for the occasion. The walls were draped with cloths of arras, the hall and stairs covered in rich carpets of crimson, filling the place with festive grandeur. The guests competed with both the hall and one another, their attire sparkling with jewels of every imagining, soft furs, rich brocades, and velvets. Color and life emanated from every corner; the revelry was contagious.
As Alec and Mirabella took to their table among the lowest gentry present, they watched the nobility serve the king course after course only so the entire assembly could move to Whitehall for more feasting and drinking.
By the beginning of the masque, which featured a blatant mockery against the Bishop of Rome, Mirabella’s Pope, Alec was tipsy from toasts and drowsy from overeating. Beside him Mirabella sat, unable to disguise the pain that contorted her expression as she witnessed her faith ridiculed for the pleasure of the court. For the second time that day, Alec was stirred to pity. He leaned toward her, resting a hand on hers.
“Would you like to return to Sumerton Place?” he asked in soft tones. Though he relished the triumph of the Church of England, he still could not will himself to throw it completely in Mirabella’s face, no matter her sins against him.
Mirabella turned toward him, her eyes lit with tears, and nodded. She appeared a child of thirteen again, vulnerable and afraid, compelling Alec to take her hand in his and lead her from the hall.
“You mean you are accompanying me?” she asked him, mystified.
“I am exhausted,” Alec confessed. “Besides, there are to be revels all week.”
“Yes, then,” Mirabella said, squeezing his hand. “Let us remove to Sumerton Place, to home.”
Alec in truth was more than ready. He must have taken in too much wine. His limbs were weak and quavering; he stumbled a bit as he walked, and, for some unfathomable reason, he could not stop laughing.
It had been an effort, but one that had paid off in Alec’s response to what Mirabella had sprinkled at great discretion in his wine at Whitehall. The concoction she procured from the servant girl Nan, which could prove deadly if administered incorrectly, contained caraway, lovage, and mint, along with its most potent ingredient, something called nightshade. The Italians called it belladonna and used it for increasing the beauty of the eyes, among other things.
Tonight it would be among other things.
She willed herself not to think of anything beyond what lay in the moment. She would not allow guilt, that tool of the devil, to creep in.
She led a dizzy Alec to his chambers.
“Really I am rather embarrassed,” he confessed as Mirabella turned down the bedclothes. He flopped unceremoniously against his pillows. “I did not think I took in so much.”
“It was a long day,” Mirabella said, sitting beside him. “There was more wine than we imagined and taken over a long period.”
Alec smirked. “I suppose ... and you, did you enjoy yourself watching this King of the Reformation be crowned?”
Mirabella winced. “It was a good day,” she said at length. “I am glad we went together.”
Alec laughed. “Me too.” He rolled to his side, fetching the chamber pot beneath the bed. “I fear I may vomit.”
Mirabella rubbed his back, her heart sinking. “You will be fine,” she said in soothing tones. “I will stay with you until you are asleep.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Alec told her. “This is not my best hour.”
At this Mirabella was compelled to laugh. “Then consider us even, for you have never seen me at my best hour.”
“That I will agree with,” Alec muttered as he leaned over the chamber pot.
Mirabella bowed her head. She supposed she had invited that remark.
After a few moments of feeble dry heaving, Alec lay back on the bed, his lids fluttering before closing. Mirabella swallowed. She could go to her rooms now; she could leave him to rest and recover. She did not have to do this.
Where was her resolve? Determination surged through her. She would see this through. She would seize what had been so hard won. Undressing to her shift, she lay beside him, resting a hand on his chest, stroking idly.
“I do love you, Alec,” she whispered.
“I love you, Cecily,” Alec murmured, covering her hand with his.
Mirabella bit her lip. Her heart pounded. Cecily. The name caused bile to rise in her own throat, bitter, repulsive. Cecily ... Fine. Let him think it was Cecily... .
Poising above him, Mirabella began to cover his face and neck in soft kisses, feeling his hands reach up to cup her face.
“You’ve come to me at last,” he slurred.
But his eyes were closed, and as he took the virtue Mirabella had saved for this night at great cost one name remained on his lips: Cecily.
Mirabella lay beside Alec, sore and trembling. She found no pleasure in the coupling. It was an act, nothing more, and if this was what she had saved herself for, she might have remained intact her life long without missing the obsession of poets and bards alike. Perhaps if it had not been under false pretenses, perhaps if he said her name and not Cecily’s ... It mattered not. It was done. Their marriage was consummated and she was a wife truly made.
She drew the covers to her neck and wrapped her arm about Alec’s middle, snuggling closer beside him. The light filtered through the window, casting eerie shadows about the room.
For what you stole, you will be made to repay... .
Mirabella sat bolt upright. The whisper was familiar. Her mother again? No ... She began to tremble as her eyes found the source. At the end of the bed he stood, transparent and surrounded by a soft white glow no light source could provide. Was he floating or did he stand atop solid ground?
“Brey ...” she breathed, reaching out.
Brey, his head crowned in golden curls, his blue eyes containing the wisdom years of life would have afforded him, stood before her. His eyes, the only testament of his age, were those of a man in the body of a child-ghost. He shook his head as though the weight of every disappointment in the world rested atop his slim shoulders. He began to fade.
“Brey!” Mirabella cried. “Don’t leave me! I need you... . I need help!”
The apparition retreated, fading into just another shadow in the room.
Beside her Alec stirred, his eyes flickering open. They rested on her a moment as confusion washed over his features.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was low. The warning in his tone was not lost on Mirabella.
She drew the covers around her. She could not stop shaking. She scrambled for an explanation. Anger replaced the fear of the apparition’s cryptic statement. “You do not remember? I came at your drunken invitation last night,” she snapped.
Alec leaned on an elbow, then cupped his forehead in his hand with a grimace. “And ... ?”
Mirabella leaned forward, her face inches from his. “Our marriage is made true before God,” she hissed. “One sacrament your reformation will never change. I am your wife now, in deed as well as name.”
Alec did not meet her eyes. “How did you accomplish this? I have taken in many a cup of wine in my day with no such effects.” He sat up, his head still in his hand. “What did you give me, Mirabella?”
Mirabella shook her head, wrapping herself in the coverlet and rising. “You cannot believe you wanted me of your own free will? That is too much for your mind to take in, that you would lust after your own wife, the woman who saved you.”
Alec met her eyes for the first time, shaking his head. “No, I cannot believe it,” he told her. “But getting the truth from you is a useless enterprise, so there is naught to be done but congratulate you once again on your cleverness. Though I must add that it is a pity you had to resort to such means. It should be noted that our marriage could only be made ... how did you say it? True? Yes, made ‘true’ with my mind and humors altered. You call it consummation. There is another word for it, my dear.
Rape.
What your mother saved you from with her life, you throw back at her with this act, therefore invalidating an honorable woman’s heroism.” He allowed the words to hit her, daggers thrown to the soul, every one of them, and her eyes burned with tears. Rape. It had not been rape. Men could not be raped, could they? He had never screamed or protested or behaved unwillingly. He had never said no ... yet could her deception be considered such? Had she fallen so far? No. Women were not capable of such things... .
She
was not capable of such things ... was she?
Rape.
What your mother saved you from with her life, you throw back at her with this act, therefore invalidating an honorable woman’s heroism.” He allowed the words to hit her, daggers thrown to the soul, every one of them, and her eyes burned with tears. Rape. It had not been rape. Men could not be raped, could they? He had never screamed or protested or behaved unwillingly. He had never said no ... yet could her deception be considered such? Had she fallen so far? No. Women were not capable of such things... .
She
was not capable of such things ... was she?
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