Betrayal in the Tudor Court

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Because Hal was the only child of the previous Earl of Sumerton it was his hope to fill the house with children of his own. That there were only two and a succession of miscarriages could not be helped. It was the will of God, he supposed, and he cherished his blessings. Brey was a wonderful child, sweet and bonny. And Mirabella … well, he was certain Mirabella would come into her own when softened by marriage and children. It was his hope that she would abandon her fantasy of becoming a nun. Though he would never deter her, it was not the life he had dreamed of for her.

Dreams … Nothing had gone as expected. In that his life was a constant illustration.

He sat now, thinking of this life as he shook the dice in clammy hands, surrounded by other men who wondered after their own lives, all of them convening to stave off their own terrible loneliness for one night. They would listen to the rattle of the dice, the melody of their chuckling, the bawdy jokes.

And they would pretend to be happy.

Thus Hal would get through.

Father Alec was witnessing a change in the Pierce household. Though it had been lively with a superficial sort of energy, he could not say his patrons were happy people. Yet when Lady Cecily came … He was under no illusions. The little baroness worked no miracles. The Pierces were still imbued with their own respective vices. Yet she infused in them a tranquility that he had not seen before. Her innocence, her trusting nature, her resilient cheer endeared her to all she encountered. Brey had a playmate, a companion, an outlet for his restlessness. Mirabella had an affable girl-child to treat as a sister and pupil, someone with whom she could tout her knowledge, someone she could nurture and lead toward her perception of Right. Lady Grace adored the girl and spent entire afternoons absorbing her serenity; she was a buffer to the antagonism experienced with her own daughter. And Lord Hal was fond of her as well; she was his hope for the future. It was from her womb that would descend all future Pierces.

She was of no exceptional talent; she was the type who mastered all she attempted with competence. If she possessed any gift worthy of note it was in her ability to manage people. Though she was playful, she displayed no signs of being a coquette; she would not manipulate her way through life as would a woman of the court. No, it was her sweetness that won hearts. Her sweetness, her sincerity, her acquiescence, her comforting presence.

Cecily was that rarest of things. A soul of complete integrity.

Father Alec drank her in as well. She was as a daughter to him. Perhaps it was because the other children had living parents that inclined Father Alec to believe they needed him less. Perhaps it was that Cecily shared his acute awareness of loss. Or perhaps it was that she was so uncomplicated. So genuine. Whatever it was, Father Alec found that with her he could be as close to a true father as he would ever get.

Of course it was not productive to think like that.

Father Alec did not regret the choice he had made. What other alternative was there at the time? The priesthood made sense. He was the second son of a Welsh country squire. As such, his fate lay with the Church. He did not resent this. He needed an education and the only ones of his class with access to an education of any true merit were priests. Chastity seemed a small enough sacrifice for the enrichment of his mind and soul.

He found other ways to relate to his fellow man and being a tutor was one of them. It gave him the opportunity to experience a little of what he had chosen to forgo. He lived with the Pierces; through them he witnessed the pitfalls and triumphs of a family. He could not deny that he was still on the outside, a bystander living vicariously through others. The emptiness of it all enshrouded him and more often than not he felt like a fraud, a man dressed as a priest for a masque.

Then Cecily came and with her a new sense of fulfillment, a new sense of connection.

He cursed himself. He should not feel that need. He should be resigned to his lot, the lot that he chose. Yet what harm was there in pretending? Was he not called Father for a reason? He chose to be as loving as a father to God’s people, to guide them, to nurture them. Surely God could not fault him for that.

So he pretended. Cecily called him Father and he revelled in the temporary fantasy that he was a family man, that he had a daughter.

That she called him Father not because he was a priest.