More tilts his head so she can see him smiling. “We all return to dust eventually.”
“That is cheery,” she says, sitting beside him, her back to the altar. She sees the disapproval flickering in More’s eyes and grins.
“You do not have to always be so contrary, my dear,” he says. “We will admire your spirit even if you occasionally behave properly.”
“But then how shall I needle you all?”
More allows Cecilia to lift him to his feet. If he were not so stoic, he would be groaning in discomfort.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks.
“Do not worry about me.”
“I’m not worried about you; I’m impatient,” she lies. “What is going on in this palace? Henry says Cromwell has found something in your library, something that will win him an empire, but everyone is keeping tight-lipped about what that entails.”
“They say nothing because it does not concern you,” More says, leaning on Cecilia as he lowers himself into a pew.
Cecilia prods him. “If it concerns my family, it concerns me. What are all of you boring old men doing?”
More raises an eyebrow. “I thought I was not such an old man.”
“Answer me.”
More squeezes her hand. “Lord Highfather, Mistress Boleyn did not cause me so much trouble.”
Cecilia lets that statement hang in the air, not because she is shocked or offended, but because both of them know that it is dangerous to utter such words. Boleyn, though Cecilia barely remembers her from her court in Capetia, can never be spoken of unless it is to condemn her as a traitor and witch.
“You liked her,” Cecilia says.
“No,” More replies quickly.
“Admired her, then.”
“She was difficult.”
“You like difficult women.”
“I most certainly do not.”
“You like me.”
“You are different.”
Cecilia feels a sudden rush of affection for this old man. She grasps his hand, the skin paper-thin and flaking like dandruff. Normally, she would never deign to touch such skin, but More is right – she and he have always held special places in each other’s regard.
“You were always very patient with me,” she says.
“Well, you had plenty of impatience from other areas.”
They do not speak of her father. They do not speak of Arthur.
“What is happening here?” Cecilia says. Her voice is quiet but she uses the words like little needles, each one a stab, telling More that she is not going to give up until she has answers.
“My dear …” he says, his eyes closing. She is going to press her point further until she realises he is shaking. The movement is so slight at first that she barely notices it, assuming it is some part of his ageing condition.
“My lord?” she says, her hand tightening around his.
The shaking intensifies, until his entire arm is shuddering and the only fixed point is her grip. His eyes are closed, his mouth stretched open in a grimace of pain.
