by Mary Daheim
Morgan shifted uneasily and felt warmer than ever. A long volley ensued between the foursome and ended suddenly with Will Brereton misjudging his swing and sending the ball into the net. It also ended the match and Henry roared with pleasure, slapping Ned on the back and congratulating Will and Suffolk for their fine, if futile, efforts. Several of the courtiers had begun to mill around the King and the other players, but Richard was drawing Morgan away from the group and out into the gardens.
“Have you been into the maze yet?” he asked.
“No,” said Morgan, and took a deep breath of fresh air. “I’m overwarm. I’d prefer to sit.”
“Well enough. Let’s walk down by the river.” He took Morgan’s hand and led her through the gardens, heavy with the scent of marigolds and verbena and roses and lilies. There was a slight breeze coming up from the Thames, and in the distance, two fishermen were calling to each other. On the opposite bank several cows grazed as their tails flicked at pesky flies. It was a pleasant vista, making Morgan feel suddenly far away from the glitter and bustle of the court. She sat down a few yards above the river, under an old maple tree whose branches had harbored countless generations of birds’ nests.
“I think I’m homesick,” Morgan said suddenly. “I’ve been gone almost three months, you know.”
Richard stretched out on the grass beside her, plucking at some weeds that had dared take root on the royal grounds. “That’s natural. But you’ll have a change of scenery soon; we’re moving on to Windsor.”
“Yes. I’m told we should begin packing tomorrow.” She pulled off her coif and shook out the heavy tawny hair. She had not seen a great deal of Richard since their arrival at Hampton Court. He had been busy, it seemed, involved in certain political matters Morgan knew nothing about but which kept him occupied—and within notice of the King.
“That hair,” Richard said, taking a thick strand in his hands. “It’s like copper and gold and sable all entwined together.”
Morgan shrugged. “My cousin Nan used to make fun of it. She said I looked like a dirty tabby cat. Her hair is very black, like the Queen’s.”
Richard seemed to pay no heed. His hand moved through her hair until he touched the back of her neck and made her face him squarely. “Kiss me, Morgan.”
Morgan pulled back but his grip was firm. “Nonsense, those fishermen can see us.”
“Fishermen never see anything but fish. Besides, you ought to feel safe with them nearby. I’m not asking for anything but a kiss.”
The green eyes still danced but his smile was friendly, encouraging—and very attractive. Morgan looked down at the ground, then back to Richard. He pulled her into his arms and his mouth came down on hers, a long, breath-devouring kiss that stirred Morgan’s senses. He kissed her again and again, and then she was on the ground next to him and his hands were on her breasts.
“No,” she cried between kisses, “you promised—no more than a kiss!”
“That’s a very hard promise to keep, under the circumstances,” Richard breathed, his fingers searching through the silken bodice for her nipples. “You are quite irresistible, you know.”
“Richard!” Morgan pushed with her hands against his chest and managed just enough leverage to keep him momentarily at bay. “You are not to trifle with me!”
“ ‘Trifle’!” Richard burst out laughing. “That’s not quite what I call it. Pleasure you, make you deliciously happy, give us both a few moments of joy. That’s not ‘trifling,’ Morgan.”
“It is to me, no matter what honeyed words you use to describe it.” Morgan started to sit up, but Richard pulled her back down beside him. He kissed her again, and this time his hands were working at the ties of her bodice. Morgan pushed and pummeled, but without much effect. Without much determination either, she noted somewhere in the back of her mind, for Richard’s kisses were not unpleasant. In fact, they were making her dizzy. Then her bodice was undone, the ties trailing to her waist in silent surrender, and he had pulled her bodice down to expose her full, white breasts.
“Ah, sweet heaven, you are bewitching!” Richard bent over her, kissing each breast in turn, then gently tonguing the nipples until Morgan felt herself gripping his back tight and pressing him down on top of her. She saw something in her mind’s eye, something hazy and yet distressing, another man, another place, another time—the tall blond stranger in the orchard at Faux Hall ….
“Stop!” she cried. “Please! You cannot!”
“I can,” he breathed, and held a breast in each hand, his thumbs provoking the pink tips into rigid, burning mounds of sensual pleasure. “You see, you want me; you will not be satisfied unless you let me take you here and now.”
“No …” Morgan groaned and made a feeble attempt to pull his hands away. But she was fascinated by the sight of those strong fingers plying her flesh, and she absorbed the physical contact with a curious sense of detachment. She did not love this man, she was certain of that, and yet ….
From several yards away, a voice was calling Richard’s name. He paused, his hands still on her breasts, his eyes suddenly alert. “Damn!” he breathed, and got to his knees. “A moment, Ned, I’ll be right there!”
“Ned?” Morgan clutched her gown over her bosom and hurriedly began to lace her bodice back up. “Ned Seymour?”
“Aye. Spoilsport,” Richard murmured and grinned at Morgan. “Ned is damned near as diligent as your uncle.”
Morgan’s fingers weren’t working properly, and she glanced over her shoulder to see if Ned were close enough to recognize her. Sure enough, he was now a mere twenty feet away, still dressed in his tennis clothes, hands on hips and the perpetual frown deeper than ever. “A pox on the man!” Morgan cursed angrily but low—and then realized what she had said. Richard was offering her his hand as he stood up, and he winked.
“You see, I knew you would find ‘trifling’ a pleasant pastime.”
“A pox on you, too!” Morgan exploded, and cared not if Ned heard her this time. “This is most embarrassing. Tom Seymour has promised to watch—”
Richard put a finger over her lips. “Hush, Morgan, let’s not make a mildly awkward scene worse. I must go. Dream of me this night!” He kissed her hand, bowed deep, and turned away to join Ned Seymour, who nodded curtly at Morgan. Her rage building to explosive proportions, Morgan watched the two men hurry away and then uttered one of her father’s foulest seaman’s oaths so loudly that the two fishermen looked up in astonishment.
Tom Seymour was pacing Morgan’s chamber and frowning as deeply as ever his older brother had. “You find favor with your uncle—and the King—by signing the Act of Succession, and then put a blot on your reputation with that wild Welshman! God’s teeth, Morgan, Jane and I warned you about him!”
“Oh, stop, Tom,” Morgan shouted back, as angry as he. They were both dressed in riding clothes and ready to set out for Windsor within the hour. “Ned has doubtlessly exaggerated. You’ve said yourself he’s a dreadful prig ….”
Tom whirled around and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Ned has many faults, but exaggerating the truth is not one of them. He saw you, half-naked, lying in Richard’s arms and enjoying every moment of it.” His strong fingers dug into her flesh and she flinched. “And in full view of anyone who came along—as my brother did!” The blue eyes flashed under the red brows; the wide mouth was set in a grim line.
“Stop lecturing me!” Morgan wrenched away from him in one swift motion and tried to assume some dignity as she met his gaze head on. “You, of all people, peddling moral rectitude! Meanwhile, most of the courtiers are doing far worse—and I’m reprimanded for letting Richard Griffin try to make love to me when you know perfectly well he would never have succeeded!”
“He seemed to be succeeding extremely well,” Tom drawled. “He had sufficient cooperation, it seems. He just needed a bit more time.”
“Ohhh!” Morgan flew at him, striking out with her fists, but Tom grabbed her arms to stave off the blows. “Whoreson! How
dare you accuse me of such a thing!”
“I dare because you ….” Tom stopped abruptly and the anger began to fade from his tanned face. “Because I’m in charge of your conduct, as you know perfectly well. You can imagine what Ned said to me about my responsibilities!”
“Ned, Ned, Ned!” Morgan’s own temper began to sputter out even as she repeated the name. She started to laugh and collapsed against Tom’s chest. “Oh, Tom, I would never have let Richard do anything else! I would have called to the fishermen for help or somehow made him stop.”
Tom held her close, bending down so his chin touched the top of her head. “Perhaps, muffet. But I mislike the idea of you sporting in such a way with Richard Griffin. It’s not … it’s not like you, it’s … uncharacteristic.”
Morgan shook her head and moved out of his arms. “So it is. But I’m a woman now, Tom; such things happen.”
He grinned and cuffed her chin. “I know you’re a woman—at least I do now. I’m just having trouble getting used to the idea. I still see you as—” This time Tom was interrupted by a knock at the door. “God’s teeth, they can’t be ready to leave this soon.” He turned away, the short miniver-trimmed riding cape swinging from his broad shoulders. But the messenger who stood in the doorway bore no summons to assemble in the courtyard; instead, he had a letter for Mistress Todd.
“It must be from my parents,” Morgan said, snatching the letter from Tom’s hand. “How fortunate this arrived before we left! I’ve only heard twice from Mother and Father since I came to court.” Morgan pried off the seal and unfolded the slim packet of parchment. Tom watched with curiosity as her eyes widened and her mouth opened in surprise. “It’s not from home, it’s from Sean!”
Morgan all but ran to the window to catch the morning sunlight. “To My Lady Mistress Todd,” the letter began on a conventionally formal note. “I was in Armagh less than a month before I realized I could not leave you in London.” Morgan had been reading aloud but she stopped and saw Tom grin.
“Save the words for yourself, muffet; they’re not meant for me.”
Morgan was flushing from excitement as much as embarrassment. She turned back to the letter and read the rest in silence.
“My good sire is improved in health but still frail,” Sean continued in his beautifully wrought handwriting. “I must stay to help tend the fall harvest and the horses. Yet I cannot bear to think of you far away at court. My love is true and strong; so is my conscience, which demands that I must see to your removal from that hellish place. I have prayed daily to Our Lady to defend you from those who would lead you into heresy, mayhap even attempt to force you to sign the damnable Act of Succession.” Morgan paused and frowned. Sean’s prayers had been in vain. What would he say when he found out she had already signed the act? But what was done was done, and she was anxious to finish the letter. “Therefore, it is my Christian duty to marry you as soon as possible and take you hence. I wish to make you my wife and, in so doing, save your immortal soul from perdition. If you will accept my heartfelt proposal, I shall write to your parents and ask for your hand. Yours in Christ, Sean O’Connor.”
Morgan rubbed at the place between her eyebrows and frowned. Her heart was beating very fast, yet she was unsettled by the wording of the letter and Sean’s potential reaction to what she had done at the urging of both Tom and her uncle.
“Well?” Tom stood, arms folded across his chest. “Does true love run smooth?”
“Does true love run at all?” Morgan retorted, and looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be flippant. Maybe I’ve read too many love poems.” She waved the letter at Tom. “This sounds more like a sermon than a proposal.”
Tom tipped his head to one side, the single earring catching the sunlight. “Will your parents approve?”
Morgan was refolding the letter and looking for some place to put it. Everything was packed. She’d have to keep it on her person. There was a pocket on the left-hand side of her riding skirt and she carefully tucked it away. “They’ve always been very fond of Sean. He is distant kin, and while he is not wealthy or a great landowner, his family has done well enough.”
“But do you truly fancy raising horseflesh and barley?” Tom asked.
Morgan had turned away, ostensibly to make certain her belongings were all in order. “I assume we’ll raise children as well.” She looked over her shoulder at Tom and smiled brightly. “It’s love that matters most, isn’t it?”
Tom shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love. At least not the kind that leads to wedded bliss.”
His reply disappointed Morgan. She had expected reassurance; she sensed that she needed it. But there was no time for that now, as Madge returned to announce that the servants were ready to load the baggage carts. Morgan left the chamber with Tom and Madge but paid no heed to their flirtatious banter. She was too confused, too muddled to think of anything except Sean’s letter and why she was not as ecstatic as she ought to be at having her heart’s desire within reach.
Windsor Castle sat on the site of a fortress dating from William the Conqueror’s era. The vista of the imposing round keep built by Henry II and the Long Walk down through the great park revived Morgan’s spirits. She had no sooner finished changing her clothes and unpacking than she sat down in her chamber overlooking the Thames and began her reply to Sean.
“My love,” she wrote, dispensing with formalities, “I accept your proposal with all my heart. Pray write my good parents at once. Give my greetings to your dear father with wishes for a full recovery.” She paused, tapping the quill against her cheek. Should she say anything about dowry or trousseau? Would the wedding be at her parish church adjacent to Faux Hall? Morgan needed a few moments to think. She got up to retrieve Sean’s letter from her riding skirt, which she had already hung in the wardrobe. Should she say something about the Act of Succession or let the matter lie for the time being? His wording had been quite adamant. She must reread it and then perhaps she could devise some tactful explanation ….
But the letter was not there. She shook out the skirt, turned the pocket inside out, knelt down to see if it had fallen on the wardrobe floor. Panicky, she searched through the rest of the clothes, scoured the rushes strewn across the chamber, even looked into the corridor to see if she had dropped it before entering her new quarters.
“Sweet Jesu,” she murmured, knowing she must find the letter. It was incriminating, dangerous to Sean, perhaps even to herself. She walked out of the castle, past St. George’s Chapel, under the massive gateway and around the battlements.
She was at the head of the tree-lined Long Walk when she saw a familiar figure coming toward her: Thomas Cromwell, arms tucked inside his plain black sleeves. He called her name. Morgan stood stock-still, but managed a weak smile as he drew near. “Are you exploring Windsor already, Niece?” Cromwell asked, touching his somber black cap in greeting.
“Oh—yes. The castle is most impressive, like a fairy-tale place. I thought I’d walk a bit. I got stiff riding so much today.”
“Hmmm. One does. I arrived yesterday.” He chuckled. “To get a head start, you know.”
Morgan forced a laugh. “Very wise, Uncle. Are you, too, taking the air?”
He nodded. “I get stiff too, sitting so much. In my younger years I became accustomed to considerable physical exercise. But now ….” He lifted the palms of his blunt fingered hands upwards. “Now I try to walk some every evening before suppertime. You are going down the Long Walk?”
“For a bit,” Morgan allowed.
“I’ll join you then,” Cromwell said as they fell in step together. The shadows of the trees were beginning to lengthen and meet across the drive. There was no breeze, but it was cooler at Windsor than it had been at Hampton Court. Morgan kept a watchful eye and wondered what she would do if she found the letter while in the company of her uncle.
“This is rather fortuitous, actually,” Cromwell said as their feet crunched on the gravel. “I had planned to sp
eak with you before we left Hampton Court but I had no time, no spare time at all.” He sighed. “A pity to have to put family matters after other responsibilities.”
Morgan shot him a wary glance but didn’t break the pace. “Oh? Is aught wrong?”
“Oh, no!” Cromwell chuckled again. “It’s something very right—for you.” Now he paused and Morgan had to stop and turn to face him. “I am requesting your parents’ permission to arrange your betrothal to a most impressive young man—James Sinclair, heir to the earldom of Belford.”
The shadows seemed to surround Morgan; the night seemed to steal over her all at once. Surely she had not heard right. Certainly her parents would never force her into marriage with a man she didn’t know. “Who?” The question was barely audible, and Morgan didn’t even realize she had placed both hands over her breast.
“Of course you’re surprised!” Cromwell put a strong hand on her shoulder. “This is an excellent match, better than you might have expected, though I must say I exerted as much influence as this humble servant of the King could. James is said to be a fine-looking fellow, in his late twenties, and his father has considerable holdings in Northumberland.”
Northumberland, thought Morgan, as far north as one could go and still remain in England … a fine-looking man she’d never laid eyes on …. But of course she could not marry him. Her parents would understand. As soon as they learned that Sean had asked for her hand they would nullify Thomas Cromwell’s mad plan.
“Naturally, it will take time to absorb this.” Cromwell was gazing up through the heavily leafed trees. “James will come to court soon for the betrothal ceremonies, and the wedding will be at Belford next spring. Yes, you will have ample time to make your plans, ready your trousseau, even visit your family at Faux Hall, if you like.”
Morgan was tempted to state simply that she would have nothing to do with James Sinclair and his future earldom and his castle at Belford. But that would be open rebellion and she had the feeling it would suit her purposes better to appear docile for the time being. But as Morgan and Cromwell exchanged glances, his colorless eyes seemed to harden ever so slightly. “You do appreciate what this means for your future?”