Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

“It’s very strong,” she murmured, but was surprised to note that she felt somewhat restored already.

  “It’s also very expensive, being newly imported from France. I first discovered it in a small monastery outside of Paris when I was on the Continent two years ago.” Francis sniffed at the cup again, sipped at the brandy, and seemed to let it roll around in his mouth before swallowing.

  Morgan tried to imitate him and this time only emitted a slight gasp. “You have been to France?” she inquired, wondering if her stomach was going to catch fire and if the conflagration would roast the small being she carried within her.

  “Twice. Once when I was seventeen and then again in ’33. The first time I was sent away to spare the family name.” He made a dour face and gazed into his brandy. “A certain dilemma involving the daughter of a country squire near Warkworth. It seems I have always been the black sheep, and James, the golden boy.” He paused, his expression darkening for a fleeting moment, then crossed his long legs and resumed speaking. “The other trip was a commercial venture, to see if we could make a profit selling wool abroad. But the market was already glutted in France and we decided to continue raising sheep only for our own needs.”

  “Strange,” remarked Morgan, now able to drink the brandy without more than a faintly warm sensation coursing down her throat, “I lived all my life in a manor house and yet I’ve learned more about the maintenance of an estate in just a few months here than I ever did at home. Of course,” she added quickly, “Belford is much larger than Faux Hall.”

  “True. But it’s much the same. Indeed,” Francis said dryly, “you have probably learned more than you wanted to know, with James as your tutor.”

  Morgan looked away from Francis, her gaze wandering to the manuscript that lay on his desk. “You are composing something?” she asked to change the subject.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, that? Yes, sometimes I express my opinions on paper to mark time until I feel it’s right to speak out.”

  Morgan laughed outright. “I can’t imagine you not speaking your piece at any time, Francis.”

  He stared at her for a moment, irony in his gray eyes. “I can hold my tongue when I must. I’m impatient in small matters but not in great ones.”

  She wanted to ask him what he was writing about, but had a feeling he might not wish to tell her. Instead, she took another sip of brandy and commented that she wished he would recommend a book from his library. “I’ve read all mine over and over,” she said, “and James does not have many volumes of his own, as you know.”

  “James reads only for information, never for pleasure,” Francis said, getting up and perusing the crammed shelves. “Hmmmm, I think I put Robert of Gloucester here some place the other day. Ah, there he is.” Francis proffered a much-worn volume to Morgan. “Robert was one of the last chroniclers to write in Old English. His histories are all in the form of rhymed couplets, and some are very clever.”

  “I’ve never read him,” said Morgan, examining the book, which had notations in Francis’s sprawling hand. “Thank you, I’m sure I’ll enjoy this.” She took one last sip of brandy and stood up, surprised to discover that she felt faintly giddy.

  Francis waved a long forefinger in her face. “Don’t ever be sure you’ll enjoy a book until you’ve read it. Reading, like anything else, should be a matter of individual taste and judgment. You may find Robert dull as dog’s dander and don’t be afraid to say so.”

  “I—I won’t,” Morgan replied somewhat uncertainly, and even in her brandy-befogged state, she couldn’t help but think what a very complex, unusual man Francis Sinclair really was. She felt bold enough to tell him so, but Francis was already seated behind his desk again, gazing at his manuscript. She paused, hugged Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles to her bosom, and merely said, “Thank you.”

  Francis glanced up, replied, “You’re welcome,” picked up his quill, and seemed to pay no attention as Morgan moved quietly out of the library.

  Francis and Lucy’s third child was another boy, named George after the late Earl. Lucy’s labor had been long and painful, and at one point Dr. Wimble had whispered to James that it might be wise to summon a priest. But the baby had arrived a half hour later and Lucy had rallied. Morgan, however, was almost as frightened for herself as for Lucy. Was childbirth always so dangerous? she asked the Dowager Countess the following day.

  “For some,” the older woman answered, painfully reaching for a dish of marchpane. “Lucy is not made for bearing babes, I fear, but she keeps having them anyway. Perhaps now that she has given Francis two sons and a daughter, she will be content to have no more.”

  Morgan, whose own movements were now difficult because of the unborn child’s bulk, stirred up the dying fire in the bedroom grate. It was a chilly October evening, and a sleet storm had blown in that afternoon from the North Sea. “That would be an agonizing decision,” Morgan commented, wondering how Francis and Lucy could endure a marriage in which the greatest of restraint must be exercised in their conjugal bed.

  “Life itself can be agonizing,” the Dowager Countess replied, nibbling daintily on the marchpane. As always, she was dressed impeccably, her silver hair piled high in plaits atop her head, her ever-present luminous pearls hanging to her waist, the blue eyes clear and sharp, the finely molded features betraying more character than age. Only the blue-veined hands and swollen joints showed the fullness of her years. Morgan had learned that she was basically a kind, though seemingly austere, if proud, woman who still grieved silently, but deeply, for her dead husband.

  “It is one way or the other,” the Dowager Countess went on, allowing Morgan to adjust the lacy woolen shawl around her thin shoulders. “Either a woman is able to produce child after child or is barren—as I was.” She smiled faintly at Morgan’s own evidence of fruitfulness and shook her head. “You may be one of the fortunate ones, my dear. Lucy has had no trouble conceiving, but the bearing of the babes has been very, very hard on her. As is the case with such women, she will have to make her own decision—whether to continue risking her life, or desist in allowing Francis to presume upon her body.”

  Morgan shuddered suddenly and was glad that her mother-in-law was once again engaged in selecting a piece of marchpane. Francis had already proven himself unable to cope with abstinence. That was scarcely unnatural for any man—except James, perhaps—but the thought frightened Morgan. She herself had not really minded her own husband’s lack of physical attention during her pregnancy. His lovemaking had never aroused her, and as she grew increasingly awkward and uncomfortable, passion was the furthest thought from her mind. But after her own child was born, she thought, James no doubt would resume his marital duties to ensure another heir for Belford. Lucy, however, might be forced to keep Francis from her bed …. Morgan moved clumsily out of the Dowager Countess’s view and gazed into the storm-tossed night. She was suddenly very much afraid—and didn’t understand why.

  A fortnight after Lucy’s delivery, the new mother was on her feet again and seemed to have staged an almost miraculous recovery. Rocking tiny George in her lap while the two older children watched with a mixture of curiosity and envy, Lucy looked out the window and informed Morgan that it had started to snow.

  “You’re right,” Morgan said, moving slowly to glance down into the courtyard. “Such huge, thick flakes, too. Do you always have snow in November?”

  “Often as not,” Lucy replied, pausing to admonish Mary about touching the baby’s soft spot. “But it doesn’t usually stay on the ground until December.”

  “It is wet snow,” Morgan noted, and saw a lone rider canter through the castle entrance. Although he was muffled in a heavy cloak, there was something familiar about the way he sat his horse. “Oh, Holy Mother,” Morgan cried as she flung open the casement in delighted surprise. “It’s Tom Seymour!”

  “Who?” Lucy swiveled in the rocking chair. “Morgan, close that window, the babe will catch a chill!”

  Morgan obeyed at once, b
ut was already moving as fast as her girth would permit. “Tom Seymour,” she repeated, already at the nursery door. “I’ve mentioned him; he’s an old family friend.”

  “Of course, he has a brother and a sister …. But Lucy’s words were cut off as Morgan disappeared from the room and awkwardly made her way along the corridor, down the winding staircase, and across the entry hall into the courtyard.

  A servant was helping Tom with his horse, which was shivering from the cold, hard ride. “Morgan!” Tom called out, racing to meet her.

  She all but fell into his arms and they both laughed as her bulky body came between them. “I’m such a sow! Did you know I was with child? What are you doing here? Oh, Tom, I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Inside with you, muffet,” Tom ordered, still chuckling as he guided her back toward the castle. “Yes, your parents told me the happy news when I was at Faux Hall in September. As for how I happen to be in this northern fastness of yours, I’ve been on another trade mission to the Low Countries. Not a very successful one, either,” he added, shaking out his snow-soaked riding cloak and handing it to a manservant who had appeared as if by magic. “The storm is much worse at sea than it is on land,” he continued, sitting down on a carved oak bench and pulling off his boots. He wore a leather doublet over a white shirt, and Morgan noted that the more casual garb of a sailor suited him even better than the elegant attire of a courtier.

  “The wind blew us in this direction,” Tom explained, as the ubiquitous manservant reappeared with mugs of mulled wine and bread and beef. “I was afraid we might be forced to land in Scotland, but luckily we were able to steer for Bamburgh. We need some repairs before we can head south. My men are quartered in the town.” Tom paused to swallow a mouthful of meat and take a drink of the hot, spiced wine. “Where are your menfolk, muffet, on such an inclement day?”

  “They left before it began snowing,” Morgan replied. “They’ve gone into the village to see about provisions for winter.”

  “Then I’ll be able to see them.” Tom grinned and daubed his thick bread in the meat’s juices. “That is, if your ladyship will grant me hospitality. I keep forgetting you’re a Countess.”

  “So do I,” Morgan laughed. “Tell me, Tom, what’s been happening at court? I hear the important news secondhand from my family but nothing else, no gossip and such.”

  “I haven’t been at court for a while myself,” Tom replied. “You heard about More and Fisher, I’m sure.” His keen blue eyes gave her a swift, sympathetic glance.

  Morgan nodded. “The news made me … very sad.” She could say no more, and knew that Tom, better than anyone else, must realize that More’s execution had served only as a painful reminder of Sean’s death.

  “Ironically,” Tom went on, making his tone conversational, “the King seemed as distraught as More’s own supporters. He reviled Anne after the execution and blamed her for having forced him to carry it out.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” Morgan said, remembering high-strung Anne with her wary almond-shaped eyes—and their conspiracy to entice the King and thwart Cromwell’s marriage plans.

  “Perhaps not.” Tom finished off the last chunk of bread and wiped his hands on a linen napkin. “But because of the executions Henry’s prestige on the Continent has sunk to a terrible low. Nor have political and military events there gone in his favor. Even this season’s poor harvest at home has been blamed on the King—and Queen.”

  “I feel sorry for Anne.” Morgan sighed and took a drink from her goblet. “She was kind to me. Is there any hope that she will ever bear Henry a son?”

  Tom’s gaze moved about the small sitting room with its heavy oak furniture and the tapestries depicting the labors of Hercules. “That I cannot say.” He finished his own wine and allowed Morgan to refill the goblet. “Tell me about your life here—are you and James getting on well? I would assume so, judging from your condition.” He winked at Morgan, but she thought she discerned a certain tension in his query.

  “He’s a very considerate, gentle man,” Morgan replied carefully. “My sister-in-law is a wonderful woman and the Dowager Countess is kindness itself. Lucy just had another baby, a boy, and though I’ve been confined to the castle of late, I did enjoy visiting the tenants and villagers when I could get about more.”

  “I see.” He paused and stretched his stockinged feet toward the fire. “And Francis? How do you fare with that big bumpkin?”

  “Well enough,” Morgan retorted, and was astonished that she sounded angry and was actually blushing. “He’s not a bumpkin, Tom, he’s very well read and has many interests and responsibilities.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow over the rim of his wine goblet. “Oh? I’m sorry, I only spoke with him once or twice. He seemed like a rather rude North Country sort to me. Apparently, I misjudged him.”

  Morgan chose to ignore the faint irony in Tom’s tone. “He gives that impression. But it’s inaccurate. Actually,” she continued rather hastily, “I rarely see him. He and Lucy keep to their own quarters most of the time and he’s gone a lot.” She hesitated, waiting for Tom’s reaction. But he merely sat there, looking agreeable and apparently expecting her to go on talking. “What of Ned? And Jane?” Morgan inquired to change the subject.

  Tom shrugged. “Ned is the same. He hosted the royal progress at his estate in Hampshire this summer and handled the event with his usual aplomb. Jane returned to court just before I left England.”

  “I missed her after she went away,” Morgan said. “She always seemed to be chiding me—kindly, of course—but perhaps I needed her guidance more than I realized.”

  He was about to respond when a movement outside the window caught his eye. “Hold, Morgan, I believe your husband and his brother are riding in. They must be as chilled as I was. Shall we greet them?”

  Morgan let Tom lead her from the sitting room into the entry hall where she stood at his side while the servants hurried to the door to let their masters in.

  James greeted Tom with solemn formality, while Francis was offhand but apparently good-humored about the unexpected visitor’s arrival. Lucy joined the four of them for supper, but while the Dowager Countess granted Tom a short but pleasant audience, she did not come down to the dining hall.

  Supper was congenial, with James relaxing somewhat under the spell of Tom’s gregarious nature and the great quantity of wine which Francis insisted the servants keep pouring. Lucy was obviously enchanted with the red-haired, seafaring courtier and his infectious charm, while Francis seemed unusually quiet. He’s jealous, Morgan thought, and wanted to laugh aloud.

  It was quite late when Tom had spun out his final anecdote about an unsuccessful bartering encounter with a merchant in Liege. Lucy looked peaked and excused herself, insisting that she had not enjoyed such an evening as this in some time but that childbirth had made her tire easily. Tom kissed her fingertips, and paid her a compliment which Morgan didn’t catch but which made Lucy’s dimples deepen and caused Francis to frown into his wine cup.

  Morgan was weary too, but not having seen Tom for so long, she was reluctant to leave his company. James, however, suggested that as Lucy had already withdrawn, no doubt she, too, would prefer to retire. Morgan balked mentally, but knew it would be best not to display any sort of obstinacy and embarrass her husband in front of their guest. She bade them all good night and smiled up at Tom when he hugged her as tightly as he could, considering the bulging barrier between them.

  “Pray excuse me, Lord James,” Tom said, grinning. “Since Morgan has been like a sister to me, this is one of my prerogatives.” James smiled rather rigidly as Tom kissed Morgan’s cheek. Then she sketched the faintest of curtseys and headed slowly toward her bedchamber.

  But Morgan did not sleep well that night. James had come to bed more than an hour later; although she was still awake, she did not let him know. He seemed to fall asleep at once and even snored a bit off and on. The wine, Morgan thought, and wished her body were not so unwieldy. Finding a
comfortable position was hard enough these nights, but her mind was troubled as well. As happy as she was to see Tom again, his presence had served as a sorrowful reminder of Sean and all that had happened during those tumultuous, tragic months before her marriage.

  By early December it was an effort for Morgan just to get up and down the stairs. Her interest in outside affairs shrank as she grew more concerned about her own body and the small creature which grew there. She heard James and Francis discussing the visitation of monasteries by Cromwell’s agents. The investigation had been going on since summer. Cromwell was determined to discredit the clergy and, in truth, had found some grounds on which to base his charges. At Whitby Abbey, not far from Belford, the abbot was accused of taking profits from piracy while his servants brawled with fishermen in town. At Lichfield two nuns were reported with child. At Cerne Abbas the abbot kept concubines and used church funds to support his bastards. The tales ran on and on, but Morgan was too absorbed in the child’s imminent arrival to dwell on such matters, which seemed so unrelated to her small world at Belford Castle.

  Ten days before Christmas, James told Morgan he and Francis were going to Newcastle for a few days. The castle provisions were low again and this time there wasn’t enough food left in Belford without depriving the townspeople. The third day after James and Francis’s departure, there was still snow on the ground but the sun had appeared off and on during the day. With the improvement in the weather, Morgan turned her attention to Christmas preparations. She consulted both Lucy and the Dowager Countess, who outlined the traditions that had been handed down from generation to generation at Belford.

  There were gifts for each tenant on Twelfth Night, and always the same, dating back to the first Earl, who had based his munificence on need. One hundred and fifty years later it mattered not that Mistress Langley didn’t need a new iron pot or that the Greene family had firewood aplenty or that Will Pentworth’s loss of an arm made a pair of gloves superfluous. The customs must be observed, along with the Christmas Eve carols, the spiced wine served on Christmas night in the castle courtyard, and the offering of a ha’penny by each child in the village to the crèche in the Church of St. Bartholomew.