by Mary Daheim
Richard grinned down at her. “Good, then you know exactly what delights you will find in my bed.”
“Richard! I have no intention of ending up in your bed! Now let me go; everyone will wonder where we are.” She grasped his upper arms and tried to pry herself loose, but he merely laughed.
“They’ll just think I’m taking care of you after your ordeal with His Grace. Which I am. They’ll also think I’m trying to seduce you. Which I am.” He lowered his face to hers but she turned abruptly away. “Oh, Morgan, don’t be a goose. This isn’t the rigid court it used to be when Catherine was Queen. Love rules all—and we can rule love.”
“No!” The word came out loud but trembled on the night air. “You’ve been kind—but I won’t repay such gestures with my body! Now let me go or I’ll never speak to you again!”
Morgan felt Richard’s grasp slacken almost imperceptibly. At last he chuckled and shook his head. “All right, Morgan Todd. I’ll be content with just a kiss—this time. Is that not fair?”
Morgan considered the alternatives. A kiss did not seem too outrageous a demand. She hesitated, then lifted her face to his; Richard gathered her close and bent down to kiss her lips. It was a long, sensuous kiss, and Morgan marveled at the difference between men: It was not tender like Sean’s, yet it lacked the animal fervor of the stranger’s in the orchard. And as Morgan leaned against Richard’s chest, she was alarmed at her own reaction. Richard was the one who finally pulled away and gazed down at her with bemused astonishment.
“I’m not sure that’s adequate compensation, but it’s a delicious taste of future delicacies.” Richard put his hands on her shoulders again and moved just a few inches away. The green eyes rested on her bosom and he shook his head. “Oh, Morgan, you are as enticing as you are stubborn. But,” he added as the green eyes flashed in the moonlight, “you will belong to me some day.”
His arrogance obliterated the pleasure Morgan had found in his kiss. “You are too sure of yourself, Richard Griffin. I will never belong to you. I will only belong to the man I love. And that choice will be my own.” Morgan made a sudden, sure move and darted out of his arms. She began to run back toward the palace, and tried not to hear Richard’s laughter as it floated after her on the soft, spring night air.
Chapter 3
Despite his advancing age, the Duke of Norfolk was still one of the finest warriors in England. Attired in battle armor, Norfolk was hoisted onto his black stallion and handed his blunted lance. He tested the weight and feel of his weapon, and announced himself ready to meet his opponent, the Duke of Suffolk.
Norfolk was a proud Howard, with Plantagenet blood in his veins. Though Anne Boleyn was his niece, there was no love between them; despite Henry’s flagrant disobedience to the Church of Rome, the Howards remained fiercely Catholic.
Suffolk, however, remained himself—ambitious, opportunistic, and charming. A commoner born Charles Brandon, he had eloped with Henry’s youngest sister, Mary, after the death of her first husband, King Louis XII of France. Mary was dead now, but Suffolk retained his royal brother-in-law’s affection.
Morgan sat in a corner of the royal box in the new tiltyard at Whitehall and silently prayed that the dukes would make short work of their joust. She had enjoyed the earlier meets of the day, the pageant carriage drawn by mock unicorns, the colorful trappings of the horses, the crash of lance on shield, the byplay between the combatants and their ladies. But it had grown unusually warm for May and Morgan could feel her dress clinging to her back.
She glanced down to the front of the royal box where the King sat with Anne Boleyn. Henry was to have taken part in the jousting but a stiff neck had forced him to sit on the sidelines. He called out a greeting to Norfolk and Suffolk as they cantered onto the field.
Morgan fanned herself with her hand and fingered the pomander which hung from her waist. There was dust everywhere, and even the royal box was beginning to smell fetid from a combination of human sweat and horse dung. Madge Shelton poked Morgan in the ribs and giggled.
“It’s not fair to look bored, Morgan,” said Madge, whose red curls were beginning to peek out in damp coils from under her coif. “These are the two most important dukes in all England—and it is the last competition.”
“Praise St. George for that,” Morgan answered dryly. Morgan was beginning to learn the names and faces of various court personages. Tom Seymour had defeated Will Brereton earlier on, and Tom’s brother, Ned, had been victorious over Norfolk’s son, the Earl of Surrey. Richard Griffin, however, had lost a very close contest to Anne Boleyn’s brother, George. Both Anne and her sister Mary had cheered their brother lustily.
Morgan stifled a yawn as Suffolk and Norfolk thundered toward each other—and missed. “I should think they’d both die of heat stroke,” she said to Madge. “That armor must weigh twenty stone.”
“Not quite,” Madge replied, waving at Thomas Wyatt, who had just entered the royal box. Wyatt was a poet, not a warrior, and his amorous verses directed at Anne Boleyn had once earned him exile from court. He sat down next to his sister, Margaret, who was said to be Anne’s closest confidante. She was also said to be in love with George Boleyn, who returned her passion but was married to a shrewish wife. Morgan was casting her gaze about the overcrowded royal box, speculating on the intricacies of court romance, political alliances, and family relationships, when she was startled by a diffident tug at her flowing oversleeve. She looked down to see a young page not more than eleven or twelve bowing awkwardly.
“Mistress Todd?” he asked in an uncertain, piping voice. Morgan nodded and had to lean over the edge of the box to catch his next words as the dukes’ lances clattered together just a few yards away. “Your uncle, Master Secretary Cromwell, wishes to see you.”
“Jesu,” Morgan whispered to herself, and got up at once. She pushed past Madge, Thomas and Margaret Wyatt, and half a dozen others to reach the center aisle, which led out of the box. She was not unhappy about leaving the overwarm tiltyard but somewhat disconcerted by the sudden summons from her powerful uncle. As she followed the page through one of the palace’s smaller tennis courts toward the ground floor lodgings, Morgan adjusted her coif, smoothed her wrinkled skirts, and wondered if Thomas Cromwell was quite the ogre he was often made out to be. Halfway down the long drain yard, the page halted in front of a finely carved oak door. He made another clumsy bow, mumbled something Morgan couldn’t understand, and scurried away.
Her gaze followed him in puzzlement for a few moments; then Morgan took a deep breath and knocked firmly three times. When the door opened it was not Thomas Cromwell who greeted her but Tom Seymour. Morgan stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. “Tom! I wasn’t told you would be here!”
“Come in, muffet,” he said quickly, taking her arm and half dragging her inside. As he closed the door behind them, Morgan noticed that someone else was also in the room—but it was not her uncle, either; it was the young Earl of Surrey, sitting in his shirt sleeves and drinking a glass of red wine.
“You know Surrey,” Tom said as Morgan bobbed a curtsey. The young Earl smiled indolently and reached for the decanter on the table beside him. “These are not your uncle’s apartments but Surrey’s. I don’t have much time, but Harry and I have a surprise for you. Get your doublet on, man, you’ve had enough wine already to sink half the royal fleet.”
Surrey shrugged and set the decanter down. He was scarcely older than Morgan, but had already been married for two years to the Earl of Oxford’s daughter. “I’m not drunk, good Thomas, it’s just that jousting makes me uncommonly thirsty.”
Morgan was looking from one to the other with increasing perplexity. “Where’s the surprise? Please, Tom, you’re mystifying me!”
He reached out and brushed her cheek with his big, bronzed hand. “We can’t spoil it. But we must make haste; we don’t want undue attention called to our absence.” Surrey had pulled on his doublet and drained the last of his wine. Morgan allowed Tom to propel her back into the drain yard and out tow
ard the east gate of the palace. It passed through her mind as they hurried under the two-story structure that directly above them Hans Holbein had his quarters. Sean had lived there briefly in a small apartment adjacent to the master artist.
Whatever the surprise was, it must be outside the palace. Surrey was humming. Some of his own verse, Morgan decided, which he had set to music. The Earl was not as tall as Tom, but both men’s strides made Morgan all but run to keep up with them. They were walking north from the palace toward The Strand, a reviving breeze coming off the Thames to ruffle the plane trees which lined the paved roadway.
“It’s not far now,” Tom said as they reached Charing Cross. Several hawkers stood talking among themselves, apparently having concluded their business for the day. A horse-drawn litter carried a middle-aged, well-dressed couple who were both extremely obese. Their chins bobbed up and down as they moved over the cobbles while a feisty terrier barked its disapproval.
“But where, Tom? We’re halfway to the Fleet River,” Morgan finally noted as they passed the medieval walls of the Palace of Savoy.
Tom waved his arm in the direction of a grandiose four-story red-brick house with the Howard arms displayed above the elegantly carved lintel. “His Grace of Norfolk’s residence. Harry, you may have the honor of admitting us to your sire’s handsome house.”
Surrey sketched a mocking bow, opened the front door, and found himself confronted by a frail, elderly retainer. “Away, good man,” said Surrey, “we need no attendance this day.” The old servant backed off, disappearing into a narrow corridor just off the entry hall. “The library, I believe,” Surrey called, leading the way past a banquet room with a table that seemed to go on forever. Next was a music room where Morgan glimpsed lutes, virginals, and an exquisite harp.
The library door was closed; Surrey rapped once, then, without waiting for a response, opened the door. Morgan peered inside. Unlike the other rooms they had passed, this one was comparatively small and the draperies were drawn against the late-afternoon sun. Standing in front of one of the tall bookcases was a slender, masculine figure in riding clothes. Morgan froze in the doorway, unable to believe her eyes.
“Sean?” she finally breathed, taking a tentative step forward.
Sean O’Connor moved quickly across the tiled floor. He was smiling at her, that boyish, delightful smile she remembered so well. “Morgan!” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Morgan vaguely heard Tom and Surrey chuckling behind her. Morgan and Sean were staring at each other as if in a trance, his hand still holding hers, her gaze absorbing each detail of his wavy black hair, the faint smattering of freckles, the blue eyes, the well-defined chin.
“You came back from France,” Morgan breathed at last—and felt foolish at the inadequacy of her remark.
“That I did.” Sean released her hand and shook his head. “Oh, Morgan, I am very glad to see you.”
Morgan was about to reply but Tom put a hand on their shoulders. “Surrey and I will discreetly withdraw. But first I must explain that we should all exert the utmost discretion. I had to ride down to Deptford this morning where I discovered that a ship had just arrived from France. Who should be disembarking but this young Irishman?” Tom clapped Sean on the shoulder and grinned at Morgan. “He was determined to head straight for Ireland, but I convinced him he ought to bide for a few hours in London. Surrey and his father agreed to let him stay here, since they adhere as stubbornly to Popish ways as Sean.”
“I think you’re boring them, Tom. Let’s be gone; I’m still thirsty.” Surrey waved a hand at Morgan and Sean, grabbed Tom by the arm, and all but hauled the bigger man out of the library.
Even after Surrey and Tom had left, Morgan could not take her eyes off Sean. When she finally spoke it was with a voice filled with regret. “You are not staying in London?”
Sean shook his dark head. “It’s best I don’t. I much mislike the appointment of your uncle as the King’s secretary. He intends to destroy the Church of Rome in more ways than one. Since the poor likes of me can’t stop him, I’d rather not watch such blasphemy and heresy.”
“Then why come back at all?” Morgan stood with her palms pressed together, as if she were pleading for answers she wanted to hear.
But Sean merely shook his head. “I can’t stomach France. The court is dissolute, worse than here. No one will acknowledge that an Irishman can paint and even the food is disagreeable.” He sighed deeply, turning to look at the Italian painting of Madonna and Child that hung over the fireplace. “I’m better off back in my own country, where a man’s art—and his faith—are not mocked.” Sean was moving around the room, pausing to finger the golden clasp of a damask-covered breviary. Abruptly, his fist slammed against the oak paneling of the library’s wall. “What choice have I? To serve a King who flaunts the authority of St. Peter and Christ himself? Or end up in the Tower as Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher have done?” The blue eyes blazed with anger. “Those men are veritable saints, yet King Henry will butcher them both because they refuse to sign the Act of Succession!”
Morgan’s hands pressed the flowing linen skirts against her thighs. She had heard the talk about More, the former chancellor, and Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, but had not paid a great deal of attention. Fisher was old and much revered; More, however, was said to be a brilliant, witty, and extremely kind man who had been a close friend to the King. “But isn’t it just some sort of misunderstanding?” Morgan asked in a voice that sounded unusually meek.
“Oh ….’’ He stared at her for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite remember her name. “Oh, Morgan,” he went on in a tone that was tainted with exasperation, “of course not! You’ve been here a very short time and you’re listening to the wrong people. This is a matter which imperils not just lives but souls. Sir Thomas More, God help him, had no quarrel with signing the act itself. But the preamble disclaims papal authority. More couldn’t stomach that. Nor can I.”
Morgan rubbed her hand between her brows in agitation. It was an unconscious, characteristic gesture, as if she were trying to erase the problems which troubled her. “I’m sorry, I was never much good at politics and such. I came to court not for intrigue but for—” She stopped speaking abruptly and stared at Sean. For you, she thought fiercely, and you don’t even care that I am here! “So why did you stop in London?” she demanded, trying to control her sudden anger with his rantings and ravings about religion and preambles and ex-chancellors.
He lifted his slim shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “Why, to visit Sir Thomas More in the Tower, of course. To seek counsel and inspiration from him. He is a most remarkable man.”
“Oh.” Morgan nodded several times, trying to rein in her temper and absorb Sean’s explanation. “Well. It sounds foolhardy to me, but I imagine your mind is quite made up.”
“Indeed it is. Surrey has arranged it, and by the time anyone finds out I’ve been there, I’ll be well on my way to Ireland.” Sean was smiling now, looking well pleased with himself and pausing again to admire the breviary’s workmanship.
Morgan toyed with the chain around her waist, which held the pomander. “If you should pass by Faux Hall, give my parents my love.” She paused for his reply but he said nothing. “I write to them, of course,” she went on a bit too rapidly, “but I don’t have a great deal of time for letters. How is your father?”
The blue eyes turned shadowy. “I have not heard for some time. He was unwell this past winter, though.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan’s fingers worked at the silver chain until she realized she was in danger of breaking it apart. “I should go now. I’ll be needed by the—” Again she stopped abruptly. She did not dare call Anne Queen in front of Sean.
But Sean had taken three quick strides and stood directly in front of her. “I’ve not forgotten what happened last spring,” he declared, and his face softened, the blue eyes no longer angry or troubled. “Thomas Seymour told me you would be here, but I would rather you had not come.” Seeing Mor
gan flinch at his candor, he touched her face. “Nay, Morgan, it’s not that I didn’t want to see you—but I can offer you nothing. I’m an outcast, an exile, a man with no future.”
Morgan put her own hands on his. “Oh, Sean, I don’t care! I have no desire for riches or lands or—or any of those things! I would rather live with you in an Irish bog than with the finest lord in a palace!” She saw his look of astonishment at her frank declaration, watched his disarming smile twist wryly, marveled at the faint flush which all but obliterated the smattering of freckles. She was as surprised as he, for she had all but proposed to him.
He was laughing very softly. His arms went around her and he kissed her gently, lingeringly. She held him close and felt her heart race in her breast. “I would marry you tomorrow, Morgan, if the world were otherwise,” he sighed at last. Her head was against his shoulder, and he stroked her back with his hand. “Last spring I’d thought to go to court and make a name for myself as an artist, then ask your parents’ permission for us to wed. But now ….” He put his hands on her upper arms and held her away just enough so that he could look into her face. “We must see how events move along. Dare I ask you to wait?”
Her answer was to hurl herself back into his arms and hold him tight. “Of course I’ll wait! Why would I not? I love you!”
“I love you, too, Morgan.” He kissed the thick tawny hair that was not covered by her coif. “I probably always have, though I was never certain until last year. You are so fair, so alive, so good.”
Morgan felt something twist inside of her. What would Sean think if he suspected she had been ravished and was no longer a virgin? It occurred to her that perhaps she should tell him the truth, now, before she had spent time at court and he would think she had dallied with all sorts of importunate suitors. But she could not mention that unspeakable afternoon in the orchard.
A knock at the door startled them both. Sean let go of Morgan and backed away toward the fireplace. Morgan adjusted her coif as Tom Seymour entered the library, his big grin wide in the red beard. “I hate being the meddlesome chaperone,” Tom said, “but Morgan must get back to Whitehall before someone finds out her uncle never summoned her in the first place—and you, Sean, must go with Surrey to the Tower as soon as it begins to get dark.”