Chapter Forty-Three Cecilia
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cecilia
The news arrives at High Hall in such a flurry that even Cecilia cannot properly delight in the chaos it causes.
By the time the messenger Cromwell sent to inform Henry of Cleves’s betrayal arrives at Cnothan, the news of Seymour and Cleves’s attempt on the king’s life has made its way like wildfire through the villages and towns of that territory and all the way to Cromwell’s spies.
For a few hours, it seems as though Seymour and Cleves have been apprehended as they fled the castle.
Then another messenger appears to say that they have, in fact, escaped to god knows where.
The territory around High Hall rings with church bells, all of them raising a hue and cry.
Some sanctuaries toll funeral bells, having heard wrongly that Henry has been assassinated.
Wolsey, cursing loudly at all who dare approach him, sends his men out on horseback to set the priests right.
It would never do for the people of Elben to believe their king dead when there is no prince to succeed him.
Cecilia swirls through it all, barely talking to anyone but listening to everyone.
Most fascinating are the varied reactions of the courtiers, and the way those reactions change when they notice her loitering nearby.
Incredulity that their great monarch might be brought low; intrigue; gossip.
She likes to wave at those who seem excited to let them know she’s heard them.
They’re the ones who bow lowest of all as she trips out of the room. The air smells of the musk of change.
But even Cecilia tires of it eventually, and makes her way, floor by floor, up to the Royal Sanctuary, where she finds More on his knees, his hands clasped before him in prayer.
She pauses in the doorway. When she last saw him, his hair was darker, not shot through with grey.
He was softer, too – he used to enjoy his meals, but she thinks, looking at the way his robes hang from him and the bones jutting from his wrists, that it has been some time since he allowed himself to truly taste food.
His eyes are closed in devotion as she kneels quietly beside him. She feels like a girl again.
“Hello, my lord,” she says quietly. More startles, his eyes opening, and the move is so exaggerated that she might have thought it an act if she didn’t know him better. He was truly communing with Cernunnos.
More smiles, his wrinkles deepening. The whites of his eyes are shot with red.
“My Lady Cecilia, come home at last.”
She throws her arms around his shoulders, and he stiffens for a moment before returning her embrace.
“I never thought I should see you again, child. I prayed for your soul, lost at sea.”
“Well, I always did like to surprise you.”
They retire to a little antechamber set aside for the clergy to entertain guests and take refreshments. Here, in the light through the windows, Cecilia sees even more starkly how More has aged.
“You are not well,” she says. She wants to kneel at his feet, as she used to, but she is keenly aware of the difference between the girl she was and the queen she is.
She doesn’t know how to reconcile the two, how to thread them together for him.
More’s grip on his cup of wine tightens.
“I am well enough, my dear. Do not concern yourself with me. But tell me, by what miracle do you come to be here? Did the great god pluck you from the debris of the ocean and set you safely down in High Hall?”
She pauses. Guilt is not her way, but this is one heartbreak she does not relish delivering. Not to him.
She tells him everything: what truly happened at the bordweal; how powerless she felt and how jealous; she tells him about Medren and of Cleves and Seymour’s treachery, and then of her plan to ask Henry to give her Cnothan once Cleves has been removed.
Through it all, she searches his face for the surprise he must be feeling.
But she can find nothing in his reaction to indicate that he is shocked.
“You knew,” she says, letting the hurt seep into her voice.
“Some of it,” he admits, sighing heavily and taking another long gulp of his wine. “You have heard about what happened at the Moon Ball.”
“The impression I received was that no one gave it credence,” she says, realising how naive she must sound.
“Most did not want to give it credence, myself among them. But …” Here he sighs shakily. “Something happened in that hall, Cecilia. Something irrefutable.”
She finds herself leaning forwards, desperate to understand what has shaken the man she thought unshakeable.
“What was it?”
“It was … faith.”
Something shivers up Cecilia’s back. She would usually reply with a cutting rebuttal, but More looks so frail that she cannot.
“And yet you are still here. Still with my brother.”
She is not one to judge. After all, she bends and switches her loyalties according to convenience. But More was never thus.
“I have wrestled with my conscience, believe me. And yes, I have chosen to surrender myself to the mighty Cernunnos. His may not be the oldest faith, but I feel certain that his is the true one.”
“He is stealing another god’s power.”
“Religions rise and fall, my dear. I have taught you this. Just because the heathen gods and goddesses of old exist does not mean we must blindly worship them. We know better. We know the right of kings is absolute. And has your brother not ruled this kingdom well? Kept it safe? Elben’s continued success surely tells us that Cernunnos is the promised Haehfader, no matter that he vanquished another to rise. ”
Cecilia stands, towering over the old man. “Who are you trying to persuade?”
More’s wrinkled hand shakes as it lifts the cup of wine to his lips once more. “I never thought to be lectured on principles by you, my dear princess.”
“Dowager Queen,” Cecilia says.
“Old habits, Your Majesty,” he replies, not meeting her eyes.
His hand shakes more violently, and the sleeve of his robe rides up. Cecilia catches sight of an ugly welt that wraps around his wrist.
“That is from no sack cloth,” she says, seizing his hand to look more closely.
“A fall,” he says, withdrawing his arm with surprising strength and pulling down the sleeve. “I am very pleased to have you back at High Hall, my dear. Very pleased.”
But he turns away, setting down his cup and moving back into the sanctuary, back to his kneeling place at the pews. Cecilia knows better than to attempt to continue their conversation.
She thought that speaking to her old tutor would give her some clarity on how to secure Cnothan for herself.
But she finds herself in greater turmoil.
She has never truly understood religion, or why so many choose to kill and sacrifice themselves for its sake.
The notion of an all-seeing god is too intangible for her to take seriously.
For her, life is to be consumed, and what may or may not happen in the afterlife is something to be tackled then and not before.
She is a queen, after all, and she reckons that gods, like humans, do not mind a bargain.
“What should I do?” she says, to the room rather than More, but it is More who answers.
“Trust in me and your brother, as you always have. Enjoy your time at High Hall.”
He has never dismissed her before, but this – this is a dismissal.