“What is happening?” she says, louder.
“Leave me, Cecilia,” he manages to whisper through clenched teeth.
With anyone else, she would have been out of the door already, but she feels a foreign flare of panic for someone other than herself.
“Help!” she shouts. “Someone fetch help!”
More’s grip on her hand is now so strong that her bones crack beneath the pressure, but she does not cry out for herself. His free hand claws at the back of his neck, and at the exposed skin on his arm which is already red-raw and covered in scars, barely healed. She tries to block him with her body. “No, no, stop that, you imbecile,” she says. Inside she is a drowning child in a frothing sea. “Help!” she shouts again.
There is a commotion beyond the narrow world of her existence, which features only her and the agony of this dear man. Then strong arms are pulling her away. Someone else – Cromwell and one of his men – work to prise More’s hand from her grip, and she shrieks, unsure if she is shrieking because of the pain from her broken hand or from the fury of being manhandled.
“Leave him be,” a voice says close to her ear. “My lady, leave him be. Cromwell will take care of him.”
“Cromwell hates him. Cromwell will kill him!” she shouts, not caring that the man can hear her. Brandon’s arms are still pulling her away, gripped around her waist as she struggles against them like a feral cat. Cromwell does not look up from his ministrations of More when he says, “I can assure Your Majesty that I mean your tutor no harm. I will ensure he receives the help he needs.”
“What is wrong with him? You will tell me, sir,” she says, as Brandon drags her out of the sanctuary and into the quiet chamber beyond. Usually this space is filled with supplicants, waiting their turn to make confession, but now it is empty but for Cecilia and her captor. She finally breaks free and whirls round to face him. Charles Brandon looks, for the first time in her memory, earnest.
“What is wrong with the bishop?” she says again, battling to control her panic.
“You need not worry about him,” he tells her, hands splayed.
“Does my brother know he is ill?” she says.
“Of course he does. As I said, it is all in hand. Please, Cecilia. He is not ill. He is on … a journey.”
Brandon guides her to a seat at the corner of the room. She would not usually follow him, except her legs are unaccountably unstable. She sinks onto the bench and gathers herself, the muscles and bones in her neck tightening and straining. Brandon sits beside her.
“What kind of journey?” she says.
“Ah, princess …”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Are you not a princess, princess?”
“I am a dowager queen, and I will hurt you.”
“I would enjoy that.”
She springs from the seat, pinching herself to stop the tears. She will never allow anyone to see her weep. Brandon places a gentle hand upon her shoulder.
“I am sorry you witnessed one of Bishop More’s episodes. They can be alarming at first, but I assure you that they have been occurring for some time, and we have them under control.”
“It is something divine, is it not?” she says. She cannot comprehend any other reason More would allow his body to change thus. When it comes to Cernunnos, he has never known anything but martyrdom.
“You always were sharp as a pin.”
“I am right, then.”
“Your brother cannot know I’ve told you.”
“You’ve told me nothing. I guessed.”
He squeezes her shoulder. “You understand the divine power better than most, don’t you? Strange, given you’re a rather heathen woman. Well, you know that it always costs mortals to meddle with divinity. The bishop is willing to pay that cost.”
She must return to her rooms then, although she does not remember the journey, only that she is staring out of the window at the hunting grounds and, beyond that, the Tower.It always costs mortals to meddle with divinity. More is willing to pay that price.She knows from her conversations with Seymour that the queens, too, are paying the price, willingly or otherwise.
What cost did it extract from her cold-eyed father?
