Betrayal in the Tudor Court Read Free Page A

warm their feet and a cheery fire crackled in the hearth.
    “What do you like to do?” asked Aubrey as the three took to sitting upon his bed.
    Cecily pondered. She liked to be with her mother and father, but they were no more. Aubrey and Mirabella would not want to hear about all that as it were. “I like to dance,” she said at last. “And read. I like to sing and play the lute, too—my … my lady played all the time.” She would not cry. They would think her a baby if she cried. She must still her quivering lip.
    “Do you like snakes?” asked Aubrey. “I have one,” he said, his tone growing conspiratorial as he reached under the bed to withdraw a little wooden box. Upon opening, it revealed a slim grass snake.
    “Brey!” Mirabella cried. “Get that slimy thing out of here!”
    “Do you want to pet him?” Brey persisted, thrusting the snake toward Cecily.
    Cecily smiled, touched. “I am not afraid of snakes,” she said as she reached out, stroking the creature’s skin. He was not slimy at all.
    “Eve wasn’t afraid of them either and look what happened to her,” Mirabella snapped.
    Cecily bowed her head, ashamed. She had never likened herself to the woman who steered the entire world into sin.
    “She wants to be a nun,” Brey informed Cecily sotto voce.
    At this Mirabella lit up. “The abbey is within walking distance,” she told her. “I love to go there and help them with their chores; it is usually forbidden to outsiders, but they allow me to visit. Perhaps you would like to accompany me sometime?”
    “Very much,” Cecily told her. She had never seen an abbey before.
    Her willingness to acquiesce seemed to please Mirabella, and Cecily’s taut limbs relaxed as relief coursed through her.
    At once memories of Burkhart Manor swirled before her mind’s eye. Riding her pony through the fields with her groom, hiding outside the solar to hear her mother sing … Cecily squeezed her eyes shut. This was her home now. There would be new memories.
    She must concentrate on making them.
    It was an energetic young household, abundant with vibrancy. The Pierces surrounded themselves with people their age; few who entered were over forty and all who visited could count on being made merry. Because it was Cecily’s natural inclination to be happy their enthusiasm afflicted her like contagion. She fancied God could not have sent better guardians, and as the weeks separating her from her parents’ deaths turned into months her former life at Burkhart Manor became more dream than reality. Her parents were the undefined faces in miniatures, and while there were nights she awoke crying for her mother, she found that it was increasingly difficult to recall her mother’s voice, her touch, her face.
    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