Mirabella gazed at Cecily as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she had been asleep all her life; perhaps she had always been fumbling in darkness, blinded to all those around her. Now she was awake, the scales removed from her eyes. Before her stood the girl her father had taken on as ward all those years ago and she was meeting her for the first time. The girl would live with her as a sister now. And they would be friends. Mirabella smiled.
“I think it was you who have been called closest to God,” Mirabella said then. Her voice she pulled from some inner source of strength that still allowed her to speak. Was it her strength or Cecily’s? Or the God Cecily described? Strange it should be the same God she had searched for all her life. “All along it was you,” she went on. “You carried out God’s will without question, without hesitation, with the pure-hearted trust that God commands and so admires in children. Oh, Cecily ... It was you, never Alec, never me. It was you.” Tears. Oh, how they flowed, warm as the blood that she gave, warm as the sacred blood shed to save them all... .
Your payment
... Brey’s voice.
“Ah, yes,” Mirabella answered him. “It is only right that it should be so,” she whispered. And it was. A life for a life. It was the right thing, finally, truly, the right thing.
“Mirabella.” Alec’s voice. Why did it sound sad? The baby was coming. He should not be sad. “I—I have something for you,” he said. In his hands he held a velvet sack. From within it, he produced the sandglass. The sandglass ... “We must put a date by ‘November,’ ” he said. “You must have this baby now. The rest ... the rest can wait. Bring us our child, Mirabella.”
Mirabella reached out a trembling hand to trace the mahogany of the timepiece. A feeling of warmth obscured the pain, but it was not the warmth of blood. It was her father’s warmth. She could almost see him carving the dates. She could hear his laugh. Was he laughing now?
“Yes, the sandglass,” she breathed. “The sandglass that marks our every choice ...”
“Hold on, Mirabella!” Grace cried from the foot of the bed. “The head is coming! Such dark hair! The baby is nearly here. Save your strength and push, darling!”
Mirabella bore down, clutching the hands of Cecily and Alec beside her.
“Push!” Dorothy and Grace cried at once.
Something slid from her. She could not see. She could not focus.
“A boy, Mirabella! You have a son, and a bluff, bonny boy is he!” Grace exclaimed as the child announced his presence with a lusty cry. She brought the child to Mirabella, laying him upon her chest without cleansing the birthing fluids and blood away just yet.
“We must name him, Mirabella,” Alec told her, his voice thick with awe. She felt his gaze upon her and the child she lacked the strength to hold.
He was born in truth, soaring above the deceit and betrayal that stalked Sumerton like a relentless ... “Peregrine,” Mirabella said. “Peregrine Richard. Our little bird ... our Falcon of Truth ...”
“It is a good name,” Alec conceded as he took the baby to be cleansed.
“Yes,” Mirabella agreed.
I am waiting... .
Brey again. His eyes were no longer laden with disappointment. They were beckoning, appealing. Brey ...
Forgive... . Let go... .
Her mother again.
Mirabella returned her gaze to Cecily and Alec, who stood on either side of her bed, the baby nestled close to Alec’s heart. Where he belonged, Mirabella reflected. Alec’s face was washed over with love as he beheld the little one. Somewhere she was aware of Dorothy and Grace discussing her condition. She felt again the cloth wiping clean her body.
With all her strength she reached out her quavering arms, taking Alec’s and Cecily’s warm hands in hers. His felt so strong, and Cecily’s. . . it was the hand of a great lady. She squeezed; joy surged through her as she felt them return it. Her eyes threatened to close.
Not yet! Please ...
She brought their hands closer, closer together, till at last she joined them. Alec and Cecily gazed at each other, their faces a blend of exhaustion and surprise. Mirabella allowed her hands to slip from theirs as she fell back against the pillows. They did not disengage.
The words did not come from her. They were given to her, a gift from God or was it her own father?
“Forgive me,” she whispered as her gaze found Hal. He stood beside Brey and Sister Julia, reaching out his own hand toward her. Tears strangled Mirabella. “For
all
the wrongs, forgive me. Care for Falcon. Raise him in love, truth, and light. Teach him ... teach him right and love him without condition, as I should have loved all of you,” she begged with all the strength she could summon. “Please, oh please, can you forgive me? Can you care for Falcon?”
“Yes,” Cecily answered without hesitation, reaching out to stroke her forehead. “I forgive you, my darling. And I will raise Falcon. I shall tell him all the good things that you are.”
Mirabella’s eyes searched Alec’s face; in it there was no hatred, no resentment. Nothing but compassion shone from his gentle hazel gaze.
“I forgive you, Mirabella,” he told her. “And I, too, will care for Falcon; I will love him well; he will be a son to bring you pride.”
Mirabella could not speak. It was done, all done. She could go; it was good and right to go. It was her last gift to her family, to Alec, that she leave them.
Mirabella smiled one last smile as a single tear trailed down her cheek.
And then ... she let go.
Further Reading
Elton, G. R.
England Under the Tudors
. London and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1955.
Elton, G. R.
The Tudor Constitution.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960.
Gies, Joseph and Frances.
Life in a Medieval Castle
. New York: Harper Colophon, 1979.
MacCulloch, Diarmaid.
The Reformation: A History
. New York: Penguin Books, 2005.
MacCulloch, Diarmaid.
Thomas Cranmer
. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996.
Power, Eileen.
Medieval English Nunneries
. Cambridge: Biblo & Tannen, 1922.