Chapter Fifty-Eight Cecilia
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Cecilia
The palace is transformed into a place of jubilation.
Garlands of spun gold are strung from beam to beam.
The doorways are decorated with flowers from the wild meadows of the Nameless Lands, conveyed at great cost of life and coin from the unknown reaches of the world.
Wine spouts from every fountain. Musicians prepare their performances in every public chamber.
Nowhere is quiet, and yet nowhere is louder than Cecilia’s mind. She trips from room to room, admiring the craftsmanship, taunting the servants, and yet there is a listlessness to her that she cannot shake.
So when, one night, she is woken from her slumber by an uproar, she thinks it must have been a dream.
When the sound comes again through the darkness, her second assumption is that a lantern dragon has escaped its cage.
They did so often when she was a child, and she always loved to see if she could capture the creatures before the servants did.
It was amusing to pull their wings to make their light turn from gold to shimmering blue, a natural consequence of their pain.
The child within her awakening, she reaches for a robe and pulls it around her nightshift to ward off the miserable Elben chill which permeates even the most well-insulated palaces at night.
As she pads to the door and presses her ear to it, someone in a far-off passage says, “Wake the king immediately!” It might be Cromwell, although she has never heard panic in his voice before.
The spark of intrigue is truly alight within her now.
She slips out of her rooms and follows the sound of servants, delighting in the strangeness of High Hall at night and thanking any god who might hear that her rooms are so close to the centre of the palace, for if she had been lodged in one of the queens’ wings, she would not have heard the commotion.
It is only as she gets closer to the noise that a hint of unease seeps in. That cry, halfway between groan and roar, like oak toppling.
It is the sound of a crone, she swears it. The creatures may move almost silently, but when they have the bloodlust upon them, they can be loud.
The sound comes again from just above her, from the sanctuary itself. Cecilia pauses, wondering whether she should return to her rooms and barricade herself in, when she hears human voices. Her brother’s voice. More’s voice.
No one could convince her to place herself in the way of a crone but those two men. Footstep by footstep, she forces herself onwards. They do not seem to be alarmed.
The sanctuary door is ajar. She peers inside, but can see no monster.
More is draped across the altar. His back is bare, great welts striping it.
They seem to move across his skin, but it must be a trick of the shadows.
Henry and Cromwell are hunched over him, muttering words of comfort.
To one side stands Charles Brandon, watching impassively.
Cromwell looks over his shoulder. “Close the door, if you please, my lord.”
Brandon scowls at being given an order by an upstart like Cromwell, but does as he’s told. Cecilia ducks back, but not quickly enough. She freezes before Brandon’s stare.
Brandon hesitates, then presses a finger to his lips and closes the door a little, leaving the thinnest of cracks for her to listen through.
She has a sudden, vertiginous memory of twenty years ago, of listening at this exact same door to the sound of their father being informed of his eldest son’s death.
Cecilia was not yet ten. The catch in their father’s throat as he turned to Henry and said, “You are my heir now, my son. There is much you must learn. Much you must accept if you are to rule Elben peaceably.”
And Henry, in a small, high voice, had replied, “I will make you proud, Father. You and Arthur.”
She digs her fingernails into her palms and concentrates on the present.
“It is not working,” Henry says.
“I just need a little longer—” Cromwell begins.
Before he can finish, Henry flies at him, taking Cromwell by the neck and pinning him against the sanctuary wall.
Cromwell does not claw at his hold as most would.
His feet dangle from the floor: he is being choked, and he does nothing to prevent it.
Cecilia covers her mouth. There’s a burst of divine power, running all the way from Henry’s chest, down his arm and into his hand, and a spurt of blood erupts from Cromwell’s neck.
Cecilia throws herself away from the sight, pressing herself against a wall for support. She has never minded blood. She has extracted enough in her time. But the expression upon Henry’s face – that she cannot shake.
Cecilia wills herself to simply listen. She does not need to look as well.
There’s a thud as something heavy crumples to the floor, and then laboured movements.
“Do you need a physician, my lord?” Henry says. His voice is gentle, as it was when they were children. When he came to her and proposed marrying her to the ageing king of Capetia. How can her sweet brother hold such gentleness and such violence so close to each other?
“No, Your Majesty, I will be quite well,” Cromwell says, though his voice is hoarse.
“The ball is approaching. I must have them by then.”
“My tests are proving fruitful,” Cromwell says. “If you will only permit me to accelerate them, then I believe we can bring the matter to a head.”
Cecilia gets the sense that the others are uneasy about Cromwell’s assertion.
“I have witnessed the process,” Brandon says. “It is extreme.”
There’s the sound of uneven footsteps: Henry’s, Cecilia assumes, since he is the only one with a limp.
“My friend, are you strong enough?” he asks someone.
“If the Highfather wills it, my body will withstand,” More replies eventually.
Brandon makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, as Cromwell says, “Very well. Shall we begin tonight?”
“No,” Henry says, his voice thick. “Let the bishop rest. You can begin at first light.”
“You will not watch?” Cromwell says.
“No,” Henry says. “You understand, dear friend?”
“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” More replies. Cecilia stifles a sob, though she does not know why.
She presses into the shadows as Henry strides out of the sanctuary.
She will wait until More is alone and then plead with him not to go through with whatever terrible experiment Cromwell is inflicting upon him.
No one is worth such pain, not even the king of Elben.
Not even a god. But Cromwell, that crow of foresight, says, “I will accompany you to your rooms, my lord, and have my men stand guard to ensure you sleep well. We must see that you have strength enough for what is to come. I would hate to see you brought low in the pursuit of such good work for our king and country.”
“That is unnecessary, I assure you.”
“Nevertheless, we cannot be too cautious. I know you have many supplicants, and I would not want them to wake you before it is time.”
It’s a lie. More does have supplicants, but none who would plead with him so early.
Cecilia edges closer to the open door, debating whether to simply erupt into the room and drag More to safety herself.
If she had been in Perfugi still, in her own place of power, she would have done.
But High Hall is different. Something about this place has made Cecilia Tudor uncertain.
By the time she has convinced herself to do it, Cromwell and More have left out of the other entrance, taking the quickest route to More’s rooms.
Brandon comes to her.
“Do you have your answers now?”
“You piece of shit,” she hisses, pushing him because she cannot punish herself. He catches her arms and pins them to her sides. “What if he dies?” she says.
“Then he ascends.”
She spits at him. Still, he holds her arms. She stands on tiptoes and bites his cheek, leaving deep crescents in the flesh around his beard. Brandon growls. She wants him to backhand her, so she will have an excuse to push her nails into his eyes. But when he speaks, his whisper is gentle.
“What is more important to you? That queendom your brother promised you, or the well-being of an old man who does not value his mortal body? Think, Cecilia. Put these ridiculous emotions aside and think.”
She still struggles in his grasp, but the weight of his words is heavy and dangerous and calming.
She stifles a sob against his chest.
“He is the only one I truly care about,” she whispers into the fabric.
“I know. That is why I wanted you to hear him. He’s doing this for you as well. He wants you to have your queendom.”
She looks up at him and swallows the lie, relishing its sweetness even though she knows it is rotten. What would she even do anyway? She could never persuade More to anything, just as he could never persuade her.
“Take me to my rooms,” she says. He picks her up, cradling her against his chest as he marches down to the fourth level. Perhaps there is something to be said for the strength and confidence of older men.
Inside her chamber, he lays her on her bed.
Her robe falls open, revealing her shift, and before he can move away she grabs his hair and pushes his head between her legs.
He makes a sound of surprise but attends to her obediently.
She maintains her grip on his hair, as she used to do with Florin, and squeezes whenever the thought of what might happen to More intrudes upon her pleasure.
She has him attend to her until she falls asleep, sated. She never sees More alive again.