by Mary Daheim
“James? Oh, he won’t know the difference,” Francis said airily, as they walked out into the heavy late-summer air.
It suddenly occurred to Morgan that she had gone the wrong way. They would have to walk clear around Windsor and back under the great archway entrance to get to the chapel. She cursed inwardly and then realized what Francis had said.
“Do you mean James is simpleminded? He didn’t seem so to me.” Morgan looked up at Francis’s profile—the strong-willed mouth, the heavy brows, the high forehead.
“No, not that,” Francis said, and stopped, hands on hips, to admire the towers of Eton College across the river and the rolling Berkshire fields beyond. “He’s never had a woman, you see. I was the first to marry.”
“You’re married!” Morgan made the statement sound blasphemous.
“Umm. This is a splendid place. How I’d like to visit Eton. What? Oh, yes, I’ve been married since I was twenty. You’ll like Lucy; she is a wonderful woman.”
Morgan had a terrible desire to smash Francis with something very hard. She also knew that it probably would make little impression. And she suddenly realized that she and Francis were discussing her future life as if it were an accomplished fact instead of the impossible probability she knew it had to be.
“I’m not married yet,” Morgan declared, but Francis seemed to pay no heed. He still appeared to be admiring the view. “I said, I’m not—”
“I know, you’re not married yet.” Francis began walking again and Morgan joined him since he was at least headed in the right direction. “But you will be. The Sinclairs usually get their way, and for some reason I don’t fathom, James seems set on marrying Cromwell’s niece. I suppose it’s politics and religion, though I’m not overly keen on the directions either are going right now.”
“Then let me tell you something, Francis Sinclair,” Morgan said in an angry tone. “You had better not say so in front of anyone here.”
“That’s true,” Francis allowed as he paused to glance up at the Curfew Tower and the adjacent Horseshoe Cloisters. “You and I have our secrets and I trust we’ll be able to keep them.”
Morgan didn’t respond. Francis was right about that, at least. She was also vaguely pleased that Francis did not condone the current trends in court circles. Yet James must, or he would not have come to court to support Northumberland. Obviously, there was disagreement in the family, though apparently not serious.
“Ah, the castle gateway,” Francis remarked as they walked into the courtyard. “Henry’s one great change. It’s well done.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Morgan said, and could not stifle the sarcasm.
But Francis had stopped again, this time to observe the exterior of the chapel. It appeared like a miniature cathedral, its stained-glass windows dazzling in the sunlight, the carved King’s beasts surmounting the roof, a perfect example of late Gothic genius. “Magnificent,” breathed Francis, and he began walking rapidly toward the entrance.
It was cool inside, the choir stalls empty, the elaborately wrought altar set off like a treasure chest. From the entry they could see the banners of the Knights of the Garter, and the Royal Closet where the Queen and her guests could watch the ceremonies in discreet privacy.
Francis had genuflected upon entering and Morgan did the same. It seemed a mockery under the circumstances, but Morgan had to admit that Francis was behaving more like an avid connoisseur of church architecture than an importunate ravisher.
Francis, in fact, was now kneeling at the altar, hands clasped, head bowed. Morgan stood behind him in the aisle, confused and disturbed. The shock of seeing this man again had been tremendous; the discovery that he was to be her future brother-in-law was overwhelming. But now incredulity had given way to more rational thought. Of course she had no intention of marrying the aloof, reticent James Sinclair. Yet she still found herself puzzling over Francis, who seemed to be a complex, unusual—and infuriating—sort of man.
Crossing himself, Francis stood up and began examining the carving on the choir stalls, the fan-vaulted ceiling with its delicate tracery, and the side chapels. “Very impressive,” Francis said at last as they returned to the entrance. “Some day I’ll show you York Minster. It’s the grandest piece of architecture in England.” He squinted up at the afternoon sun. “I suppose the Dacre trial will drag on. Maybe I ought to go into the town and explore for a while.”
Morgan stared in perplexity at the tall, indolent figure. He was dressed much as he had been that day in the orchard, in a white cambric shirt, dark brown hose, leather boots, and the riding cape thrown over one arm. She realized that she was waiting for an apology, an explanation, anything that alluded to the terrible wrong he had done her at Faux Hall.
But Francis was already striding toward the great archway. “I’ll see you later, I imagine,” he called over his shoulder, and the sound of his heavy tread on the gravel walkway faded in the distance.
“I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it,” Morgan breathed aloud. “I don’t believe him!”
“Don’t tell me the Sinclair brothers have already got you talking to yourself,” said an amused voice behind Morgan.
She turned and saw Richard Griffin standing on the courtyard green, looking amused and yet weary. “Well, why not?” she demanded, and to conceal her confusion, stooped to pick up a young gray cat which had wandered out from the castle precincts.
“I should think you’d be elated,” said Richard, taking out a kerchief and wiping his damp forehead. “I’m told you are some day to be Countess of Belford.”
“Rot.” Morgan scratched the cat behind its ears and was rewarded by a shrill howl of displeasure. She dumped the animal back on the grass and looked at Richard. “You’ve met James, of course. Have you met his loathsome brother?”
“No, he went from Belford to Woodstock. He has some property there, I gather. But I assume that was him. There’s a resemblance in coloring, if nothing else.” Richard put a hand on Morgan’s upper arm. “From what I’ve seen of James he’s not man enough for you. You might have been better off with the other one.”
“Oh!” Morgan jerked away from Richard and could hardly keep from shrieking. “He’s married, and God knows I pity his wife already! James may be a stick but at least he’s not ….” She clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had almost said too much.
Richard raised both eyebrows. “But I thought you just met Francis. I gather he doesn’t make a favorable first impression.”
“Oh, Richard, I’m just upset! I hadn’t counted on an arranged marriage, especially not so soon—I’ve only been at court four months.”
Richard sighed and turned serious. “I know, it’s unsettling. We’ll talk about it later. I must get back to the trial. I had to get outside for a moment. It’s very warm in there—in more ways than one.” He wiped his forehead again and tucked the kerchief away. “Before you’re carried away kicking and screaming to Northumberland, you and I have some unfinished business.”
His green eyes flashed and one hand brushed the bodice of her gown. But Morgan was in no mood for romantic allusions. “I’ll be tending my own business in the future,” she asserted. “From here on I take fate in my own hands.”
Richard started to laugh but stopped. Morgan’s topaz eyes had hardened, her wide mouth was set grimly, even her stance seemed immovable. And though he was not of a mind to give up his pursuit, he realized this was the wrong time. He saluted her with a deep bow and went back toward the castle, unaware that Morgan didn’t seem to notice his departure.
“It can’t be! It can’t be!” Anne Boleyn was almost screaming, her almond-slanted eyes blazing fury. “Lord Dacre acquitted! The King will be enraged!”
George Boleyn tried to soothe his sister. “The lot of them should be clapped in the Tower,” he said, trying to get Anne to sit down. “Everyone was so sure—I was myself. But they changed their minds.”
“A fine time for petty sympathy and maudlin good fellowship,” Anne
rasped. “Good God, is there no end to my troubles?” At last she sank into a chair, her head in her hands. “Percy had him indicted for treason not so much because of their quarrel but because he thought it would help my cause. And now Dacre is freed!” Her fingers twisted at her pearl-and-ruby necklace. “A strange kind of help it has been, adding more grief where there is already a surfeit!”
Though Morgan felt great pity for the Queen, she was secretly relieved over Lord Dacre’s acquittal. She stood with Margaret Wyatt at the far end of the room, noting that neither Tom nor Ned was present. She hadn’t seen Tom for several days and understood he had taken dispatches to the Low Countries. She missed him and needed his counsel. Somehow, Anne’s distress seemed no greater than her own. A commoner, Morgan thought bitterly, could suffer as much as a Queen.
Late in the day, Morgan was summoned to her uncle’s chambers. This time she went without any sense of nervousness or apprehension. She didn’t even bother to change from her red-and-white gown into something less frivolous.
Thomas Cromwell’s desk was as orderly as it had been on the day of Morgan’s first visit. He, however, seemed less composed. He sat behind his desk garbed in the inevitable black, his fingers clasped together.
“Do sit, my dear,” he said with a faint smile. “I have to make this brief. Today has been most difficult. His Grace is highly distressed over the acquittal of Lord Dacre, as are all of us.”
Morgan shifted in her chair, hoping she didn’t betray her own reaction. Cromwell apparently didn’t notice anything amiss. He cleared his throat and continued speaking. “James Sinclair leaves with his brother tomorrow for Belford. I have prepared a contract for you to sign—it’s been accepted by your parents. But I think you two young people should spend a few moments alone before James returns north.”
Morgan looked at Cromwell from under her thick lashes; for just a second the topaz eyes sparked fire. But she recovered control and merely nodded.
Cromwell pulled a bell cord behind his chair. “I would like to spend more time with the two of you myself, but events pile up these days ….” His words were interrupted by the arrival of a page who ushered in James Sinclair. He greeted the King’s secretary cordially and bowed to Morgan. It crossed her mind that so far their courtship had consisted of more bows than words.
Cromwell opened a drawer and pulled out a long sheet of white paper. “I’ll give you both the contract to read. That door leads to an anteroom where you can have some privacy.” He handed the contract to James. “Take your time, young friends.”
Sinclair looked as uncomfortable as Morgan felt. He paused and coughed slightly. “As you wish, Master Secretary.” Opening the door for Morgan, he followed her into the adjoining room. For the-first time, they were alone together.
Neither of them looked directly at the other. James stared at the seal on the prenuptial contract; Morgan kept her gaze riveted on the pattern of the dark wood in the floorboards. Out of the corner of her eye she could see one of his boots, highly polished and tooled in the finest leather. Her mind was hurtling in several directions at once. He’s very neat about his person, she told herself. He’s about the same size as Sean but fair, while Sean is dark. Sean … oh, what would he think? She couldn’t wait to get to Faux Hall and write him.
She jerked up her head and looked him straight in the eye. '“Do you want this marriage?”
Dumbfounded, he stared at her. “That’s not the issue,” he said at last in a calm, reasonable tone. “It’s what the King wants, what Master Cromwell wants, apparently what both our families want.”
“Why?”
James scowled and ran his fingers over the contract several times. He seemed to be very self-controlled, yet Morgan detected an inner distress and an enormous amount of self-discipline. “Because northern England, so distant from court and the center of politics, is a natural hotbed for rebellion. Lord Dacre is a prime example. If the King can link his secretary’s kin with my family, such an alliance will help counter the dissident elements.”
Morgan stabbed at the contract so hard that her fingernail actually made a small tear. “You mean we are but two tiny links in a political piece of chain mail?” She stared fiercely at James, who looked extremely uncomfortable, even distraught. “Are you willing to be used thus? Have you no feelings, no desires about your future?”
James Sinclair was not accustomed to women who spoke with candor or vehemence. James, in fact, wasn’t used to women, save for his mother, the Countess, and his sweet-natured sister-in-law, Lucy. While the Countess had a mind of her own, she was the family matriarch; James had no idea how to deal with his future bride and Morgan sensed his uncertainty.
“You are a future earl and would content yourself with being a pawn?” Morgan demanded. “See here, James Sinclair, I bring no vast dowry, only my family’s holdings in Buckinghamshire. We have a modest manor house, some cows and pigs and chickens and horses and sheep. We also have a large orchard but ….” Morgan stopped and turned away. The orchard conjured up a most unpleasant picture, and James’s presence only reinforced her discomfiture.
“Your dowry has been itemized for me,” James said tersely. “Twenty acres, forty cows, twelve horses, and the like. Plus one-sixth of the fifteen tenant farmers’ holdings and the right to purchase cloth at tuppence above cost per yard from the local wool merchant. A right, I believe, your grandmother negotiated many years ago and which continues through the fourth generation.”
It was clear that James could have gone on at length, but Morgan was gaping at him in astonishment. It was also clear that in matters of business, James stood on very firm ground. “You certainly know more about me than I do about you. What do you raise,” she snapped, “puffins?” James straightened his shoulders with dignity and pursed his thin lips. “Puffins have been sighted off the Holy Isle from time to time. But we do not raise them as such.”
Obstinacy was getting Morgan nowhere. More and more, she realized that her sheltered, pampered upbringing had not prepared her for dealing with the real world. But she would learn; she had already learned quite a lot since that April day at Faux Hall.
“What you really wish is an alliance with the King’s secretary. Why not choose one of Cromwell’s daughters rather than me?” Morgan now sounded logical and composed. She carefully folded her hands in her lap.
“I was not offered Cromwell’s daughters. I was offered you.”
“I see.” Morgan was silent for a moment, considering outright refusal. But Cromwell had Sean’s letter. She had promised herself to play for time. “Very well, let’s sign this and be done with it.”
James picked up the parchment in his thin hands. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“I can read,” Morgan retorted. “I can even write—and count beyond ten.”
James looked faintly apologetic. “I’ve been told you are well educated. I only meant that we should save time that way.”
“True.” She moved her chair closer to his and noted that he stiffened slightly. “Here,” she said, trying to sound agreeable, “we’ll read it together.”
Morgan raced through the elaborate wording, determined to finish before James did. She then sat back and waited; he read with great care and concentration, occasionally stopping to consider a fine point. At last he put the parchment aside and nodded. “Yes, it seems to be in good order.”
“Naturally, since my uncle drew it up.” But James failed to notice the irony in her voice.
“We had best have Master Cromwell and my brother witness our signatures,” he said, as they both stood up. He fingered the parchment, which bound them reluctantly, inalterably together. For the first time he seemed actually to see her, the topaz eyes, the wide sensual mouth, the thick tawny hair, the slender yet wonderfully female body. He turned abruptly, the fingers of one hand drumming on the back of the chair. “You’ll like Belford, I’m sure. We’ll go to court sometimes, of course.” He spoke very rapidly, his eyes fixed on the Italian clock in one co
rner of the room.
“I’ve never been north,” Morgan said. Silence followed, a stifling silence that made Morgan want to shout. Instead, she suggested that they return to Uncle Thomas. James readily agreed.
Thomas Cromwell was behind his desk, his quill scraping noisily across a piece of paper. He looked up when Morgan and James came into the room.
“Ah. You’ve settled everything?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” answered James, sounding much relieved.
“We’re both prepared to sign and leave you to your duties.”
“Oh,” said Cromwell with a wave of his blunt hand, “I can still find time for family matters on the busiest of days.” He tugged at the bell cord. “I believe Francis is waiting to be the other witness.”
Morgan’s fingers began to pleat the folds of her red and white gown in an almost frenetic manner. Somehow, she had hoped she would not have to see Francis Sinclair again. But the door opened and there he was, looming over all of them. He made a brief bow, which included Morgan and Cromwell, and pulled up an armchair before the King’s secretary could say a word. Morgan eyed her uncle and was surprised that he seemed more amused than annoyed by Francis’s presumptuous behavior. She noted for the first time that Francis wore courtier’s clothes, but the dark blue doublet was slightly rumpled and there were mud stains on his cloak. North Country dolt, she thought savagely, and was startled when he put out his big hand.
“Congratulations,” he said, and only Morgan saw the mockery in his gray eyes.
“Thank you,” she replied stiffly, and thought her fingers would break in his grasp.
James was smoothing out the prenuptial contract on the oak desk. Cromwell offered the quill to Morgan, who realized that her hands had begun to tremble. Hastily, she scrawled her name across the bottom of the paper. James took the quill from her and carefully affixed his own signature. Cromwell and Francis then each wrote their own names and the deed was done: Morgan and James were sworn to each other in the sight of God and man. And only Morgan knew that she had also sworn herself to a document she would never honor.