Betrayal in the Tudor Court

“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 attended him with soothing words and cool compresses, but nothing helped. Soon he was retching into the chamber pot.

“I should fetch a physician,” Mirabella said.

“So they can tell me I ate too many artichokes?” Brey countered, with a weak chuckle. He clutched his right side, which rebelled against any attempt at laughter.

“It’s more than that, Brey.” Mirabella’s brows furrowed in concern. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing some small ale won’t cure,” he said. “Be a lamb and get me a cup, won’t you?”

Mirabella backed away, her face lit with fear as she regarded her brother’s writhing form.

Nonetheless, she went to do his bidding.

When she returned, she sat at his bedside. “Here, Brey. Small ale.”

No movement. The tension in Mirabella’s shoulders eased. Perhaps he had found some relief in sleep. She reached out to stroke his face.

Something did not feel right.

“Brey?”

She shook his shoulder. Stillness.

“Brey!”

In a terror, she leaned in. No breath. She placed her fingers against his neck. The throb of life had ceased.

Brey was dead.

Lord Hal, Lady Grace, and Cecily returned from a happy day of hunting in the company of a young, merry court. Though they were not joined by the king and queen today, the day was just as dazzling and Cecily found herself taken in by the glamorous ladies and handsome lords in attendance. How she wished Brey could have been there! What fun they would have had together sharing their observations!

They returned to Sumerton Place to find Father Alec waiting. His handsome face was drawn, his hazel eyes lit with unshed tears.

“Father!” Cecily cried, immediately concerned.

“What is it, Father?” Lady Grace asked, taking his hand. “Are you well?”

Father Alec shook his head. He took her hands in his. “My lady … dearest Lady Grace … Lord Hal …” His eyes scanned the anxious faces. He squeezed the thin hands in his. “You must be very strong for what I am about to tell you. Rely on the Lord to give you the strength.”

“Out with it, Father!” Lord Hal demanded.

Father Alec squeezed his eyes shut. “It is Brey … he has been called to the Lord.”

Silence. Then, from Cecily, “No! No! You are wrong! Why would you say such a wicked thing? You are wrong!”

“Lady Cecily—”

He could not give her his attention, for at that moment Lady Grace slumped to the floor, unconscious. Lord Hal took to her side, gathering her in his arms, sobbing. “Oh, God, no! Not Brey! Not Brey!”

“What happened? He just had a stomachache!” cried Cecily, approaching Father Alec to seize his wrist. Her teal eyes shone bright with tearful accusations.

Father Alec shook his head. “I do not know, my lady.”

“Didn’t Mirabella call for a physician?” Lord Hal cried.

“She did, but it was too late,” Father Alec told him. “It—it was God’s will,” he added helplessly, knowing this was the least comforting of any answer he could supply and cursing himself for supplying it anyway.

“Oh, Grace.” Lord Hal turned his eyes to his wife, who lay limp in his arms, her breathing shallow, her eyes moving restlessly beneath closed lids. “What are we going to do?”

Cecily rested her fingers on her lips, her eyes searching the space above Lord Hal’s head for answers.

“Take Lady Grace to her apartments, my lord,” Father Alec said in gentle tones. “Once she is settled, see to Brey. We shall return home directly that he might receive a proper interment. I shall send a messenger with all the instructions.”

Obedient as a child, Lord Hal rose to do as he was bid, Lady Grace in his arms.