Betrayal in the Tudor Court (36 page)

Grace bowed her head, blinking several times. Mirabella did not care if she was struggling with her emotions. Whatever weighed on her conscience was the least she deserved.

“Has her water broken?”

“No,” Mirabella said.

“Check her; see if the cervix is dilated,” Grace said, her tone soft as she gathered several different jars and vials from a shelf. She took what appeared to be a knitting needle, thrusting it into the flames. “Then use this to break her water,” she said. “It will not yield easily; it takes some force. I do not doubt your capabilities in that,” she added in ironic tones. “Then rub some of this ointment on her belly and woman parts to ease things along. Shake the bed a bit, too; it may loosen things up. Or have her inhale pepper.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been a believer in such things, but at this point it couldn’t hurt.” She handed Mirabella the needle and the ointment. “And pray to Saint Margaret; she is the patron saint of women in childbirth, as well you know. Perhaps she will be merciful.”

Mirabella tucked the objects in the pockets of her gown. At the door she paused. “You know, it was far easier believing you dead,” she said, her tone wistful. “I could make sense of your weaknesses then; I could forgive them, almost excuse them. We idealise the dead, you know. How I wish you would have stayed in that realm of memory, in that ideal. You cannot know how far you have fallen.”

Grace said nothing.

With one last shake of the head, Mirabella turned on her heel and left.

There was no time to analyse or reflect upon the newest revelation. Mirabella returned to find that Cecily’s water had still not broken and set to work. The girl was unconscious now, her head lolling from side to side, her breathing jagged and short. Mirabella’s heart pounded as she set to following Grace’s instructions. Upon her crude examination, she found Cecily to be dilated enough to insert the needle, using the necessary force to break through the amniotic sac, allowing the warm liquid to flow forth in a rush. After which, Mirabella applied the ointment, cringing a bit as she applied it to Cecily’s intimate parts.

Cecily’s breathing seemed to regulate. At once it was as though her body began to push for her and she bore down, clenching the bedclothes in white-knuckled fists, her eyes flashing open, a small moan escaping her parched lips.

“That’s it, Cecily!” Mirabella cried, wiping beads of perspiration from her own brow. “I can see the head! Push! Push
hard
!”

Cecily clenched her eyes shut and grimaced, propping herself up on her elbows into almost a sitting position.

“Come on, Cec!” Mirabella urged.

Cecily tossed her head back and held her breath. Mirabella ushered the child forth, cupping the head, slick with birthing fluids, in her hands. Her face tingled in anticipation as a weak mew pealed forth. One shoulder came, then the other as the rest slid into her arms. Cecily collapsed back onto the bed, breathless.

Mirabella’s own breath caught in her throat.

“Oh, no …” she whispered as she beheld the baby girl. The child’s left leg was a great deal shorter than the other, twisted grossly beneath the knee, the foot clubbed almost beyond recognition.

“What is it? Is it healthy?” Cecily asked, her legs trembling as a servant cleaned her. “Mirabella! Tell me!”

Mirabella cleaned the child, holding her close. Despite the deformity, she did not think it possible to love another creature more than the broken little thing she held to her heart. She brought the child to her mother, her vision obscured by tears.

“It is a girl,” she told her. “But there is a problem. Her leg … is misshapen.”

Cecily took the girl in her arms, examining her. Her shoulders began to quake with sobs. “Oh, God, no … it is my fault! I have condemned her to this … oh, God. …” She thrust her back into Mirabella’s arms and averted her head.

“But she’s still beautiful,” Mirabella said as she wrapped her in a warm blanket. “She’s still a gift from God. If she is so challenged, it is only to serve as an example of grace under hardship, of long-suffering, that she might teach others.”

“No,” Cecily said. “This is my punishment, my retribution for sins you know nothing of. You can’t know. …” She choked on the words. “Now she will struggle the rest of her life because of me.”

“Stop it,” Mirabella admonished in sharp tones. “Now you sound like Lady Grace … did. It isn’t about you. It is about this little one; it is her cross to bear, not yours. It is the will of God, not your sin, that brought this forth, whatever you have or have not done. I will hear not another word of such foolishness. You have a beautiful daughter; you must name her.”

Cecily gazed at the baby, her eyes misty with tears. “I will call her Emily,” she said. “Emily Mirabella Pierce,” she added. “For without you, she would not be here.”

Mirabella beamed with pride at both the honour of the namesake and the fact that it was true; Emily would not be here had she not delivered her. She clutched the child to her breast, nuzzling against the downy brown hair. “Emily,” she whispered. “My sweet Emmy.”

She could not be more proud if she had borne her herself.

18

H
al did not want to resent Cecily for Emmy’s deformity, yet somewhere in his soul he knew that he did. He was convinced that had she not ingested the pennyroyal, the child would have been born perfect. He did not want to be angry with his wife, the woman who had given him four children; the love and the years that they had shared meant too much to him. Yet he could not look at her the same.

On the sandglass he marked Emmy’s birth, knowing that to himself he was making note of his own unwanted bitterness. He did not show it. He was solicitous to Cecily and the baby, making pains to tell Cecily that it was not her fault, that, like Mirabella said, it was a part of God’s unfathomable plan. But it was forced. He knew it; she knew it. And something was lost between them.

They attended the mundane tasks of daily life. Harry was sent off to the Earl of Surrey’s household, where he would learn the ways of a knight and courtier, leaving Mirabella and Kristina to dote on their baby sister. It seemed as though Mirabella had developed a special bond with the child she had helped bring into this world and displayed as much devotion as any mother. Mirabella, despite her protests that she did not want a family of her own, had proved to be a nurturer; she had been close to Harry, and the birth of Emmy saw her skills as a caregiver put to use once more. Hal was proud of her.

“At times I think she is a better mother to the girl than Cecily, God forgive me for saying it,” Hal told Father Alec one day as the two rode through the vast fields where the sheep of Sumerton grazed. It was summer. Despite all odds, Emmy was thriving, progressing much like any normal babe, filling Hal with relief. He could not imagine what other effects the pennyroyal might have on the child.

“Your feelings are not misplaced,” Father Alec assured him. He sighed as they slowed their horses.

“You know of Cecily’s sin.” It was not a question.

“I do,” Father Alec admitted after a long moment’s hesitation. “And no doubt she was wrong. But God’s will prevailed and the child has lived. Lady Cecily pays for it with her own guilt far more than anyone could ever punish her.”

“Oh, Father.” Hal’s voice was thick with mourning. “I don’t desire to punish her … yet I cannot reconcile myself to my own resentment, either.”

“You must,” Father Alec urged. “It will take time. But you must. Otherwise you may become separated from Lady Cecily by a chasm nothing can bridge.”

Hal swallowed the growing lump in his throat, frightened at the prospect. “I do love her, Father, the Lord knows I do. Perhaps I suffer from disillusionment. I never expected to be disappointed by her.”

“It was a long fall from the heights you placed her upon,” Father Alec observed.

Hal nodded. “I suppose part of the fault is mine, for that and more. I should have taken more precautions if she did not want a child. But she never told me!”

Father Alec shook his head. “You are where you are now,” he said at length. “Just remember, my lord. It is far more important to forgive than attain forgiveness from others. It will free you.”

Hal nodded. Forgiveness. That which he sought for so long. It would be a long road, but he must traverse it.

Somehow he must forgive, or lose Cecily altogether.

Cecily sensed Hal’s distance. He occupied himself with sport—hawking, hunting, and leaving the estate to indulge in pastimes of old, cards and dice. Though he never treated her with anything but respect, his solicitations adopted a new formality that bordered on coldness. Cecily wondered if they would ever heal from this or if she had condemned their marriage to a slow death.

She internalised her guilt, discussing it with no one. Mirabella tried to comfort her to no avail; Cecily knew confiding her shame would bring her judgement upon her and she could not bear it. She withdrew.

Mirabella was a marvel with little Emmy and included Kristina in all the daily tasks of her upkeep. It was just as well. Cecily could not face any of them and threw herself into the running of the household with the dedication of a merchant for his store. Everything was in order; everything ran smoothly. The rents were collected, the tenants looked after, the household food stores maintained and well stocked. At times she felt she was a better steward than anything else.

She was going over the ledgers one late afternoon when she heard a shouting in the great hall. Abandoning the book, she quit her study and made for the noise, finding, much to her surprise, Master James Reaves with Father Alec and some servants.

James’s face was flushed, his breathing shallow. He was covered in dust.

“Master James.” Cecily took his hand. “What is it?”

“Fire at Camden Manor,” he told her.

“Fire?” Cecily cried, her heart racing. “Alice and the children—are they safe?”

“They are trapped within,” James said, as they began proceeding out of doors. “Oh, my lady, it has been a sort of hell there, if you’ll forgive the term. Sir Edward and his sons are pigs, unfit to be called men. Many a time I have come between them and Lady Alice or, worse, the girls, that I might prevent grievous sin from occurring.” He offered a helpless shake of the head. “But I cannot be all places at all times. …”

Cecily closed her eyes. “Oh, Lord preserve them. …”

“I heard them fighting. Lady Alice was screaming, telling Sir Edward she and her girls would never again be used for the pleasure of him and his ‘demon brood’. She said she was leaving, that she could not bear this world a moment more. Then she took to the nursery with her daughters. Sir Edward dismissed it, saying it was another one of her dramatic scenes.” He trembled. “But it was not long before we smelled smoke. Soon it could be seen curling down the hall. It got out of control so fast …”

Cecily covered her mouth with her hand, casting her eyes to Father Alec. He wrapped an arm about her shoulder, drawing her close. She was too distressed to pull away.

“We are doing all we can,” James went on. “But you are in possession of the only water syringe within fifty miles. We beg use of it now.”

“Hal is gone; he took Mirabella and Kristina to visit the Howards. He will not be back for days,” she told James. “But we will remove there directly with the water syringe and offer what assistance we can.”

They arrived at Camden Manor, Cecily riding on the back of Father Alec’s horse as they followed the carriage with the water syringe, which held ten barrels of water. The manor was shrouded in flames. What remained of the staff congregated outside, speaking in hushed tones, while others passed one bucket after another to pour on the conflagration in vain. It seemed to have taken on a life of its own, as if it were the breath of a dragon sent to rain its punishment upon them all.

Cecily and Father Alec did not hesitate. They helped the servants align the nozzle of the great syringe to the base of the fire, while one of the burlier men cranked a large handle at the back of the cylinder, forcing the piston in, which ushered forth a great stream of water. With effort, the piston was cranked back and the great vessel filled with water once more.