Betrayal in the Tudor Court (29 page)

Because of her father’s connection to the Seymours, Mirabella was secured a private audience with Her Majesty. She had brought to Windsor with her one servant, a widow woman named Sarah Lucas who served as chaperone and lady’s maid while she stayed at Sumerton Place. She was the perfect company for Mirabella, quiet and reserved. She asked no questions. She did what was expected of her, no less and no more.

Now she waited in the antechamber while Mirabella was shown into the queen’s presence chamber. She could not appreciate the sumptuous chambers, the silks and brocades, the tapestries, the carpets. She could only focus on her good fortune of actually being invited into the queen’s presence. It was a rarity to be granted audience without Her Majesty’s ladies in attendance. Mirabella planned to make the most of it. Her heart raced as she dipped into her deepest curtsy before her sovereign, and as Mirabella raised her head she met one of the gentlest countenances she had ever seen. Though the tiny queen was no beauty, with her dusty blond hair, pasty complexion, and chin that suggested weakness, there was something in her delicate grace that reminded Mirabella of Cecily. Momentary guilt surged through her. She did not want to think of Cecily as she had last seen her, her eyes begging her not to leave in Cecily’s time of need. If only Mirabella had told her why it was so imperative to make this journey, then perhaps she would have understood. …

“We are glad you have come to court, Mistress Pierce,” Queen Jane said in soft tones as she gestured for Mirabella to rise.

Mirabella did so but kept her head lowered. There was something so pious about the woman it seemed disrespectful to gaze upon her.

“We remember your father fondly. He used to come to Wulfhall to hunt with our father and brothers,” she went on. “Is the earl well?”

Mirabella nodded, eager to be finished with trivialities. “Yes, quite well,” she answered in wavering tones. “Thank you for asking, Your Majesty.”

Queen Jane’s lips curved into a smile. “But you didn’t request a private audience to discuss pleasantries. Please sit. Tell us how we can be of service.”

The words, so sweet and sincere, caused Mirabella’s throat to constrict with tears.

Mirabella sat in a stiff-backed chair nearest the queen. “I hardly know where to begin, Your Majesty.” But she did begin. Through sobs the story tumbled out, word upon ugly word, and before long, with the exception of Sister Julia’s relationship to Mirabella, the queen learned the tragic account of the sisters of Sumerton Abbey. “I can neither dream nor fathom any other life for myself outside the convent. I do not know what to do, where to go, where I belong. … I heard that you are kind.” Mirabella’s tone was soft, timid. “That you have begged the king to preserve the monasteries—”

Queen Jane averted her head. Her voice was very soft. “And did you also hear our husband’s response to our pleas? That we should not speak of such things else we should meet the same fate as … as …” She did not finish. Soft blue eyes fell upon Mirabella. Tears glistened against the queen’s pale cheeks. “God bless you for thinking we had the power to intervene on your behalf. But we do not. … I do not. You have heard my motto, have you not? ‘Bound to obey and serve’?” The queen offered a sad shake of the head. “My duties here are very specific. You must understand the repercussions for not meeting them. I cannot afford to direct my attentions elsewhere. It was naïve of me to try.”

Mirabella regarded the queen, stunned at her dropping the royal we, at her condescending to share such personal thoughts with her.

Mirabella expelled a tremulous breath. “No,” she said at last. “It was I who was naïve.” Tears paved cool trails down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she daubed them away with her kerchief. “I am sorry for troubling you, Your Majesty.”

“We are sorry we cannot be of help,” Queen Jane said, returning to protocol once more. “Please do not be under the impression that we were not deeply moved by your story; we are touched that you would share it with us. If there was something we could do …” The queen trailed off, shaking her head once more. “We will keep you in our prayers, be assured.”

Mirabella nodded, numbed at the revelation that raged through her, the thought that perhaps prayers were not good enough. In good faith she had told this woman all, this woman, supposedly the most powerful in the land. She did not want her prayers. She wanted action. But not even this exalted personage could be of help. She was just another lamb to Henry VIII’s merciless lion.

“Meantime,” Queen Jane was saying, “we extend our hospitality to you. Stay with the court for Christmas. There is someone we would like you to meet.”

Mirabella could only curtsy and nod. “It will be an honour,” she managed to say.

And with that the audience was over.

14

A
t the Christmas celebrations held in the sumptuous great hall of Windsor, Mirabella noted tapers rising from golden candlesticks, treasure no doubt stolen from one sacred place or another. She trod rich carpets that once warmed the floors of cathedrals, her head bowed to disguise the effort it took to choke back her disgust. When the floor beneath her feet became a blur of warm tears, a gentle voice beckoned her, so soft, in fact, that it took a moment for Mirabella to register it as being real and not a whisper of Divinity.

She raised her head to find Her Majesty, surrounded by her attendants. The little blond woman offered an ethereal smile. “Mistress, we are so pleased you have chosen to remain with us.”

Mirabella offered a low curtsy, swallowing the painful lump of disappointment swelling her throat, disappointment in a humanity that never failed to prove its great capacity for failure, disappointment in all that had been lost, and the greatest disappointment, that she, as a member of this useless mass, had no ability to reclaim it. She was a voice struck dumb. A woman and a bastard, nothing more.

“Mistress Pierce, may I present His Majesty’s daughter the Lady Mary?” The queen’s gentle voice proved a respite from her introspection.

Mirabella raised her eyes to the slim, dark young woman beside the queen. Dressed in a modest gown, boldly wearing a rosary at her hip and a crucifix at her throat, she had the carriage of her rightful but long-denied title: princess.

A woman and a bastard, like her.

For the first time since her arrival, Mirabella found her lips curving into a smile of warm sincerity. She curtsied once more. “My lady.”

“Her Majesty has told me a great many things about you, Mistress Mirabella,” Lady Mary said in soft tones, but unlike Queen Jane, there was an underlying intensity fuelling each word. “I should like to promenade with you.”

“Yes,” Mirabella said, hope surging through her veins, causing an unexpected giddiness.

Linking arms, the two women began to walk through the crowded hall, through the carefree revellers who were no doubt celebrating a richer Christmas than last year, their pockets fattened from robbing the Church. Mirabella trembled, enraged and disgusted by the display of blatant disrespect for all that was once held holy and sacred.

It seemed Lady Mary’s thoughts followed a similar path. As soon as the two women found themselves a peaceful alcove in the hall, her dark eyes narrowed. “I know what they did to you, mistress. You and countless others. Our faith has been raped,” she stated. Mirabella flinched, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the attempt to steal her own virtue that instead robbed her mother of her life. How small a price would it have been to sacrifice her chastity rather than Sister Julia? She swallowed bitter tears, concentrating on Lady Mary’s words. “Raped and made sacrifice to avarice,” Lady Mary went on. “His Majesty is promising to negotiate with Aske. There will be no negotiations. You know that. Perhaps even Aske knows that.”

Mirabella was told as much. She did not want to acknowledge the truth in Lady Mary’s words, but there it was, naked. Raw. Cruel. “Then …” She swallowed an onset of unexpected tears. “Then there is no hope?”

“Not while one reformer lives in our kingdom. Not while one Cranmer or Cromwell lives to corrupt the conscience of His Majesty and lead him into darkness,” answered the bastardised princess.

Mirabella bowed her head, recalling Father Alec and his devotion to Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.
For him to see so much to admire in a man must mean there is something there to … No. Father Alec is as corrupted as the other reformers like him
. At this Mirabella’s throat contracted. Father Alec could not be corrupted. Misguided, perhaps, but never corrupted.

“But how can the reformers be driven out? How can the True Faith ever be restored if so many are enveloped in the Lie?” Mirabella asked again.

“Do you know my bloodline, Mistress Pierce? Do you know my grandmother was Isabella of Castile?” With this, Lady Mary drew herself up to her full height, standing as proud as the royal blood running through her veins gave her right to.

Mirabella offered a slow nod.

“She was a warrior-queen,” said Lady Mary, her voice laden with conviction. “And she didn’t have to drive the Infidels and Jews out of Spain.”

Mirabella shuddered. No, the great Queen Isabella devised another way. The Inquisition. And looking upon her granddaughter, a woman of equal ferocity and drive, convinced Mirabella that the Lady Mary bore as much hatred, as much single-minded devotion to an ideal, so she would not hesitate to bring the Inquisition to England had she the opportunity.

Something about the insinuation caused Mirabella to shiver. She pulled her cloak tight about herself, knowing nothing could ward off the internal chill.

“Surely His Majesty would not bring the Inquisition here,” Mirabella said.

“No, that is too much to hope for,” Lady Mary answered, her tone low. “However, when God is merciful and restores me to my rightful claim …” As any treason-fearing subject would, she let the thought hang.

“My lady!” Mirabella cried, struck at the boldness of the insinuation. “But the line of succession, the … the—”

“The bastardy?” Lady Mary’s tone was flat. “I am a Princess of the Blood, just as my mother was. No one can take that away from me. It is God’s will that I be restored, for God knows the truth of my legitimacy. For my restoration, I will thank the Lord for seeing me through my struggles by someday guiding this kingdom to the one True Faith.”

The courage of her grandmother and the conviction of her mother, Catherine of Aragon, made for a formidable woman, thought Mirabella. She should admire this woman, draw comfort from her unswerving determination. And yet why with each word spoken did a terrible fear surge through her?

“I want to assure you that your fight has not been in vain,” said Lady Mary. “Such devoted servants to Christ and his cause deserve to be rewarded—and not by what
their
perverted philosophy of rewards is.” She indicated the Christmas festivities, a display of drunkenness and overeating few could rival, and all off of gold plate plundered from holy houses.

“I thank you, my lady,” said Mirabella, wondering if Lady Mary was deluded or brilliant, wondering how she thought she could manage to be reinstated as princess and have her rightful place in the succession.

Yet with or without the title, Lady Mary had powerful allies and was not without assets. She was the king’s daughter, she was strong in mind, though weak in body. Despite that, she was determined and shared the same goal as Mirabella, the return of the True Faith to England.

Sometimes blood had to be shed for the glory of God, Mirabella reasoned. There was nothing to fear in the Lady Mary’s plan for justice.

Then why couldn’t she stop trembling?

“Come,” Lady Mary said, cutting through Mirabella’s reverie. She seized her hand. “Let me present you to Master Aske.”

At this Mirabella brightened. Together the women rose, crossing the hall to where a band of men surrounded King Henry. Laughter swirled around the group, the loudest of which was emitted from His Majesty. The trembling returned. Mirabella had yet to be presented to the king.

“Ah! My daughter!” he cried upon seeing Lady Mary, though his beady blue eyes did not reflect the joy of his exclamation. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”