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 desire to take vows herself one day. “The golden rosaries and pretty statues.”
“You hush up!” Mirabella cried.
Father Alec laughed. “If Lady Mirabella is called to join the Church, I am certain it would be for reasons more pure,” he told the boy, resting fond eyes on Mirabella.
Mirabella rose from the bench in the library where their lessons were held and strolled toward the window, resting her long-fingered hand on the glass. “I would join because it is so peaceful there,” she said. “There is nothing to do but talk to God. …”
“All the time?” Brey asked, his tone incredulous. “I would run out of things to say,” he confessed.
“Don’t you want to get married and have babies?” Cecily asked her.
Mirabella shrugged. “Anyone can do that; only special people are called to do God’s work. Besides, He needs everyone he can get for the fight against the New Learning.”
At this Father Alec arched an inquisitive brow. “What do you mean, dear child?” he asked her slowly.
Mirabella fixed him with an earnest gaze. “Well, to keep the Church strong. The book of Mark tells us a house divided cannot stand, isn’t that right? God needs soldiers to combat evil people like Martin Luther and William Tyndale. That’s what the abbess says.”
Father Alec lowered his eyes, his face paling. “Yet we must remember that everyone, no matter how … misguided you believe their faith to be, deserves to be treated with compassion. Remember, Lady Mirabella, God is our only judge. You—know that, don’t you, my child?”
Mirabella offered a fervent nod.
Father Alec drew in a breath, running a hand through the chestnut waves that grazed his shoulders. “Well, I think that is enough for today. It is beautiful outside—perhaps you should all take some exercise.”
As the children filed out of the room Cecily lingered. She was not like Mirabella; she did not want to talk to God all the time and could not imagine life cloistered away from the world. Yet religion concerned her. She remembered Mistress Fitzgerald’s claim that Henry VIII had invoked the wrath of God for loving the heretical Anne Boleyn. She recalled bits of conversations at Burkhart Manor, her parents discussing something called the New Learning. They spoke of it in hushed voices, sustained with excitement. They did not speak of it with malice, as though it were a plague to fight. They spoke of it with hope lighting their eyes.
But to Mirabella the New Learning encompassed all that was evil. It was an enemy with which to do battle and God was mustering His soldiers.
“Father,” Cecily asked after the other children had left, “is the New Learning evil?”
“There are those of authority who think so,” Father Alec replied in gentle tones as he knelt before her. He studied the child’s face, a face wrought with sincerity and kindness. A face that he enjoyed greeting, a face that could be tear streaked from tragedy but instead chose to meet each day with sparkling eyes and a bright smile.
“But what is it?” Cecily persisted.
Father Alec searched for a simplified explanation. “It means different things to different people, but the central theme is the belief that the Church should be reformed. That the wealth in the monasteries and churches should be dispersed among the people, that sin should not be expiated by paying indulgences—that is, paying the clergy for forgiveness—that church officials in power should not give offices to family members even if they are undeserving … There are many things, complicated things—”
“But they all make sense!” Cecily cried with a smile. “Why would people think that is evil when they just want to make things fair?”
“That, too, is complicated, little one,” he told her, touched by her innocent summation of the situation. “Many people do not like their authority questioned, even if the suggestions seem reasonable. People fear change and those benefiting from the way things are now will no doubt fight to keep them that way.” He sighed. “It is dangerous even discussing the New Learning, Lady Cecily, and you would do well not to speak of it to anyone but me. People, like Martin Luther, have been excommunicated