Betrayal in the Tudor Court Read Online Free Page B

excursions.” He cast his gaze upon Cecily, brightening. “And how do you find the abbey, sweeting? Fancy it as much as Mirabella does?”
    “It is a beautiful place,” she answered. “But I do not think I shall ever become a nun,” she added.
    “It is not for everyone,” Lord Hal agreed with a chuckle. “But it is a divine calling and not to be disrespected.” This comment was directed toward Lady Grace, who narrowed her eyes and sipped her wine.
    Lord Hal wrapped one arm about Mirabella’s shoulder, then stooped down, lifting Cecily with the other. Cecily relished his generous displays of affection. He was a kind man, never failing to demonstrate his love for his children. His attentions softened the pang of longing for her own father, who often had been distant and preoccupied.
    “Come now, sweetings, let’s remove to the solar and warm you both up. We shall send for some honeyed milk and bread and cheese,” he told them. “Twelfth Night is coming soon and I need to know what my best girls will be expecting!”
    As they quit the great hall Cecily peered over his shoulder where Lady Grace stood, head bowed over her cup of wine.
    “We have to set to making a match for Mirabella,” Grace told her husband in their bedchamber late that night. “She’ll be fourteen soon. It cannot be avoided any longer.”
    “Of course it can,” Hal returned as he removed his clothing and knelt before his prie-dieu. Grace’s gaze travelled up and down the well-muscled torso, taking in the sight of skin made raw by the hair shirt he wore underneath his fine doublets. She shuddered.
    “A betrothal, Hal,” she amended in gentle tones. Tears pooled in her eyes. She rolled onto her side, back to him. “Just a betrothal.” She would focus on that. Far better than the scars decorating what would have been an otherwise perfect specimen. “Brey’s future is secured,” she went on. “The little baroness will make a fine wife; add all her lands and ten thousand ducats a year into the bargain and you have one of the best catches in England. Which leaves us with Mirabella. An alliance must be made. We do not have to send her away for a long while. She could remain till she is seventeen, eighteen if she likes.”
    Hal crossed himself, then joined her in bed. “A worthy thought,” he said. “Meantime, you will indulge me with peace under my roof.” He rolled her toward him by the shoulder, appealing to her with his eyes. “Please.”
    Grace pursed her lips, scowling. She reached up, tentatively fingering one of the angry red sores. “When will you stop?”
    Hal looked past her at the bedside table where rested a decanter of wine. “When will you?”
    Grace flopped onto her back, staring up at the blue velvet canopy.
    We will remain thus trapped,
she reflected.
Each in our own twisted vices.
    The thought did not prevent her from leaning over and seising the decanter, however.
    She drank straight from it.
    She did not need a cup when no one was watching.
    Twelfth Night was ushered in with a feast that many celebrated nobles attended. The children were all allowed to sit at table, though Mirabella excused herself early so that she might devote the night of Epiphany to prayer.
    Cecily absorbed the event with delight, however. She had never been to such a gala. Though her parents had socialised with their peers, Cecily was restricted to the nursery. Now she was allowed to be in the thick of things, to drink in the colours and flavours of the evening. It surpassed the bustling excitement of market day in the nearby town of Sumerton and far exceeded a fair—Cecily never cared for the disorganised chaos of fairs. This was splendid—a perfectly choreographed feast. The table was laden with mincemeat pies, mutton, haunches of venison, a fat stuffed goose, brawn, eels, cheeses, bread, puddings, and tarts. The guests attendant were attired in their finest silks, velvets, furs, brocades, and jewels. It was a display of sensory pleasure