by Mary Daheim
Sean agreed. He took Morgan’s hand and again raised it to his lips. The blue eyes sought hers and their glances locked for a moment. “I will write, I swear,” he said.
“I, too,” Morgan answered in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Take care. Please.”
He relinquished her hand. “And you.” He gazed past Morgan to Tom. “You will watch over her?”
Tom put an arm around Morgan. “I’ve already promised her parents that I would. God’s teeth, I’m beginning to feel like a doddering old nursemaid!” His big laugh resounded against the library walls while Morgan and Sean smiled at each other. Then Surrey was in the room too, and after a flurry of farewells, Morgan found herself outside Norfolk’s great house and heading back along The Strand toward Charing Cross and Whitehall. She and Tom walked swiftly and silently until they reached the palace gates. Morgan stopped suddenly and looked up at Tom.
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me—-for us—this day.”
Tom touched her chin with his forefinger. “You two might make a most happy match some day. But for now, Sean’s better off in Ireland.” He looked around to make sure the palace guards could not overhear them. “Whatever you do, don’t encourage him to come back too soon.”
“I won’t, I promise.” Morgan tried to match Tom’s solemn expression. But, she told herself, the silly squabbles over religion and succession should end before long—and Sean would be hers forever.
Morgan spent the next few days in a haze of happiness. Sean did love her as she’d been certain he must. They would wed some day, perhaps within the year. Spring, of course, since that was when they had first discovered they loved each other and again when they had been reunited, however briefly. She was still dwelling on her future when someone poked her in the ribs as she sat at supper, idly rearranging the first strawberries of the season in a porcelain bowl.
“The Queen,” Margaret Wyatt whispered rather frantically. “She is calling you!”
Morgan whirled around so fast she almost knocked over a wine goblet. Sure enough, Anne Boleyn was glaring at her, the almond eyes narrowed. Morgan got up rather awkwardly and hurried to the Queen’s chair. The King was not supping with his consort on this early June evening, but that was not unusual of late. Morgan dropped a deep curtsey and felt her cheeks grow warm.
“You will attend me tonight,” Anne said without preamble. Two footmen helped the Queen rise from her chair as Morgan stood aside and followed her mistress toward the royal chambers.
No words were exchanged as Morgan helped Anne out of her rust-colored gown. Three maids scurried about the bedchamber, pulling back the coverlet, adjusting the hangings of the elaborately carved bed, opening a window to let in the soft spring air.
When Morgan began brushing the Queen’s long black hair, the maids each bobbed a curtsey and departed. Morgan tried to grip the brush firmly but her hands were shaking.
“You needn’t be nervous, Morgan,” Anne said at last, and there was a glimmer of amusement in the almond eyes. “I’ve been watching you since you came to court; you’ve performed your duties well thus far. You comport yourself respectably, too, and contrary to what my enemies say about me, I do not encourage licentiousness.”
Morgan was dumbfounded by the Queen’s candor. Though she knew Anne spoke freely among her circle of friends, it came as a surprise that the Queen of England would converse in such a manner to a lady-in-waiting she scarcely knew.
Anne seemed to sense Morgan’s reaction. “Come, come, Morgan. I was only fourteen when I went to France as an attendant to Queen Claude. I was terrified, but I never let anyone know that. You seem quite young for your age—eighteen, isn’t it?—and I’d advise you to develop a tougher exterior. Women must have their own armor, you know.”
“I appreciate your advice,” Morgan said rather lamely.
Anne laughed, the high-pitched sound that sometimes seemed to verge on hysteria. “That’s what I mean. You haven’t the remotest notion what I’m talking about.” Anne turned around so abruptly that Morgan almost dropped the silver-edged hairbrush. “You are a dazzling young woman, Morgan. You haven’t any idea of how men watch you or react to you. I can’t imagine why you haven’t been seduced at least six times already—except that I suspect most of our jaded courtiers aren’t quite certain what approach to take. But eventually they will, and you’d best be prepared.”
“But ….’’ Morgan felt ridiculously tongue-tied and wondered if Anne was making sport of her. “I’ve never learned how to flirt,” she declared at last.
Anne made one of her eloquent French gestures with both tapering hands. “My dear child, I’m not talking about flirtation! I’m talking about lovers, real lovers. Unless your uncle finds a husband for you soon, you will take one.”
Morgan gripped the hairbrush more tightly and resumed untangling the royal mane. “I don’t want a lover,” she said at last in a low, firm voice.
Anne rolled her dark eyes. “Nonsense. You not only want a lover, you need a lover. Or would you prefer to end up at twenty-five like that sheep, Jane Seymour, with her dried-up little mouth and drab clothes?”
“I should hope to have a husband long before then,” Morgan retorted, and this time there was fire in her voice. Queen or not, no one was going to dictate Morgan’s future. “I would also insist that he be of my own choosing and not my uncle’s.”
“Hmmm.” Anne signaled for Morgan to stop brushing her hair. The Queen stood up and pulled her deep blue nightdress more closely around her slim figure. “I wished to choose my husband, too. And I did—Harry Percy of Northumberland. We were very much in love.” Anne paused, stared down at her hands, as if to make sure that the flawed finger was concealed. “But Cardinal Wolsey intervened. I was to marry the Irish Earl of Ormond, and Harry was to wed Mary Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter. I was heartbroken; so was Harry. But we had no choice.” Anne began to move about the room, her nightdress floating across the new Persian carpets like a soft blue tide. Morgan also stood up, but the Queen motioned for her to sit on a footstool by the dressing table. “We are alone. I don’t demand ceremony at such times.”
Anne stopped, her back to Morgan, her right hand clutching the damask bed hangings. “I vowed vengeance on Wolsey then. When the King fell in love with me and prevented my marriage to Ormond, I finally reaped my reward. Wolsey failed to get the annulment for His Grace. Wolsey fell and would have been executed had he not died first. And I ended up with a crown.” Anne’s fingers brushed at the top of her head, as if a diadem actually sat upon her heavy black hair. “It took seven long years but I prevailed.” The almond-shaped eyes seemed to bore into Morgan’s very being. For the first time, Morgan saw Anne Boleyn not as the ambitious, selfish jade her detractors called her, but as a woman who had been thwarted in love, manipulated by powerful men, set on a lifelong course she had not charted for herself—and had not only vanquished her enemies, but had become Queen in the process. How cleverly, how shrewdly, how brilliantly Anne must have played her hand! And how naive and unaware Morgan felt by comparison. In that moment of insight, Morgan silently pledged her allegiance to Anne and prayed that she might be as strong and clever as her Queen.
The court never remained in London during the summer. As the weather grew warmer, the air became fetid, the water turned foul, the sun hung over the city like a burning spectre, reminding Londoners that the plague, the sweating sickness, and pestilence of every kind were close at hand.
During the third week of June, carts, wagons, and litters formed a caravan headed west to Hampton Court Palace. Another of Wolsey’s properties, the Cardinal had actually presented this great house to King Henry almost a decade earlier. As lavish as the gesture—and the edifice—had been, it had not helped save Wolsey. Nor was Henry satisfied with the splendor of Wolsey’s design: The King had added a great hall which had taken five years to complete. The chapel was renovated and a magnificent fan-vaulted ceiling had been installed. A
second kitchen was built, a tiltyard was laid out, and an indoor tennis court had been erected.
Fragments of cloud spattered the blue sky as the royal barge pulled up to the pier at Hampton. Morgan had counted herself fortunate that she had been able to make the journey by water, but her pleasure had diminished when she learned why there was room for such a relative newcomer: “I’m going home to Wolf Hall for a few months,” Jane Seymour had told her on the eve of the court’s departure. “I find this life stifling after a time.”
Morgan had been surprised by Jane’s casual, sudden announcement. But Jane was closemouthed. And though she felt no real intimacy with Jane, Morgan would miss her. She was also less than enthusiastic about Jane’s replacement to share her quarters: Madge Shelton, the Queen’s cousin, was pretty, red-haired—and as promiscuous as she was empty-headed. As the air turned heavy and the clouds gathered more closely together, Morgan and Madge began unpacking in their room overlooking the great maze of clipped hedges.
“I love Hampton Court,” Madge twittered as she shook out a great bundle of petticoats. “See the maze?” Madge giggled as Morgan glanced through the leaded glass window. “If ever you have an opportunity to lose yourself—and whoever you are with—it’s wonderful! You can wander for hours before—”
But Madge was mercifully cut short by a rap on the door. Morgan hurried to answer it and found Tom Seymour on the threshold. He gave her a perfunctory hug and winked at Madge. “Muffet, your uncle wishes to see you. Would you like time to change from your traveling clothes?”
Morgan looked dubiously at Tom. “My uncle?”
“Yes. He arrived yesterday, to get a head start on state affairs.”
In the wake of Tom’s previous ruse, Morgan remained vaguely skeptical. But Tom seemed sincere, and Morgan looked down at her plum-colored skirt and jerkin. They were wrinkled, but clean. If she took time to change, she’d only become more nervous. “I’ll go at once,” she declared, and nodded at Madge, who was openly ogling Tom.
“This way,” Tom said, steering her to the left in the passageway. “Listen, Morgan, I’m almost certain Cromwell will ask you to sign the Act of Succession. Almost everyone at court has—save those who have refused straight out and gone to the Tower for their trouble. I assume you have not let Sean—or anyone else—influence you against the act?”
Morgan slowed her step. “I truly haven’t thought about it,” she said as they stopped outside a formidable oak door. “Are you coming with me?” She looked up at Tom with big pleading eyes.
Tom cuffed her chin. “Nay, muffet. You’ll do well; he is kin, you know.”
Morgan shook her head. “I hope I make a favorable impression.” She let Tom knock on the door and gave a weak smile of gratitude.
An adolescent boy, somewhat younger than Morgan herself, greeted her. He was dressed somberly and looked unusually austere for his age. Morgan announced herself and the youth made a brief bow, then wordlessly ushered her into an almost barren anteroom and through another door. Sir Thomas Cromwell, soldier, merchant, lawyer, banker, the late Cardinal Wolsey’s henchman, the Putney Blacksmith and presently the King’s secretary, was seated behind his oak desk. It was a consciously tidy desk, considering the mound of work that crossed it every day.
The man in the chair behind the desk stood up to greet his niece as she entered the room. He was dressed in black. His nose was long, his lips narrow, his eyes of no color at all. The face was slightly sallow, evidencing the hours its owner spent indoors. He seemed short, but his shoulders were broad and his body stocky. As Morgan hesitated, he put a hand across the desk and smiled.
“You were seven, I believe, when last I saw you,” Cromwell said amiably enough. “Pray sit, Morgan, and give your poor old uncle some surcease from his work.”
“I’ve heard how hard you work,” Morgan said in a small voice. “I’m told you shoulder heavy responsibilities.”
Cromwell waited until Morgan sat down before he dropped back into his own chair. “It’s a time-consuming position, I confess, but worthwhile if one does it well. Serving the King, serving England—it’s an honor as well as a duty.” He paused, absorbing every detail of Morgan’s appearance, and noted that she had no ready response. “But you are young. You needn’t listen to my wearisome tribulations.”
To Morgan’s surprise, Cromwell was smiling. Indeed, there were crinkles around his eyes, which indicated he smiled often. “It’s not so much wearisome as awesome,” she finally said, beginning to pluck up her courage. “How is my lady aunt, Elizabeth?”
“Fine and fit as ever,” Cromwell replied. “She and your mother used to bear quite a resemblance to each other. You must sup with us some evening. You can see for yourself how time has changed them.”
Morgan and Cromwell began to talk of family matters, of his own offspring, of Morgan’s parents and Grandmother Isabeau, of Aunt Margaret and Nan and life at Faux Hall. Morgan relaxed in her uncle’s company, but remained guarded in her comments. She was especially circumspect when Cromwell asked how she reacted to serving Queen Anne: “The Queen is quite kind to her attendants,” Morgan said. “She has made me feel welcome.”
Cromwell nodded in an avuncular manner. “It’s quite a change from the serenity of Faux Hall. But it’s good that you get on well with your mistress. It’s always very important to have a satisfactory relationship with those whom you serve.” He paused again, but this time he put one blunt finger on a piece of parchment. “Which reminds me …. As long as you are here and we have been discussing Her Grace, it’s an excellent opportunity to have you sign the Act of Succession. I assume you have not yet done so?”
Morgan swallowed hard. “No. I’ve not yet been asked.”
“Oh, such matters ought to be left between kinfolk,” Cromwell chuckled. “So much fuss has been made over this act. If only it could be always administered thusly, with pleasant talk and congenial surroundings.” He pushed the parchment across the desk toward Morgan and handed her a quill. “There, at the bottom—just sign your name, my dear.”
The words on the parchment blurred before Morgan’s eyes. “Sign,” Tom Seymour had counseled. Then she thought of Sean, the burning blue eyes decrying the act and its evil implications. But what if Sean was wrong? She felt faintly dizzy; she could not have read the words if she had wanted to. The room seemed to become very small, and Morgan was vaguely aware of how stark, how Spartan it all was: no elaborate decor for Thomas Cromwell, no finely wrought trappings, only a small portrait of the King behind her uncle’s chair, and the simplest of wall hangings and draperies.
Morgan wrote her name very carefully. She allowed Cromwell to sand the signature and sat motionless as he rolled up the parchment, affixed it with sealing wax, and slipped it inside a drawer. “Well done,” Cromwell asserted amiably, and sat down again. “Now tell me, what did you think of your first trip on the Thames by royal barge?”
They continued chatting thus for another quarter of an hour. Morgan was somewhat amazed at the time her uncle had taken out of his busy day to visit with a niece he hadn’t seen in over ten years. But when she finally left his chambers she felt pleased—and relieved. The powerful King’s private secretary had seemed friendly, pleasant, even concerned for her welfare. Surely Thomas Cromwell was not the ogre so many people, including her own parents, had pictured him to be.
It was very close inside the enclosed royal tennis courts. Morgan pushed at a damp strand of hair which had escaped from under her coif as she moved closer to one of the open windows. Though she was not in official attendance on the Queen that day, she didn’t dare leave the tennis enclosure since the King himself was playing a doubles match. Will Brereton and the Duke of Suffolk were paired against Henry and Ned Seymour. Ned was a year or two older than Tom, not quite as tall, darker of complexion, and far less good-natured. But he was a fine tennis player, though not as expert as the King. Indeed, Morgan was amazed at how agile Henry was despite his increasing girth and encroaching age. Hard muscles rippled und
er the thin lawn shirt, and the King’s legs were sturdy as twin oaks.
“It’s an equal pairing,” Richard Griffin commented as the King smashed a ball just out of Will Brereton’s range. “Suffolk and the King are of an age, but His Grace is much the better player. Brereton is more athletic than Ned, but Ned has more natural cunning. Will you wager with me, Morgan?”
“Is it treason to wager against the King?” Morgan asked with a smile.
Richard waved across the court to Margaret Wyatt and the Queen’s young musician, Mark Smeaton, who had just come in with the Earl of Surrey. “Nay,” Richard laughed. “The King encourages wagering; he loves to see his courtiers lose their money on his behalf either way.”
“Are you going to compete?” Morgan asked, for she knew Richard was a keen tennis player.
But Richard didn’t reply at once. His gaze was fixed on Mary, Duchess of Richmond and wife of Henry’s only surviving—but illegitimate—son. “What? Oh—no, I imagine the royal match will be the last. It usually is.” He sketched a bow in Mary’s direction and she dimpled prettily. “Such irony,” he murmured, “that our sovereign liege could only sire a son by the likes of Bessie Blount. Yet Richmond doesn’t seem to have inherited the royal robust health of his father.”
“Hush, Richard,” warned Morgan as Ned Seymour made a near-impossible return off Suffolk’s serve. “You should not say such things, even to me.”
Richard turned his full attention to Morgan, the green eyes mischievous. “There are other things I’d like to say to you, Morgan. I believe I will, as soon as this infernal competition is done with.”