by Mary Daheim
“I’m sure I will, once I’ve had—as you say—some time to think on it,” Morgan replied in a calm, reasonable tone. “I had not anticipated anything like this so soon.”
“Hmmm. Of course.” Cromwell gave her shoulder a pat. “It’s almost dark. Perhaps we had better head back.” They turned and began walking toward the massive bulk of Windsor Castle. Cromwell, however, was turning toward a side entrance in the Norman Gate. “I must leave you now, Niece,” he said, and once again touched his black cap. “You will be very busy, planning your wedding gown, the nuptials and such.” He paused and looked directly at her. “Along with your other duties, you’ll have little time for incidental matters—such as writing letters.” He smiled, a benign, pleasant smile, and turned into the castle.
Morgan remained where she was for several minutes: He knows. He has Sean’s letter. If I refuse to marry this unknown man from Belford, my uncle will use the letter against Sean …. And though Sean might be safe in Ireland for now, Morgan knew the danger to him was real. While he might worry about saving her soul, she was now engaged in a battle to save his life.
Chapter 4
Morgan’s letter to Sean was destroyed, of course, burned late that night while Tom Seymour stirred the ashes in the grate.
“Absolutely anyone could have picked up Sean’s letter to you,” Tom said for the sixth time. “And all too many people at court would see it as a tool in winning Cromwell’s—and thus the King’s—favor.”
“But neither Sean nor I are of any importance,” Morgan argued, also for the sixth time.
Tom made a slashing gesture with his big hand. “That’s not the point. Anyone who opposes the King in this matter, whether peer or peasant, will suffer. And anyone who seeks advancement knows the value evidence such as this has in the King’s eyes.”
Morgan sat tapping her fingernails on the armchair and staring into the darkened room. A single taper burned on the mantel and there was only the cleft of a moon in the summer sky. “What if Sean never comes back? What if I go to Ireland?”
Tom sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you how lethal this business will get. More is the barometer there. If the King executes Sir Thomas for treason, then any man—or woman—who defies Henry is as good as dead already.” Tom came to kneel by Morgan’s chair. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and smiled gently. “See here, muffet, you are very young, and so is Sean. This Sinclair marriage may never happen. Often such arrangements fall through. My advice is to play for time, go along with your uncle’s schemes for the moment. The wedding itself is still a long way off.”
“I think I’d rather elope with Richard Griffin than marry this whoever-he-is from Northumberland,” Morgan said grimly. “Where is Richard, by the way?”
Tom stood up, stretching his long arms. “He didn’t come to Windsor. I heard he’d left for London.”
Morgan stared at Tom. “Not because of—-of what happened when Ned found us?”
“Nay,” Tom laughed, “that’s a hobby of Richard’s no one thinks twice about. Except when it’s you.” He bent down and brushed her nose with his finger. “That is, your uncle will not want you dallying with Richard or anyone else while these marriage arrangements are being made. The future Earl of Belford will no doubt insist upon a virgin bride.”
Morgan felt her supper of poached salmon and roasted partridge turn over in her stomach. That problem had not yet occurred to her in all the other turmoil which had raged around her during the day. Even in the ill-lighted room, Tom saw her pale and his brow furrowed.
“You haven’t given in to Richard?” he asked rather harshly.
“Oh! No, of course not! I was just … I was just thinking about what James might be like.”
“In bed?” Tom was grinning again.
“No. Well, maybe.” Morgan got up and clung to Tom’s arm. “I’m sure there’s a way, Tom. I know I can get out of this and still marry Sean.”
“It’s possible.” Tom squeezed her hand. “But you will not write to Sean?”
“Not now. I heard tonight the King is going on a short progress next month. In fact, he will visit Ned’s new estates in Hampshire. I thought I might go to Faux Hall for a while. I’ll write from there.”
Tom considered this idea for a moment and then nodded. “That ought to be safe enough.” He let go of her arm and started for the door. “I’d better leave before Madge comes back and decides we’ve been doing something scandalous.” He winked at Morgan before stepping into the hallway.
All the windows in Anne Boleyn’s apartments stood open, letting the cool evening breeze blow up from the Thames. Servants passed platters of cold meat, fresh green salads, and bowls of fruit among the courtiers who had assembled in the Queen’s chambers after a day of hunting in the Great Park. The King was expected to join them later but was said to be in conference with the Portuguese ambassador.
Anne was determinedly gay that night, encouraging Mark Smeaton to improvise on his lute, demanding new verses from both Wyatt and Surrey, insisting that Francis Weston and Will Brereton partner her in a series of dances.
When the door burst open, the music ceased and the laughter stopped. All present thought it was the King—but instead, Richard Griffin came striding into the chamber, dropping on one knee before the Queen.
Anne greeted him with a gay laugh. “Welcome, good Richard, you’ve been gone a fortnight or more. Was she fair and willing or dark and tempestuous?”
But for once Richard seemed in no mood for banter. He bowed low. “Neither, Your Grace. I have just returned from London where the Earl of Northumberland has had Lord Dacre indicted for treason. The trial is set for next week.”
A gasp went up around the room. Lord Dacre was one of the staunchest Catholic lords in the kingdom. He and Northumberland had quarreled for obscure personal reasons some time ago. The Earl had waited for the right moment to strike back; with his old love, Anne Boleyn, on the throne, the time was ripe.
Thomas Wyatt wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “If Lord Dacre is found guilty a great victory will be yours,” he told Anne.
She smiled confidently at Wyatt. “The religious tides pull in my favor. He will be proven guilty.”
Morgan shifted uneasily in her chair. Her own situation dictated that she favor Lord Dacre, even though she hadn’t the remotest notion who the man was. Yet, she served the Queen. Her ambivalent feelings reflected the disquiet of the times. But she shoved such thoughts aside and looked at Richard Griffin. He seemed as dashing as ever, if somewhat rumpled from his London ride.
He was again speaking to the Queen. “There is someone else here to see you, Your Grace, a spokesman for the Earl of Northumberland.”
Anne nodded. “Of course. Send him in.”
Richard motioned to the page at the door which the youth opened promptly. A lean, blond young man in his late twenties stepped into the room. There was something faintly austere about him—the thin, purposeful mouth, the cool gray-blue eyes, the faintly hawk-like nose. His clothes were conservative, yet modish. He moved in quick, decisive steps toward the Queen and dropped to one knee.
Richard Griffin stepped aside, saying, “Your Grace, may I present James Sinclair.”
All movement in the room seemed to cease for Morgan as the name pierced her brain. She half fell against Will Brereton, who looked startled but managed to support her with one arm. James Sinclair was speaking to the Queen but Morgan heard only the sound of his voice and none of the words. Gradually, she became aware of her surroundings. Will Brereton leaned down and asked if she were all right. She nodded, making a weak attempt to laugh off the incident. The concluding phrase of James Sinclair’s speech floated across the room to her: “… to which end my brother, Francis, and I will be honored to serve you.”
Anne Boleyn bestowed a glowing smile on James Sinclair. “Well spoken, my good man. Your loyalty and support have put me in the mood for celebration.” She signaled to Mark Smeaton. “Come, Mark, let us have more mus
ic. James, you shall lead the dancing. Do you know any of the ladies here?” He replied he did not. “Then I will choose for you,” said the Queen. Fate marched to the end of Anne Boleyn’s fingertips as she beckoned to Morgan.
Morgan moved stiffly across the floor. All she could think of was that at least he wasn’t three feet tall and covered with warts. Somehow, it seemed little enough consolation.
“My dear,” said the Queen, taking Morgan by the hand, “this is James Sinclair.” She was still smiling. “As I’m sure you know by now.”
Anne must know about the betrothal, Morgan thought. Did everyone else at court know, too? She glanced quickly about the room, noting that several courtiers were whispering to one another and a few seemed to wear interested, knowing smiles.
Anne had turned to James. “This is one of our more recent and most delightful additions to court, Mistress Morgan Todd.”
The muscles of James’s face tightened slightly but his eyes remained impassive. It occurred to Morgan that his lack of enthusiasm matched her own. She forgot to offer him her hand, and he didn’t seek it. He merely bowed and murmured that he was honored to make her acquaintance.
Anne put a hand on each of their arms. “Lead the way to joy, good friends. Start the music!” Smeaton brought his fingers down across the lute strings.
Morgan and James stepped out onto the impromptu dance floor. Their bodies and feet moved in accompaniment with the rhythm but not with each other. Morgan couldn’t raise her eyes to meet his. They did not exchange a word throughout the dance.
The first tune ended. Morgan stood uncertainly in front of James, suddenly wishing he would say something, anything. But Francis Weston called for la ronde, and James Sinclair began to swirl Morgan about in time to the rapid beat of the music. In accordance with the dictates of the dance, they changed partners. She was whisked into the arms of Ned Seymour and then Will Brereton and on to Francis Weston, and finally, as Mark Smeaton strummed the last notes, she was in the grasp of Richard Griffin.
The dancers paused to catch their breath. “You don’t favor North Country nobles, I see,” Richard chided, inclining his head toward James, who was escorting Margaret Wyatt from the dance floor.
“No concern of yours,” Morgan retorted. “He’s a stranger, you know.”
“But will not be for long, I hear.” His voice was very low.
Morgan gave him a sharp look. “Did he tell you that?”
Richard was evasive. “I make a point of keeping my ears open. It’s necessary in making one’s way at court.” The music had started again, but neither Morgan nor Richard made any move to join in. “Is it his religion which makes him so unpalatable?” he asked, smoothing his brown hair into place.
“Hardly. He could be a supporter of the Grand Turk, for all I care. What happens between Northumberland and Lord Dacre matters not to me.” But she avoided Richard’s eyes as she spoke.
“You ought to be concerned. It will set a precedent for what constitutes treason.”
Morgan’s patience was running out. They had been conversing in low, dogged tones while their companions laughed and chattered and danced around them. Morgan glanced quickly about the room. She was fed up with Richard Griffin’s irritating remarks, annoyed by James Sinclair’s rigid demeanor, disgusted with Thomas Cromwell’s meddlesome politicking, no longer grateful for Tom Seymour’s well-meant interference, and angered by Sean O’Connor’s intransigent religious views. There were too many men in Morgan’s life and none of them seemed to care about her feelings or her happiness. The Queen’s chambers were abustle with chattering people, but Morgan felt very much alone.
Lord Dacre’s trial was to be held in St. George’s Hall at Windsor. Ordinarily it would have taken place in the Tower of London, but none of the nobles wanted to suffer the city heat of late August.
In her apartments, Anne Boleyn exuded self-confidence. “This will be a quick and clear victory,” she told her brother, George, on the morning of the trial. “Lord Dacre’s criticism of my marriage to His Grace is blatant treason. A verdict of guilty will be an obvious reproof to those fanatical adherents of Catherine of Aragon and her mulish daughter.”
Morgan, ostensibly practicing her lute, wondered what Anne would do if she knew one of her own ladies-in-waiting did not wholeheartedly hope for Lord Dacre’s conviction. She also considered that her unspoken support for Dacre might not be so strong if James Sinclair had not taken Percy of Northumberland’s side. James had been at court for over a week, but Morgan hadn’t seen him since the night he arrived. She kept expecting him to seek her out so that they might get to know one another. Not that she wanted to see him—but surely it would be the thing to do.
“It is time for Lord Dacre’s peers to assemble,” George Boleyn commented. “I will join them so that I may give you an eyewitness report, Sister.”
“Go as my talisman,” said Anne, giving her hand to her brother. “And give my best wishes to Harry Percy.”
George started for the door but someone else was already coming in. It was the Earl of Surrey, accompanied by a very tall, sandy-haired man with a long loping stride. Morgan could have sworn that she had screamed aloud, but as no one looked her way, the sound apparently had strangled and died in her throat. Indeed, she thought she might faint, for the tall blond man was the stranger from the orchard, and Surrey was introducing him to the Queen as Francis Sinclair, Sir James’s younger brother.
Francis was nodding, acknowledging the others as if all but the Queen and perhaps Thomas Wyatt were negligible. “Francis was delayed by business in Woodstock,” Surrey was explaining, “or else he would have come here directly with his brother.”
Morgan was hiding behind Wyatt. Anne Boleyn and Surrey had introduced everyone but her. Morgan fervently prayed that the Queen would not notice the omission, but while Anne and the other courtiers resumed their chatter, Francis headed straight for Wyatt.
“You are a fine poet, sir,” Francis declared, and put out his big hand with the long fingers Morgan remembered so well. “I have attempted poetry myself. I know it is a difficult art form.”
Wyatt seemed to sense that Francis was not the sort to engage in idle flattery. “That’s kind of you. It is always satisfying to have one’s poor efforts applauded by someone knowledgeable.”
“Indeed. Surrey over there is quite good, too, but I prefer your verse.” Francis stopped and peered over Wyatt’s shoulder. “Are you hiding someone or do you have an appendage?”
“What?” Wyatt turned around and laughed. “Oh! No, no, this is Mistress Morgan Todd. I don’t believe you’ve met.” The gray eyes seemed transfixed; Morgan could have sworn there was no sound in the room at all, no motion, nothing but the two of them staring at each other. But that was not so. The other courtiers were gossiping and laughing, the Queen was teasing Mark Smeaton about his lute, and Margaret Wyatt was showing a new dance step to Surrey.
“A pleasure, Mistress Todd,” Francis said at last in that deep drawl, and put out his hand. “I believe you’re going to be my sister-in-law.”
Morgan felt his fingers on hers, felt the obligatory kiss, felt as if this could not really be happening. “Yes,” she replied, and was amazed that she could speak at all. “Though I did not realize an announcement had yet been made.”
Francis shrugged his slightly sloping shoulders. “Well, it has now.” He still stared at her, but his surprise and shock had turned to something Morgan could only assess as amusement. “Since I came here not so much for Lord Dacre’s trial but to assist my brother in the formalities of the betrothal, I presume your news is no secret. As future kin, why don’t you show me St. George’s Chapel? I’ve wanted to see it for years.”
Now Morgan did find it impossible to reply. She just stood there, with Francis Sinclair towering over her, wishing that Wyatt, the Queen, anyone would rescue her from this giant beast of a man who was asking her to show him the splendors of Windsor Castle.
“Go ahead, Morgan,” Thomas Wyatt said to br
eak the awkward silence. “The Queen is too absorbed with the Dacre affair to mind your leave-taking.” He smiled kindly and unexpectedly kissed her cheek. “I had heard rumors about your betrothal. I must congratulate you.”
Dazed, Morgan left the royal apartments and headed in the direction of the courtyard and the chapel. Francis walked beside her, making an obvious effort to curtail his long stride.
“You can’t say that life isn’t full of ironies,” he remarked as they walked down the wide, winding staircase.
“I can’t say anything,” Morgan snapped, and realized that her temper was returning along with some semblance of composure. She stopped abruptly halfway down the stairs and almost tripped both of them. “You! Of all people in the world, you turn out to be my future brother-in-law! I don’t believe it!”
Francis gave her a faintly sheepish, crooked grin. “It certainly is a coincidence. I thought you were the cook’s daughter.”
“So I gathered. You might have asked first!”
Francis considered this suggestion for a moment. “Yes, I might have, now that you mention it. But I was told that a winsome and willing wench with ripe breasts and long, slim legs would meet me. You certainly fit the description.”
“Except for being willing, you blackguard. I was not willing!”
“You are also shouting,” Francis commented dryly, and took her by the arm. “Come, come, we can’t stand here on the stairway and argue. Besides, I just thought you were being playful and coquettish.”
Morgan had fallen in step with him as they got to the bottom of the stairs and crossed a short hallway to an outside door. “Playful! I was defending my honor, and now your brother will discover I’m no virgin and God himself only knows what will happen then!”