Betrayal in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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      “Nothing,” Father Alec murmured, taking in the sights about him with the same interest. But his eyes were not wide with awe. There was something else in them, something Cecily could not quite decipher.

      It was very akin to fear.

      The next day they witnessed Queen Anne’s coronation at Westminster Abbey. Cecily was able to get a closer look at the woman King Henry so desired. She was small, save for the curving belly she displayed with pride, with tapering limbs and delicate hands.

      “Where’s the sixth finger?” Brey whispered.

      Cecily searched for the rumoured deformity, but to her dismay, the queen’s hands were hidden beneath her resplendent sleeves. She shrugged and placed a finger to her lips, urging Brey to hold his peace.

      Under a cloth of gold canopy the queen walked with measured steps. Her train was carried by her cousin the delicate Mary Howard. It was said the queen’s aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk, so disapproved of the new queen that she refused to attend. Cecily’s heart churned in sympathy. It must be difficult being Anne Boleyn.

      Queen Anne took her place in St. Edward’s Chair and allowed the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown her. The choir burst out in a Te Deum and Cecily’s heart thrilled with delight at the sound.

      She turned toward Father Alec, whose wide hazel eyes were lit with tears as he regarded the scene.

      But he was not regarding the queen.

      His eyes had fallen upon another, one whose face bespoke eternal gentleness.

      Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.

      After the coronation they attended a celebratory feast at Westminster Hall. It was a strange affair, uncomfortable for Lord Hal and Lady Grace, the latter of whom was avoided by all and who with trembling hands tried to sip sparingly from the cup of wine before her, though her eyes lit with undisguised desire for it.

      Mirabella, claiming fatigue, had been allowed to be escorted to the manor by her guard. It was just as well.

      “Now she can’t spoil it for us,” Brey told Cecily, who could not help but giggle, though she chastised herself for being uncharitable.

      Course after course was served and Cecily ate her fill, taking in the splendour of the court that ushered in the new reign of Anna Regina. The Duke of Suffolk, the king’s brother-in-law and steward for the evening, still was handsome at forty-eight as he made sure everything was to the queen’s pleasure. The queen’s cousin Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, also attended. Three years Cecily’s senior, Surrey, though married, stole several admiring glances her way throughout the evening. He was a handsome lad with his aquiline nose and penetrating dark eyes. Cecily offered him a bright smile. She did not know how to flirt but, as she watched the lords and ladies about her, thought this just the place to learn.

      The next day jousts were held at York Place. Cecily and Brey clapped and hooted in the stands as they watched the champions tilt each other. The gleam of the armour, the sweet smell of upturned grass, the clank of the lances against shields thrilled them, and their voices rose in a chorus of gleeful anticipation as they speculated on who would prove victorious.

      Brey reached out to still her clapping hand at one point, leaning over to whisper, “And someday when I am here, besting all the champions with my lance, will I be carrying your token?”

      Cecily scrunched up her shoulders and giggled. She squeezed his hand. “No one else, Brey,” she told him, and on impulse leaned in to kiss his cheek. Brey had turned his head, however, and their lips brushed against each other’s for the briefest of moments.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ