by Mary Daheim
Then his hands were between her legs, again seeking out the most sensitive parts of her, thrusting his long fingers inside her body. She cried out again but this time with a moaning sound as the pain became more of an ache, that same strange sensation she had felt with Francis in the orchard at Faux Hall. His fingers plied and probed and set her flesh throbbing. She felt dizzy from lying in that awkward position for so long, and when one arm went around her neck and held her head up, Morgan felt as if she were a drowning swimmer who had suddenly come up for air.
She was taking deep breaths of relief when she felt Francis move again and part her legs wider still—and pull her to her knees. Then he was inside her, thrusting fiercely, forcing her to move with him in a rhythm of passion which took her breath away once more. His hands were on her breasts again and she experienced both pleasure and pain; the hard presence of his manhood inside her plunged deeper and deeper until they both cried out as the darkness seemed to explode in a blaze of blinding light.
For a few seconds, he continued holding her tight, steadying them both lest they fall off the wooden bench. At last he withdrew from her, picked her up around the waist, once again dumped her on the bed, and collapsed beside her.
Neither spoke for several moments, and it was Morgan who finally broke the silence. “You are an animal,” she said in a small, shaky voice.
“What?” His eyes had been closed, and now that Morgan had become accustomed to the darkness she could just make out his face next to hers. “Oh—yes, I am.” He seemed totally unapologetic.
“I hate you.” The voice was still shaky but stronger.
“Hmmm. Perhaps.” He sat up and tugged at the counterpane. “I’m freezing. Move over a minute.”
She obeyed without thinking, letting him pull down the counterpane and a thick woolen blanket. He covered them both up and lay down again, this time with one arm over Morgan’s shoulder.
“That was disgusting, unnatural,” she hissed. “Why are you so bestial?”
Francis let out an impatient sigh. “It was not unnatural. Unconventional to some, perhaps, but scarcely disgusting. Nor did you find it so.”
“You’ve raped me twice!” She pulled away from him and sat up on one elbow.
“Good. You can count. Now go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep here! I must go back to my room.” She started to get out of bed but a strong arm hauled her back.
“Not now. I’ll see you get back before dawn. I’m usually an early riser.”
Morgan made a face at his conversational tone and then realized he was smiling faintly, even though his eyes were closed again. He looked almost boyish, and she suddenly realized something: “You never even kissed me!”
“Oh, God!” He sat up and scowled at her, then pulled her into his arms and gave her a short, fierce kiss. “Now consider all the ritualistic trappings of romantic love completed. And go to sleep!”
Morgan sighed and lay down again. How could she sleep peacefully beside this rude beast of a ravisher? If she’d been armed, she would have killed him and avenged her honor. But Francis looked quite relaxed and even harmless with his head resting on one outflung arm and the sandy lashes against his tanned skin. I hate him, Morgan told herself, and frowned. She wasn’t sure she hated him. She only hated what he had done to her. At least, she lectured herself, she ought to hate his dishonorable, ungallant assault on her body. But if she weren’t going to avenge herself, the least she could do was make certain he got no peace. “What if you get me pregnant?” she demanded, thumping on his shoulder with her fist.
He shrugged under the covers. “You’ll be married in a month. First babies come when they will.”
“But your brother!”
“Well, at least we’re related.” He pulled her back into his arms and put a hand over her mouth. “Now be quiet or I’ll lose my temper again.”
Morgan didn’t doubt that he meant it. He might even become more violent, and God only knew what physical pain he could inflict upon her in a full-blown rage. She turned away from him, tugging the blanket up around her shoulders. The man was a conscienceless beast, she told herself, probably the most selfish, unfeeling person she had ever met. But the mental tirade was wearying her brain and the physical onslaught had exhausted her body. She was extremely tired, and despite the agony of the last hour, she felt strangely warm and contented inside. Francis was already asleep, his deep, rhythmic breathing lulling her into drowsiness, too.
The first glimpse of dawn filtered through the mullioned window, scattering pale diamonds of light across the rushes. Francis was already up, partially dressed, and splashing water on his face from a pewter basin.
“How would I look with a beard?” he inquired, turning to glance at Morgan, who had sat up but kept the blanket clutched to her chin.
“Like a billy goat,” she replied, and yawned widely.
“Mmmm. No, I think I’d look—very mature, scholarly, perhaps.”
“Scholarly!” Morgan could not suppress a derisive hoot. “It’s cold in here. Please let me have one of your cloaks.”
“Fetch it yourself,” shrugged Francis, running his hands through his sandy hair and reaching for a shirt, which was hanging on a peg.
Morgan glared at him. “I’m naked,” she declared.
“I know.” Francis pulled the shirt over his head and grinned wickedly.
“Oh …!” There was nothing at hand to hurl at him; she jerked the blanket free and clutched it around herself, then marched across the room to snatch up one of the two cloaks that had been dumped on the floor. She turned her back on Francis as she quickly exchanged the blanket for the cloak. “Now get me out of here,” she commanded.
“Very well, but first I must put on my boots.” He did so, taking his time and pausing to examine a callus on his heel. Morgan waited impatiently at the door but said nothing until he joined her.
“There’s a back stairs out of this wing, so our chances of being undetected are good. Here, this way.”
The cold stone floor of the corridor spurred Morgan to walk fast enough to keep up with Francis’s long, loping strides. They passed only a disinterested halberdier, tired from his long night’s watch, and a sleepy-eyed pot boy as they made their way through the palace. Outside her door, Francis paused. “You will pack today and go to Faux Hall for a month. I will not have scandal about you and the King following us all the way to Belford.”
Morgan stared at Francis and tried not to shiver under the cloak. “You’re m-m-mad! You ravish me and then send me home! And just because I let the King kiss me!”
“True. But it’s useless to argue. And,” Francis went on, waving a long finger in her face, “don’t consider going to the King with your dilemma. He may find you fetching, but with Anne as his Queen and Madge Shelton in his bed, he won’t go to great lengths to upset his very helpful private secretary’s plans for a marriage alliance with the North.”
Before Morgan could reply, he was already walking swiftly down the corridor and had turned the corner toward the back stairs. Sputtering to herself, Morgan lifted the latch. The room she shared with Margaret Howard was bathed in the pale light of dawn. Margaret was asleep, her blond hair splashed across the pillow, one white arm flung out over the counterpane. Morgan quietly took off Francis’s cloak and hid it in the wardrobe, hurriedly put on her bedgown, considered lying down and pretending to be asleep, but decided instead to sit at the dressing table and simply tell Margaret she had risen early.
But Morgan’s entrance had roused Margaret slightly. She turned over, flung a hand across her face, and let out a small frightened cry. “No, I cannot … you are too rough!” Margaret rolled over again, whimpering softly. Morgan frowned, wondering why Margaret’s words stirred something in her memory. Then she saw the red bruises on Margaret’s arm and remembered that Francis had said he’d come outside last night to join a lady but that he’d been too rough ….
It was all Morgan could do to keep from smashing a cosmetic jar agai
nst the wall. Francis Sinclair was a philandering brute who treated all women like whores. He spoke lovingly of his wife and children, deplored any scandal attached to the Sinclair name, fell on his knees to worship in church—and apparently all but raped every woman he met. He raped me, Morgan thought savagely, twice against my will and in the most unromantic, ferocious ways imaginable. A more courageous woman would have killed him—or at least tried. Morgan didn’t know if she was more angry at Francis for his repulsive behavior or at herself for not being able to stop him. She glared at her image in the mirror: For someone who had vowed to steer her own course, to find true love and hold on to it, Morgan had failed dismally. The plot to enthrall the King had been foiled by Francis; the plan to avoid marriage to James Sinclair and wed Sean O’Connor instead had been ruined—also by Francis; and her ideals about romantic love as the only possible reason for physical intimacy had been totally shattered by Francis. Indeed, Francis Sinclair seemed to have recharted her course as successfully—if not more so—than her damnable uncle, Thomas Cromwell.
Once again, Margaret Howard thrashed in her sleep and cried out. Morgan set her mouth in a grim, straight line. Francis Sinclair, James Sinclair, Thomas Cromwell, and all those who would thwart her would not be the ultimate victors, Morgan vowed. Perhaps they had taken a few tricks, but Morgan was still determined that she would win the game.
Chapter 7
The days and weeks at Faux Hall had gone by slowly and quietly. Her parents were delighted to have her home and readily accepted her explanation of a lengthy visit before going north to be wed.
Easter Sunday fell in mid-April that year. It was a cloudy day, with no promise of sun. Morgan tried to rally her spirits to meet the joy of the Resurrection, but her heart seemed to sag. Now it would only be a question of days before she would leave Faux Hall.
There was no word from Sean, no indication that he missed her, and Morgan wondered if he’d heard gossip about herself and the King. Nor did Morgan write to him, since she was certain her letter would be intercepted by Cromwell’s henchmen. Still, she had not given up hope entirely. Indeed, she was already plotting to get them both away from London when she returned, and perhaps with Tom Seymour’s help, flee to the Continent.
There was little talk at Faux Hall of Morgan’s marriage. Her parents understood and accepted the necessity of their daughter’s match with James Sinclair, but they loved her too much to dwell on the subject in front of her. Indeed, as during her previous visit from court, conversation reverted to its old pattern: local farming, the weather, ships, prices at the market in Aylesbury, the neighbors’ doings. For the Todds, life went on unexcitingly but with comfort and reasonable security.
Nan did her best to conceal her enthusiasm for going to London. Often she would start to say something about the trip and then catch herself in midsentence. Morgan usually pretended she hadn’t noticed. But one day—the first real spring day—the two girls were sitting on the rolling lawn in front of the house when Nan glanced up at the clear sky and sighed:
“Finally the weather is turning warm. Look, there’s someone riding up the road. Maybe whoever it is will have news from London.”
Morgan’s first thought was that it was a messenger from Thomas Cromwell. She remained seated on the grass, her chin resting on her fist.
Nan jumped up, running toward the road. “Come on, Morgan, let’s see who it is. We haven’t had a visitor for days.”
“That’s well enough with me. I’m quite content to sit here.” She stretched her legs out on the grass. The earth still felt damp. Was it only a year since she had left Faux Hall the first time? Impossible. But it was so. Yet how could it be that her life, after changing so little in eighteen years, could change so much in one?
Morgan watched Nan as she reached the road’s edge. The rider had slowed his horse to a walk. He was waving at Nan. For the first time, Morgan looked closely at him. Incredulously, she looked again, then leaped to her feet. She grabbed her skirts in her hand and raced across the grass.
“Sean! Sean!” called Morgan, long hair streaming behind her.
Sean had dismounted. Now he began to run, too, until the two of them met, falling into each other’s arms. Neither could speak as they clung together, savoring the moment of reunion.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Morgan said at last, taking Sean’s face between her hands. “I thought you’d forgotten me!”
Sean smiled sheepishly. “I tried—it all seemed so futile. I was angry, too, that you had left without a word. But I dared not write. So finally I decided to see you, no matter what the consequences.”
Morgan hugged him close. “Oh, dear Sean, you’ll never know how happy I am to have you here!”
Nan, who was watching the reunion uneasily, took the reins of Sean’s horse and patted the big roan’s nose. She wondered how she could artfully disappear. Instead, she finally called out, “I think your horse needs a drink, Sean.”
Sean released Morgan and turned to the younger girl. “You’re right,” he laughed, suddenly embarrassed by Nan’s presence. “Poor Turlough—I’ve ridden him very hard these last miles.” He took the reins from Nan. “Come, we’ll walk him around back. By heaven, I hope your parents won’t be too upset to see me,” he told Morgan.
She took his free hand. “Of course not! They’ll be delighted you’re here. Wait and see.”
But it was not delight that greeted Sean at Faux Hall. Although the Todds were both too polite and too fond of Sean to reveal their true feelings, Morgan sensed at once that her parents were dismayed and alarmed by the Irishman’s visit. Even as Lady Alice called for food and Sir Edmund ordered ale, the atmosphere at Faux Hall suddenly seemed disturbed.
After the hurried meal, Morgan sought a moment alone with her father. They went into his library, where she sat on a stool at his feet.
“Something is wrong, Father. Was it so terrible of Sean to have come?”
Sir Edmund leaned back in his carved armchair, unable to avoid his daughter’s searching eyes. “Often, in youth, love overcomes reason. The things which seem so right at the time are not, in the long run, right at all.” He straightened out one of the sails on the Sea Serpent model in front of him. “Think, Morgan, what will happen if Cromwell finds out that Sean is here.”
Morgan bit her lower lip. “Must he find out?”
“Probably. He usually does.”
“Even so, he knows we are kin, and at court we were often seen in each other’s company.”
A pained expression crossed Sir Edmund’s face. “True. But I know why you were sent from court,” he said quietly, opening his top desk drawer and pulling out a folded sheet of parchment. “Cromwell sent a letter with all the … unsavory details.”
Morgan stared in horror at her father. “Oh, no! But you don’t know why I did it …. It wasn’t what you think at all. Nothing really happened with the King. I only let him ….”
He again looked directly at her, the passionate, intense gaze so like his daughter’s. “I know. It was a clever plan, but dangerous. And that is why Sean should not be here. He may stay a day or two, but then he must return to Armagh.”
“Does Mother know? About the letter from Uncle Thomas, I mean.”
“No. And I won’t tell her.” He put the parchment back in the drawer and the lock clicked shut. It seemed to Morgan as if her father were closing a door in her life forever.
The following afternoon Sean and Morgan took a long walk by the river. They scarcely spoke but went hand in hand, keeping a steady, determined pace. At last they came to a landing where a small skiff was tied.
“That’s Will Covey’s boat,” said Morgan. “He only has one arm, but you should see the way he gets around the river. I daresay he’s near seventy now.”
Sean stared at the little craft for a long minute. He released Morgan’s hand and moved to the water’s edge. “Do you think he’d mind if we borrowed it?” he asked, closely inspecting the inside of the skiff.
&nb
sp; “Borrowed it?” Morgan frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose not. He probably wouldn’t know if we did. I don’t think he comes down here unless somebody has to cross the river.”
Sean stepped gingerly into the boat. “Come,” he said, extending his hand to Morgan. “We’re going on a little voyage.”
Morgan gathered up her skirts and climbed in. Sean untied the skiff and pushed off from the bank. He took hold of the oars but made no effort to row, letting the current carry them downstream.
A slight breeze ruffled the new foliage along the river’s edge. Morgan trailed her hand in the water as Sean pulled at the oars, steering them around a slight bend in the river. On the far bank was a meadow, a stable, and several cows who were lazily cropping on the young grass. Morgan tried to concentrate on the pastoral scene, but they had gone a good distance and the current had grown quite swift. “The river is high, Sean. I don’t think we should venture much farther, do you hear?” Anxiety surfaced in her voice.
He made no reply. And when at last he did speak, he put a question to Morgan: “How far is it to the village of Thame?”
“Thame?” Morgan’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Oh, at least ten miles. Why, it’s practically halfway to Oxford.”
“Do you know the Convent of St. Ursula?”
“I’ve seen it. It’s a mile or so this side of Thame.”
“That’s where we’re going.” Sean kept looking straight ahead, his body moving rhythmically as he began to pull on the oars.
Morgan leaned forward. “Why? Why are we going there?”
“I’m taking you to the Convent of St. Ursula while I go on to London. I have an urgent task there—something which I can’t disclose even to you. I’ll be back in a few days to get you and then we’ll flee—to Ireland, to France, maybe Scotland. You must promise to wait for me at the convent.”