by Mary Daheim
James thanked Cromwell for his efforts and concern. Then he turned to Morgan and took her hand. “Good-bye, Morgan.” He paused. “Until the spring.”
She felt his lips lightly press her fingertips. “Safe journey to you,” she said noncommittally.
Francis was already at the door. He merely waved his hand and said good-bye in that deep, almost gruff voice. And then the Sinclair brothers were gone and Morgan was left alone with her uncle.
“This is a deed well done,” Cromwell declared, and began rolling up the contract. “As you can see, James is a most decent man and his properties are considerable. Your future is well secured, my dear.”
If Cromwell expected gushes of gratitude, he was doomed to disappointment. Morgan merely nodded. Yet she knew her uncle was secretly exulting in his triumph and that this would be a propitious moment to inquire about visiting Faux Hall. “I should like to see my parents,” she said, and was surprised at how flat her voice sounded.
Cromwell was putting the contract into a drawer. The same one where he had placed the act she had signed? Morgan wondered. Perhaps even Sean’s letter was there; her whole life seemed to be piling up in Cromwell’s desk.
“A reasonable request,” he said amiably. “If you can secure the Queen’s permission, I won’t hinder you.”
“Thank you.” Morgan forced a smile and made as if to stand up. Cromwell got to his feet at once and put out his hand. Uncle and niece exchanged polite farewells, hers carefully masking the wildly divergent futures each had in mind for Morgan Todd.
Chapter 5
By mid-September, all but the apple trees had yielded their fruit in the orchard at Faux Hall. The sheep had been shorn, the three foals birthed that spring were already a good size, and the half-dozen pigs that had been chosen for butchering were so fat they could hardly move.
Morgan’s first reaction to her old home was that it seemed smaller. After Whitehall and Hampton Court and Windsor, Faux Hall was dwarfed by comparison. But it was no less dear than it had ever been, and even the orchard, with its leaves turning from green to gold, did not distress Morgan as she feared it might.
But she was otherwise upset and made her feelings known to her parents soon after her arrival. “I could not imagine either of you letting me wed a man I’d never met,” she told them as they sat in her father’s study after supper. “When Uncle Thomas said you had given your consent, I almost didn’t believe him.”
Sir Edmund and Lady Alice did not answer right away but exchanged pained glances before turning back to their daughter. “It was not an easy decision,” Sir Edmund allowed at last. “We would both have preferred that you choose your own husband, if possible.” Her father stopped and again looked at his wife. “But there were other matters to consider, you see.”
“Such as what?” Morgan leaned forward on the footstool, the topaz eyes darting from father to mother.
“Oh, tell her, Edmund,” Lady Alice said at last, and there was an uncharacteristic bitterness in her voice.
Sir Edmund sighed and pushed away the glass of port he’d been sipping. “Cromwell sent a special messenger this summer. The man was no mere lackey, but Richard Rich—you know him?”
Morgan frowned, trying to conjure up a face to match the name. “I’m not sure. He works for Cromwell, of course. Hasn’t he had something to do with indicting Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher?”
“Precisely.” Sir Edmund’s mouth twisted with distaste. “Richard Rich is Cromwell’s henchman. The letter he brought informed us that you planned to wed Sean O’Connor.” Seeing that Morgan was about to interrupt, Sir Edmund put up a hand to stop her. “You know that your mother and I are very fond of Sean, and all things being equal, it would be an acceptable match. But they are not equal. Sean wrote you a letter which smacks of high treason, at least as interpreted by Cromwell—and the King.”
This time Morgan could not hold her tongue. “I lost that letter! It’s all my fault! I ruined it for both of us!” She began to sob, the tears she had held in check for over a month spilling down her cheeks.
“Sweeting,” Lady Alice comforted, getting up from her chair and putting her arms around her daughter. “It was an unfortunate accident; you mustn’t blame yourself. In any event, Sean had already stated his position about the Act of Succession. He could never have returned to court nor received permission to marry you.”
“But we don’t need permission!” Morgan gulped between sobs. “We could have run away to Ireland, or even the Continent!”
Lady Alice sighed, her big bosom rising majestically under the muslin gown. “I don’t think so. As kin to Cromwell—and God only knows I despise the thought as much as you do—your actions could bring retribution down on all of us. Especially Sean.”
But Morgan wasn’t convinced. The family relationship was tenuous. What one young niece-by-marriage did was hardly important. She was about to argue this point when her father resumed speaking:
“Richard Rich told us some other disturbing news.” Sir Edmund ran a hand through his graying hair and lowered his voice. “Your mother and I realize that gossip is rampant at court. But he told us you were … dallying with a young Welshman named Griffin.”
Morgan wiped at her tears and all but choked. “Dallying! The swine! How dare he bring you such tales!”
“Now, now,” soothed her father. “It would be unnatural if you did not allow young men to court you. I’m sure Rich’s stories were exaggerated. Still, they can be damaging, and given all these factors, your mother and I finally agreed that your marriage to James Sinclair would not be a bad thing. He is wealthy, a future earl, a pleasant-looking young man, and of good character.”
“We do wish his home weren’t so far away,” Lady Alice put in, and her own eyes misted over. “Still, Morgan, we have honestly tried to do our best for you.”
Morgan reflected for a moment on her parents’ words. No doubt they had—yet she still felt a sense of betrayal. But she could imagine Rich’s persuasive arguments, perhaps even a detailed account of how Ned Seymour had found her in Richard Griffin’s arms by the river at Hampton Court. That alone would have convinced Sir Edmund and Lady Alice that it was high time for their daughter to have a husband.
Nor was there any use in arguing further with her parents. Once again it seemed prudent to appear docile and obedient. “At least you will permit me to reply to Sean’s letter?” she asked in a meek voice.
“Certainly,” her father agreed. “It would be ill-mannered not to. The O’Connors are also kin and we must not ignore Sean’s honorable request.”
Morgan rose and hugged her parents. They spoke for some time about wedding arrangements, the dowry, whether or not they themselves would make the long journey to Belford for the nuptials. Morgan joined in with apparent enthusiasm, but her mind was far away. Her body was there in the study of Faux Hall, but her heart was across the Irish Sea, in Armagh, with Sean O’Connor.
The Madden twins were thrilled to be undertaking such a long and exciting journey. Morgan and her parents waved them off on a crisp, sunny morning that heralded the first day of autumn. And as they disappeared down the road headed west, Morgan prayed fervently that they and their precious letter would reach Ireland safely.
“My love,” she had written, “forgive my long delay, but the most calamitous events have prevented me from writing.” She had hesitated a long time about whether or not to tell him his letter had fallen into Cromwell’s hands. How could she explain her carelessness? But he had to know why she appeared to be submitting to Cromwell’s will; even more important, she had to tell him he was in danger.
“So I shall play their game,” she continued, “but meanwhile, play for time. While I fear for you and for the safety of my family, we both know how frequently betrothals are broken. James Sinclair is no more eager to marry me than I am to wed with him. If at all possible, come to Faux Hall. I am certain we are not being spied upon and no one need know of your visit.” Morgan reread the last sentence an
d shook her head sadly. Less than six months ago the idea of anyone spying on her home or its inhabitants would have been ludicrous. Now, however, the possibility was not only realistic but frightening.
Morgan spent the golden days of early autumn telling Grandmother Isabeau about the latest court fashions and the current amours. She and Nan spent hours riding their favorite mounts in the nearby forest while her cousin asked interminable questions about life at court. She helped her mother and Aunt Margaret make soap and candles and apple preserves and a new counterpane for Grandmother Isabeau’s French bed. It was a happy if anxious time, and after the first three weeks, Morgan could not refrain from going down to the road almost every hour to see if the Madden twins had returned.
By mid-October, the weather had changed and rain began to pelt Faux Hall while the leaves dropped off the fruit trees in the orchard. A week later, a letter arrived at Faux Hall for Morgan but it was not from Sean O’Connor. Thomas Cromwell had written to ask when his niece was returning to court. “By the end of the month,” he had written in his cramped style, “we will be assembled at St. James, the King having by then finished his progress. I entreat you to resume your duties with Her Grace at that time.”
Of course it was no entreaty at all, but a command. Morgan angrily crumpled the letter and threw it onto the fire.
“I thought you’d be happy to go back,” Nan said in surprise. “You keep telling me what fun it is.”
“I keep telling you how busy it is, you mean,” Morgan said petulantly. She picked up her bone embroidery needle and thrust it into the outline of a chrysanthemum on her section of the counterpane.
“Still, it sounds more enjoyable than this,” Nan declared, shaking out a tangle of thread. “And now you’ll be planning your wedding! Oh, I do hope we can all travel to Belford!”
“Don’t be too hopeful, ma petite,” said Grandmother Isabeau from her place by the fire. She had been supervising her granddaughters’ needlework carefully, noting that both of them tended to be too impatient and haphazard. “It’s a long journey from here, and even if the rest of you go, I will not.”
Morgan paused in midstitch. “It’s not fair. The wedding should be here. And I could hardly get married without you, Gran’mère.”
“Ah, such sentiment warms my heart—but the cold North would not warm my old bones.” She smiled fondly at Morgan. “As for being married there, he is the son of an earl and you are but the daughter of a knight. His people, tenants, whatever they are called in such a place, will want to witness this momentous event. You must do your duty as a future Countess.” The smile faded and she gazed closely at Nan’s handiwork. “Too far apart, those eyes. You are stitching a peacock, not an owl.” As Nan made a wry face, Grandmother Isabeau turned back to Morgan. “And it is your duty, of course. I am sorry for that. In truth, I am more sorry for James than for you.”
Morgan stared at her grandmother. “How can you say such a thing? You don’t even know James!”
But Grandmother Isabeau merely smiled enigmatically. “But I do know you.”
Two days later a very bedraggled pair of Maddens walked their weary mounts up to the main entrance of Faux Hall. Hal was coughing badly and Davy looked very pale. Or maybe it was the other way ’round; Morgan could never be quite sure. Still, they were basically robust young lads and their health was not Morgan’s primary concern. She all but shouted at them, demanding Sean’s response.
“We’ve no letter,” answered the one Morgan thought to be Davy. “Master O’Connor was unable to write.”
Morgan had to hold her hands rigidly at her sides to keep from shaking the lad. “What do you mean? Is something wrong with him?”
But Sir Edmund had joined the trio in the entryway. “Come, come, Morgan, let the lads change and then they can tell you.” He motioned the Madden twins to head for the kitchens. “Warm yourselves and eat before you come back.”
Morgan tried to conceal the exasperation she felt with her father. Nor was her temper improved by the sight of Bess, skittering after the Madden twins, hips swaying, breasts jiggling in her homespun gown. Since Morgan’s return home, Bess’s presence was more of an irritation than ever, serving to remind her over and over of the odious Francis Sinclair.
An hour passed before the Maddens were dried out, changed, and fed. Morgan feared her father might insist on sitting in on the interview, but he did not.
“Well?” Morgan demanded, impatiently gesturing for the twins to sit on the inglenook in the parlor. “What has happened to Sean?”
“Nothing,” replied Hal, who began to cough again.
“Nothing? Then why didn’t he send a letter?” Morgan was trying to keep a check on her raging emotions but it was not easy.
“His father died,” Davy said. “He was dying when we got there. It took him more than a fortnight.”
“Jesu.” Morgan crossed herself and felt callous. Liam O’Connor no doubt had suffered terribly, with his anguished son at his side—and all Morgan had been thinking about was herself. “I’ll have Masses said for his soul at St. Michael’s,” she asserted, and noted that Hal and Davy were looking at her questioningly. “But,” she asked at last, “did Sean send any sort of message?”
“Oh, aye,” answered Davy. “He begged you to forgive him, but he had time neither to write nor to come to England. The burden of the land rests with him now.”
Morgan paced the small carpeted area in front of the fireplace. Within a very short time, a month even, travel conditions between Ireland and England would be all but impossible. And by spring, it might be too late ….
“Did he say anything else?” Morgan’s voice held a desperate note as she looked from one Madden twin to the other.
Davy scratched his head and Hal coughed again. “Oh—aye, he said he would pray for you,” Davy finally replied.
Morgan clenched her fists and bit her lip. Prayers were well enough, but certainly not what she had in mind. Surely Sean did not intend to abandon her without even a protest over her betrothal to James Sinclair.
Remembering her manners and the hardships the Madden twins had suffered on her behalf, Morgan thanked them profusely and said she would see to it that they were generously recompensed. But except for the colds and chills they had caught in the last two days, the twins seemed well pleased with their adventure over the Irish Sea. It struck Morgan that if they had withstood the journey, so might she. But the shadow of Thomas Cromwell could follow her even to Armagh.
The holiday season of 1534 was one of the least festive in recent memory at court. Though Henry and his Queen appeared on better terms than when Morgan had last seen them, Anne was more high-strung than ever. But she seemed pleased to have Morgan back in her service. Late one evening a few days after Twelfth Night, the Queen dismissed her other ladies so that she and Morgan could speak privately.
After a few pleasantries, Anne lay down on a satin-covered settee and bade Morgan pull over an armchair. “I was neglectful of you last summer,” the Queen said as she tucked the folds of her sable-trimmed peignoir more closely around her. “Your uncle arranged a marriage for you, much as Wolsey did for me. I assume you are not overjoyed at the prospect.”
“You saw James,” Morgan commented dryly. “Would he seem to promise great joy?”
Anne raised her fine eyebrows and laughed. “You have changed since I last saw you, Morgan Todd. Your tongue has grown bolder.” Noting that Morgan looked abashed, she held up her tapering right hand. “Nay, nay, I prefer having my attendants speak out. Is it that James is distasteful—or that you love another?”
Morgan avoided the almond eyes. She dared not mention Sean’s name. Or did she? “I do love someone else. We had plans to wed,” she conceded, deciding to test the waters of Anne’s unpredictable emotions.
“Ah. I suspected as much.” The Queen took a deep draught from a glass of wine which had been sitting next to her on a tiny inlaid table. “Is it someone I know?”
“I’m not sure.” It was true. M
organ really had no idea if the Queen had ever come into contact with a mere artist’s apprentice.
But Anne Boleyn was not easily put off. “His name?” The dark eyes skimmed the edge of the crystal goblet and forced Morgan to return her gaze.
If Cromwell knew, perhaps the Queen knew, Morgan reasoned. Perhaps the entire court knew. “His name is Sean O’Connor,” she said, and her glance did not waver.
“Ah!” Anne seemed surprised. She lay back among the pillows and shook her head. “Such irony—I loved a North Country man and Wolsey wished me to wed an Irishman. You love an Irishman and Cromwell would have you marry a North Country man. But Sean O’Connor has been gone for months. Wasn’t he the artist with the prickly conscience?”
“He finds some of the changes in the Church difficult to accept,” Morgan allowed. “He also must tend his land in Armagh, since his father died this past autumn.”
But Anne did not appear to be listening. She was staring into the darkened corner of the chamber, her high forehead lined in concentration. “I have sympathy for you,” she said at last, and sat up straight. “Cromwell was my friend once. But now ….” She let the words trail off and frowned again. “Henry has broken off with the mysterious lady whose favors he enjoyed for most of this last year. Doubtless he is already on the scent of another to take her place in his bed.” She stopped, her sallow skin darkening, apparently unconcerned about speaking so candidly. “Oh, by the Saints, Henry’s amours are no secret. He still comes to me. He always will, at least if I can give him a son.” She ran an unsteady hand through the long black hair and licked her dry lips. “But as he will also go on pursuing other women, I would prefer his infatuation directed at someone I can trust. You, for example.”
Morgan gasped. “Oh, no! I could never dare …. He wouldn’t want me; I’m not skilled in the arts of ….” Morgan’s hands waved tremulously as she tried to describe whatever it was the Queen expected of her.