by Mary Daheim
She actually jumped when the door flew open without so much as a knock. “God’s blood,” laughed Tom Seymour, hands outstretched, “I keep forgetting that a lady other than my sister resides here now.”
“You certainly do forget,” Morgan declared, feigning a pout. “I’ve hardly seen you since we got to Whitehall.”
“I know, muffet,” Tom replied, shoving the door closed behind him. He was looking even more dashing than usual in his dark blue doublet slashed with cloth-of-gold, short court-length cape swinging from his broad shoulders, and the ever-present small gold earring in his left ear. “But you know I’ve been at Deptford, watching over repairs on the fleet.”
“So you have.” Morgan seemed more concerned with plucking a stray eyebrow. “No matter, Jane and I have survived without you.”
Tom laughed, the joyful, room-filling sound Morgan knew so well. “Oh, muffet, stand up; you already look the part of a lady-in-waiting.”
Morgan obeyed and smiled back at Tom as he eyed her appreciatively. “You look delectable,” he declared, but the blue eyes held a serious note. “Though it might have been prudent to have worn a … less obvious gown for your first court appearance.”
Such criticism from Jane was expected; from Tom, it seemed inappropriate. “By the Mass, Tom, I’m going to a ball, not a convent!”
Tom didn’t reply at once; he seemed transfixed by the curve of Morgan’s bosom. “True,” he finally allowed. “But not all the men at court can exert such restraint as I can.”
“Oh, Tom,” Morgan laughed, “from what I’ve heard, restraint is hardly your strong suit.”
“Strange as it may seem, I do have a measure of self-discipline.” The statement had an unusually serious tone, but Tom was already smiling again. “As long as you give me the first dance, I’ll not rebuke you further.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “But I can’t. I’ve already promised it to Richard Griffin.”
Tom’s smile faded and he stiffened ever so slightly.
“Richard Griffin? God’s blood, Morgan, he’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. That wild Welshman has absolutely no restraint. The man’s a rake, and an unprincipled one at that.”
Tom’s sudden attack of moral indignation struck Morgan as both funny and annoying. But this was no time for anger; the ball would be starting in just a few minutes. She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to look dignified. “Tom, I know you promised my parents that you would watch over me, and I’m grateful. But I’m eighteen years old, I’m at court, and I don’t intend to be seduced by every charming man who comes along.” Though the words sounded sincere, Morgan winced inwardly, once again remembering the bold, blond stranger.
Tom put a finger on her turned-up nose. “I know, muffet, you’re as virtuous as you are dazzling. It’s just an unfortunate combination.”
Morgan burst out laughing. Somehow, they began to talk of other things, mainly Tom’s efforts with the fleet during the past week. The daughter of a seafaring man, Morgan listened attentively and asked pertinent questions. As the French clock on the dressing table chimed nine, Tom announced that they must leave for the ball. If he couldn’t be the first to dance with her, then he and Jane and their older brother, Ned, must introduce her to the King and Queen.
Anne Boleyn had made all the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment before leaving on progress, carefully picking each course, supervising the musicians, and planning each detail of the decorations. A fully dressed roasted swan pulled a barge of condiments. Suckling pigs wore flowers of marchpane, the delicate paste buds garlanded around their necks. Great slabs of beef swam in their own juices and bouquets of garden herbs. Each course was announced with a flare of trumpets. Purslane and cucumbers, artichokes and cabbage lettuces came first, accompanied by capons in lemon, trout in a fine sauce, and stewed sparrows. Fresh sturgeon, quail basted a golden brown, and a pasty of venison followed. Morgan had balked at the roasted stork, only sampled the gannet, and gave up entirely when the servants brought blancmange, apples with pistachios, and clotted cream with sugar.
“We don’t eat like this at Faux Hall,” Morgan murmured to Tom, whose appetite seemed infinite. “Would anyone notice if I fell asleep?”
Tom laughed. “Richard Griffin would. He’s been ogling you throughout the banquet.”
Morgan cast a discreet glance in Richard’s direction. She had been aware of his unguarded stare from first course to last, but had averted her own eyes out of confusion and embarrassment. It was one thing to speak boldly to Richard Griffin in anger, but to flirt across the banquet table was another matter entirely. Morgan was unskilled in such arts, and Tom’s warning about Richard had disconcerted her more than she had realized.
So Morgan let her gaze wander around the banquet hall itself, admiring the garlands of spring flowers, the mass of purple and gold iris which banked the wall behind the royal dais, and the enormous Tudor rose at the opposite end of the hall, which was made from green leaves and white blossoms. Tom had told her it had taken a dozen pages nearly all day to assemble.
But Morgan found the royal couple the most intriguing sight of all. King Henry seemed larger than life, his big body swathed from head to toe in cloth-of-silver. The red-gold beard seemed to shimmer in the light of a thousand candles, and his small eyes appeared to miss nothing. Queen Anne sat edgily beside him, a tall, slim figure more elegant than beautiful. The famous almond-shaped eyes were set in an oval face which would have been sallow if she hadn’t known how to use color in both her clothes and cosmetics. She, too, wore cloth-of-silver, but her underskirt was a brilliant scarlet and the big oversleeves glittered with rubies. Morgan recalled that Grandmother Isabeau had once told her Queen Anne had imported the oversleeve fashion from France. It had not merely been a concession to French couture, but a clever means of concealing a defect in Anne’s left hand, a sixth finger, in fact, which only the Queen’s most intimate friends ever glimpsed.
King Henry was rising from his elaborately carved armchair. His long arms spread out to take in the entire gathering as silence quickly fell around the hall. “We have come here tonight to eat and dance in such a manner as to welcome in the merry month of May,” he announced in his big, booming voice. “We have eaten. Now let us dance.” The royal hand signaled to the musicians; Queen Anne started to rise, but her husband’s glance was raking the ladies arrayed before him, as if he were considering his choice of partner. At last he turned back to Anne and extended his hand. She gave him a dazzling smile, but he merely stared straight ahead as he strode out onto the dance floor.
“The whore looks well tonight, but I don’t think His Grace has noticed,” Tom remarked over the rim of his wine goblet. “It seems that possession for our monarch might be equated with tedium.”
“Tom!” Morgan was genuinely shocked. “He pursued Anne for seven years; it’s scarcely been two since they wed …. You mustn’t say such things!”
The blue eyes glinted with something Morgan could not fathom. Malice? Anger? Or mere cynicism? But there was no opportunity to probe further, for Richard Griffin stood before them, bowing low.
“I regret intruding upon your dalliance, Thomas, but the lady’s first dance was promised to me.” Richard’s smile was as audacious as it was charming. He offered Morgan his hand while Tom watched with guarded amusement. But by the time Morgan and Richard reached the dance floor, the music had stopped. “I tarried too long,” Richard said, bestowing his smile on Anne Boleyn’s pretty cousin, Madge Shelton, who was being partnered by the King’s brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk.
“They will start another dance soon, won’t they?” said Morgan, and recoiled at her lack of witty banter.
“Ah, yes,” agreed Richard, “even now, the gay lavolta.” He put his arm around Morgan’s waist as the lively tune filled the hall. Couples whirled around them, each man trying to swing his partner higher in the air than the others. On the last boisterous measure, Richard whisked Morgan off her feet and practically o
ver his head. She cried out in fright but he only laughed.
The King, who had not taken part in the second dance, applauded heartily. “Ho, good Richard, don’t hide your pretty partner. Bring her forward. I’ve yet to meet that honey-haired maid.”
Richard kept Morgan’s hand firmly in his. She hoped that neither he nor King Henry would notice that she was trembling. She also hoped Tom would not be annoyed because he was not the one to introduce her to their sovereign.
“Your Grace,” Richard said, “Mistress Morgan Todd.” Morgan made a deep curtsey, hoping that her nod toward the Queen would be noticed; she did not wish to exclude Anne Boleyn from her obeisance. “I am deeply honored,” she murmured, her tawny lashes lowered to hide the fright she knew must be showing in her eyes.
“Arise, arise,” the King said airily. He was unabashedly peering down the front of her gown. Morgan got up quickly, grateful for Richard’s steadying hand. Henry was fingering his red-gold beard. He suddenly seemed to remember his consort who sat rigidly at his side, the almond-shaped eyes flashing from Morgan to her husband and back again. “We are pleased to welcome you to court. I assume you will be attending Her Grace now that we have returned from progress.”
Morgan glanced at Anne Boleyn for confirmation; the Queen gave a curt nod as Henry began speaking again. “Todd … Sir Edmund’s daughter, eh?” As Morgan affirmed that she was, the King’s small eyes grew speculative. “Ah, yes, Sir Edmund Todd—the man who does not approve of the way I run the Royal Navy. Is he still trying to convert Tom Seymour to his manner of thinking?”
Morgan swallowed hard, wishing Tom were at her side for reassurance. “My father has never wanted to force his beliefs on those who think otherwise,” Morgan said at last. Her voice had not trembled; the statement was succinct and true. For one brief instant Morgan felt proud of herself—until she realized that several people had all but gasped, Ned Seymour was frowning from his place near the throne, the Queen had turned pale, and Henry’s eyes seemed to glint with anger.
Seemingly from out of nowhere, Tom had moved to stand by his brother and the King. “That’s why I admire Sir Edmund so much,” Tom interjected in a casual tone. “He has his own ideas about seamanship, yet is always willing to listen to others. As you know well, Your Grace, seafaring men must be flexible, for wind and weather are unpredictable foes.”
The King had given Tom a sidelong glance. A small growl rumbled in the royal throat as he considered Tom’s words. “True,” Henry allowed at last, and apparently mollified, turned back to Morgan. “God knows I’ve sailed enough myself to have respect for nature’s vagaries. Well, Mistress Todd, you are certainly a more decorative addition to court than your father. I hope you will also prove less obstinate.” The merest hint of a smile played around Henry’s mouth.
Morgan’s composure had been shattered. She wasn’t quite certain how she had offended the King and shocked the courtiers, but though her legs had turned weak as water and her mind seemed a total blank, Morgan knew she had to extricate herself as gracefully as possible from this awkward, even frightening exchange. Summoning all the courage and wit she could command, Morgan took a deep breath, vaguely aware that in doing so her full breasts almost burst over the bodice of the apple green gown. “The obstinate one in my family is Grandmother Isabeau. She is still determined to find another husband.”
Henry stared at Morgan, looked from Richard to Tom and back again. “Isabeau? William Todd’s widow?” The King’s fleshy face screwed up in puzzlement. “And just how old is Grandmother Isabeau?” demanded His Grace as the small eyes flickered once more with amusement.
“Seventy-two,” Morgan answered, and almost felt faint with relief as Henry slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. The rest of the courtiers followed suit, and finally, when Henry’s rich guffaws had subsided, he shook a forefinger at Morgan.
“You are a crafty wench, Morgan Todd. So you would have your sovereign play Cupid for your grandmother? And from what I remember of Isabeau when I was a lad, she might well wear a younger man out. Perhaps,” he went on, leaning forward in a loud whisper and managing a much closer look at the cleft between Morgan’s breasts, “I ought to visit the lady myself.” He roared again with laughter, and though the Queen looked tense, she was the first to join him this time. At last Henry reached out and pinched Morgan’s cheek. “I do believe I’m glad you’ve joined us, Mistress Morgan. Let this mad Welshman resume his pursuit of you—or is it your grandmother he really desires?”
Richard had clasped Morgan’s hand firmly in his and she made no attempt to move away. The physical contact was reassuring, and for the moment, Morgan was too elated over her small triumph to worry about Richard’s reputation. Nor did she even hear his response to the King, who was now on his feet, motioning for the musicians to resume playing. She acknowledged the King’s parting sally with a deep curtsey and a second obeisance for Anne, who was strained but smiling. The music resounded throughout the hall, couples were once again whirling across the floor in a dizzying blaze of color, and people were talking and laughing everywhere. Dazed, heart still pounding and limbs not quite yet steady, Morgan let Richard lead her from the hall and into the gardens of Whitehall.
He said nothing until they had passed by the bowling alley, the great open tennis court, and the stairway that led to the smaller, enclosed tennis area on the first floor of the palace. It was a gentle night, befitting May Eve, with only a few wispy clouds trailing across the star-specked sky. Here, in the formal privy garden, the spring flowers seemed more sculpted than planted. Such symmetry and design seemed foreign to Morgan, who was used to the lush, untrammeled flora at Faux Hall. Her composure was coming back, and even in the dark, she could not help but note the carefully spaced rows of tulips, the borders of lobelia, the tall iris which stood like sentinels against the box hedges.
Richard seemed to be reading her mind. “It’s the first garden of its sort in England,” he said, leaning against a young oak whose mate stood precisely a hundred feet away. “The concept comes from Italy.”
“It seems unnatural,” Morgan remarked, watching a slight breeze send a circular bed of narcissus swaying in unison. She paused and then looked up at Richard. “Please—whatever did I say wrong?”
Richard smiled, the white, slightly gapped teeth flashing in the moonlight. “You mentioned people forcing others to believe what they believe. That is precisely what Henry intends for all of us to do. The Act of Succession, which your worthy uncle has helped draft, is a first step in that direction.”
Morgan frowned. “I know little of such things. Is that why Uncle Thomas has just been named the King’s official secretary?”
“One reason. But do you know what the act is?” Richard’s green eyes were unusually serious, and Morgan noted that he glanced in all directions to make sure they could not be overheard.
“It’s something to do with whoever succeeds His Grace as sovereign. My father has talked of it but I never paid much attention.” Morgan recalled lively discussions at supper between her father, mother, and Aunt Margaret, but neither she nor Nan had ever listened closely and Grandmother Isabeau had usually managed to end the exchanges with one of her brief but eloquent French phrases. Argument at mealtime, Grandmother Isabeau always said, was bad for the digestion.
“I’m afraid you had better pay attention now.” Richard rubbed at his upper lip and appeared to be trying to form his words with care. “The Act of Succession is quite simple. It states that the heirs of the King’s body by Anne Boleyn are first in line for the throne. Though Anne’s baby is many years younger than Catherine of Aragon’s daughter, the little Elizabeth takes precedence. Princess Mary, meanwhile, is declared a bastard, since Henry’s marriage to her mother was never valid.”
Morgan was silent for a few moments, absorbing Richard’s words. “Of course the King says that since Catherine was married first to his brother, Arthur, their own marriage was unlawful,” Morgan said. “But Catherine has sworn that the marriage w
as never consummated. Arthur was so young and sickly.”
“Yet Henry swears Catherine was no virgin when he came to her, and because he took his brother’s widow to wife—against the dictates of the Old Testament—child after child has died or miscarried and the King says it is because the marriage was accursed by God.”
“He and Catherine did have great misfortune begetting children,” Morgan allowed. “Yet it’s difficult not to believe Queen Catherine—she has always sounded like such a saintly woman.”
Richard put a finger over Morgan’s lips. “She is not to be called Queen, but Dowager Princess of Wales as befits Arthur’s widow.” Richard’s hand strayed to Morgan’s shoulder. “See here, sweet Morgan, you mustn’t say such things, you mustn’t trust anyone, not even me. Catherine is not Queen, Henry was never married to her, their daughter is illegitimate. Only Anne’s children matter. You, along with the rest of us, will be asked to accept the Act of Succession. Before long, we will all have to pledge ourselves to Henry and the church he has created out of this marriage muddle.”
Morgan could not help but laugh. “Oh, Richard, that sounds ridiculous! To break from Rome and start a new church just because Catherine may or may not have consummated her marriage to Arthur! No wonder Grandmother Isabeau finds the English so funny!”
Richard squeezed Morgan’s shoulder gently and sighed. “It’s not funny. And Henry Tudor is almost as Welsh as I am.” He stared into the darkness for a moment, the green eyes in shadow. Then he turned to Morgan and pulled her into his arms. “No more talk of politics, Morgan Todd. Just be careful what you say and do.”
“Being in your arms isn’t being careful,” Morgan asserted, trying to disengage herself. “I’ve been warned about the likes of you.”