Darcey Bonnette - Betrayal in the Tudor Court

It startled her; it riddled her with guilt. But then there was a feast to prepare for and lessons to be had, embroidery to do, ponies to ride, and Cecily was consumed with the task of daily living. And, perhaps since Cecily had known such a great deal about death, the mission of living was all the more precious to her.

She loved her lessons with Father Alec. The patient priest tutored the children on all manner of subjects, from Latin to history, from astronomy to arithmetic, and Cecily was a quick wit. She enjoyed the company of the other children. Brey stirred a lot in his seat and his blue eyes were often more engaged by the window rather than his books, but Cecily imagined he wouldn’t need much book learning anyway, since he was the heir and would not be a gift to the Church.

Mirabella had little use for book learning as well, though her intelligence was never in doubt. No, her heart lay with the spiritual. She plagued Father Alec with questions about the Church, about the Holy Orders, her eyes sparkling with longing, her smile as wistful as a lover separated from her heart’s desire.

“Mother says she just likes all the decorations,” Brey would insist to Father Alec when Mirabella demonstrated her desire to take vows herself one day. “The golden rosaries and pretty statues.”

“You hush up!” Mirabella cried.

Father Alec laughed. “If Lady Mirabella is called to join the Church, I am certain it would be for reasons more pure,” he told the boy, resting fond eyes on Mirabella.

Mirabella rose from the bench in the library where their lessons were held and strolled toward the window, resting her long-fingered hand on the glass. “I would join because it is so peaceful there,” she said. “There is nothing to do but talk to God. …”

“ All the time?” Brey asked, his tone incredulous. “I would run out of things to say,” he confessed.

“Don’t you want to get married and have babies?” Cecily asked her.

Mirabella shrugged. “Anyone can do that; only special people are called to do God’s work. Besides, He needs everyone he can get for the fight against the New Learning.”

At this Father Alec arched an inquisitive brow. “What do you mean, dear child?” he asked her slowly.

Mirabella fixed him with an earnest gaze. “Well, to keep the Church strong. The book of Mark tells us a house divided cannot stand, isn’t that right? God needs soldiers to combat evil people like Martin Luther and William Tyndale. That’s what the abbess says.”

Father Alec lowered his eyes, his face paling. “Yet we must remember that everyone, no matter how … misguided you believe their faith to be, deserves to be treated with compassion. Remember, Lady Mirabella, God is our only judge. You—know that, don’t you, my child?”

Mirabella offered a fervent nod.

Father Alec drew in a breath, running a hand through the chestnut waves that grazed his shoulders. “Well, I think that is enough for today. It is beautiful outside—perhaps you should all take some exercise.”

As the children filed out of the room Cecily lingered. She was not like Mirabella; she did not want to talk to God all the time and could not imagine life cloistered away from the world. Yet religion concerned her. She remembered Mistress Fitzgerald’s claim that Henry VIII had invoked the wrath of God for loving the heretical Anne Boleyn. She recalled bits of conversations at Burkhart Manor, her parents discussing something called the New Learning. They spoke of it in hushed voices, sustained with excitement. They did not speak of it with malice, as though it were a plague to fight. They spoke of it with hope lighting their eyes.

But to Mirabella the New Learning encompassed all that was evil. It was an enemy with which to do battle and God was mustering His soldiers.

“Father,” Cecily asked after the other children had left, “is the New Learning evil?”

“There are those of authority who think so,” Father Alec replied in gentle tones as he knelt before her. He studied the child’s face, a face wrought with sincerity and kindness. A face that he enjoyed greeting, a face that could be tear streaked from tragedy but instead chose to meet each day with sparkling eyes and a bright smile.

“But what is it?” Cecily persisted.

Father Alec searched for a simplified explanation. “It means different things to different people, but the central theme is the belief that the Church should be reformed. That the wealth in the monasteries and churches should be dispersed among the people, that sin should not be expiated by paying indulgences—that is, paying the clergy for forgiveness—that church officials in power should not give offices to family members even if they are undeserving … There are many things, complicated things—”

“But they all make sense!” Cecily cried with a smile. “Why would people think that is evil when they just want to make things fair?”

“That, too, is complicated, little one,” he told her, touched by her innocent summation of the situation. “Many people do not like their authority questioned, even if the suggestions seem reasonable. People fear change and those benefiting from the way things are now will no doubt fight to keep them that way.” He sighed. “It is dangerous even discussing the New Learning, Lady Cecily, and you would do well not to speak of it to anyone but me. People, like Martin Luther, have been excommunicated for their beliefs and began what some would call renegade sects of their own. They are the lucky ones; others have even been put to death.”

He watched the teal eyes grow round; the alabaster face paled to match the falling snow. “What do you believe, Father?”

Father Alec paused. He reached out to tuck a stray rose-gold lock behind her ear. “I will tell you. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and earth. …”

Cecily smiled.

“Come now, my little theologian, let us to the outdoors!” he cried, sweeping her up in his arms. “I believe there is a pony waiting for its mistress.”

Cecily snuggled against his chest, all thoughts of the Church forgotten as she anticipated riding on the snow-covered trails of Sumerton Forest with Father Alec and the children.

Father Alec had not forgotten, however. For the rest of the day his thoughts were dominated by Cecily’s questions. He prayed that none would accuse him of leading her in a direction most would consider to border on heretical. On the heels of these thoughts was the knowledge of his own beliefs, beliefs harboured within the deepest recesses of his heart.

He thought of Tyndale’s English Bible, hidden in a chest in his chambers along with other forbidden texts.

He trembled.

He must be careful.

It was Christmastide when Mirabella took Cecily to see her cherished convent, Sumerton Abbey. Together, dressed in thick otter fur-lined cloaks, they trudged through the snow-covered trails through Sumerton Forest to the Benedictine convent that bordered the eastern edge of the Pierces’ vast estate. Beneath a canopy of sparkling tree branches they walked and chattered, their voices tinkling like the icicles that chimed in the crisp breeze. Mirabella patted at the heavy pouch of ducats on occasion. The large donation her father sent with each visit was safe, snug in the pocket of her gown.

Preparations for Christmas were being made when they arrived. Pine boughs were being strung about the chapter house and all throughout women’s voices were raised in song, their harmonies swirling, filling up the breadth and height of the little chapel, which was lined with stained-glass windows and outfitted with statues of female saints.