Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “As Countess, you accept the children’s offerings to symbolize our Holy Mother receiving the gifts of the Magi. Hopefully, the babe will come soon enough so that you can participate,” said Lucy as she rummaged through a storeroom in the castle’s upper story. It was actually a large square tower and housed a great assortment of items, from discarded toys to moth-eaten furs to a huge suit of ancient armor, which Morgan decided must have been made for a very corpulent Earl.

  “Here,” Lucy exclaimed at last, extracting a frayed wicker basket from a large trunk, “this is what they put the coins in.” She handed the basket to Morgan, who was sitting on a small window seat in a narrow embrasure.

  “This must be a hundred years old, too,” Morgan said, still worn out from her climb up the three flights of stairs. “The lining is torn—shouldn’t we mend it?”

  “Heavens, no, that’s part of the tradition!” Lucy giggled. “And it’s two hundred years old. The first Earl inherited it from his grandfather.”

  Morgan was about to ask who would take her place if she were unable to attend the ceremonies, but something in the distance caught her eye. “Lucy!” she cried, twisting around to get a better view. “Look, something’s on fire!”

  Lucy slammed the lid of the trunk shut and hurried to join Morgan. “By the Saints,” she gasped. “There are three fires, all on the edge of the village!”

  “What’s the occasion?” Morgan asked. “An Advent tradition?”

  But Lucy had turned white as new linen. One hand was on her breast and she was chewing anxiously on her lower lip. “I fear not,” she whispered shakily. “It’s a border raid.”

  “Sweet Jesu!” Morgan leaned closer to watch the fires spark upwards into the encroaching darkness of the late afternoon. She felt the babe turn heavily in her womb and looked at Lucy for comfort.

  But Lucy had lived long enough in the North to know exactly what was happening at the farmhouses outside the town. “Come, Morgan,” she said in a tightly controlled voice, “we must tell the others.”

  “But I thought the borderers never came this way,” Morgan said, trying in vain to keep up with her sister-in-law.

  “They don’t usually,” Lucy called over her shoulder. “But if they’re hungry enough, they’ll go anywhere they think they might find food.” She was already at the head of the first stairway. “I’ll go on without you—but please mind your step!”

  Morgan had little choice since she could manage no more than a clumsy shuffle. Her mind, however, moved faster. Surely the raiders wouldn’t come to the village—and if they did get that far, would they try to get into the castle? The Sinclairs had no soldiers. In times of battle they gathered the men from the village and the fields to join up with the Percys. The only protection for the castle were the twenty or so servingmen, and several of them were too old to put up much of a fight.

  By the time Morgan joined Lucy in the Dowager Countess’s chambers, the bell cord to summon Matthew, the steward, had already been pulled. The older woman seemed as composed as ever:

  “I believe flight would be unwise. There is only one direction to go—south. And one would have to follow the coast—too dangerous, especially in your condition, Morgan.”

  Morgan started to protest, but Matthew appeared in the door. The Dowager Countess told him briefly about the raiders and asked him to assemble all the servants in the banquet hall at once.

  “Do we have any arms?” asked Morgan when Matthew was gone.

  The Dowager Countess shrugged. “A few swords and pikes and whatever household items can serve for defense purposes.” At last she seemed to consider the anxiety etched on Morgan’s pale face, and Lucy’s as well. “Now, my daughters, I’ve lived through a great many of these raids. You’ve seen them, too, Lucy. They can be terrible things—rape and theft and fire and pillage. But there’s only one way into this castle, and by the time the borderers get here—if indeed they do—a few buckets of boiling water may dampen their enthusiasm. In the meantime,” she said, calmly folding her swollen blue-veined hands in her lap, “there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

  But the afternoon of waiting proved excruciating. Morgan and Lucy watched from the windows, distracted occasionally by the noises of the servants who were rummaging through the castle to find makeshift weapons. Morgan had suggested that some men from the village be brought up to help guard the castle, but Lucy replied they would be needed more in the town.

  “Not that they wouldn’t come—they’re loyal—but it’s better to leave them where they are and hope the raiders can be turned away from the village,” Lucy explained.

  By nightfall, the trail of smoldering farmhouses could be traced to the edge of town. The wild border cries could be heard even in the castle, making Morgan shudder with every yell.

  “My nerves are shredded,” Morgan declared, lying down on Lucy and Francis’s bed.

  “I’ll give you something to make you sleep,” said Lucy, still watching from the window.

  “No!” asserted Morgan. “What if they come and you can’t wake me?”

  Lucy turned away from her sister-in-law, still trying to keep her own fears hidden. She couldn’t tell Morgan that it would be better for her if she were asleep when the raiders came ….

  Morgan did sleep, finally, and Lucy herself, slumped in a chair by the window, dozed for a while before dawn. The three children slept in the next room, quieted by their mother’s words of reassurance. Indeed, there had been a lull outside just before midnight and it continued for several hours; apparently even the borderers had to rest.

  But before the first light of dawn appeared, new cries broke the morning calm. The yells of the raiders mingled with the shrieks of their victims. Morgan awoke with a start, for an instant forgetting the danger, which grew constantly closer. Though it was hard to see what was happening in town, Lucy had little doubt but that the raiders were in the village, ransacking houses and stealing food.

  Her agitation no longer concealed, Lucy moved quickly to the bed where Morgan still lay. “We must go down and get the Countess,” she said unsteadily. “I think it best we take refuge in the keep. If all they want is food, perhaps they’ll be content not to search for us.”

  Morgan sat up slowly, one hand on her stomach. She said a quick silent prayer, suddenly realizing how seldom she had prayed since her marriage. Shakily, she slipped off the bed, allowing Lucy to steady her. The two young women moved slowly along the corridor and down the stairs.

  “Can they get in?” Morgan asked, as they headed for their mother-in-law’s room. “The Countess said the boiling water would put them to flight.”

  “We don’t know how desperate they are,” answered Lucy. To herself, she reasoned that if the borderers had even considered entering the castle they must be very desperate indeed. Also, they must have come in large numbers, or else the villagers would have routed them quickly.

  The Dowager Countess was sitting by the fire, reading her book of hours. She was completely dressed and seemed unsurprised to see her daughters-in-law.

  “My lady, we’re going to the keep. You must come with us,” Lucy said.

  The Dowager Countess shook her head. “No, I cannot walk so far. I prefer to stay here, in my own place. Regardless of what happens, it’s fitting that I do so.”

  Morgan put her hand on her mother-in-law’s thin shoulder. “That is foolish! We’ll get the servants to carry you in a chair. You must not stay here!”

  The Dowager Countess covered Morgan’s hand with her own, a faint smile on her lips. “No, my child. They’ll expect at least one member of the family to be here. If they find me, perhaps they won’t look for you. Lucy, with your three young ones, and Morgan, with the babe still in your womb …. It must be this way, you see.”

  Morgan stepped back, looking at Lucy. Apparently the other girl knew argument was futile. At that moment the door opened unceremoniously and Malcolm, the servant who had told Francis of his father’s death on a day that seemed so long ago, cam
e rushing in, his eyes bulging with fright.

  “M’lady!” he addressed the Dowager Countess. “They’ve crossed the moat and are at the gates! A horde of ’em!” The merest flicker of fear passed briefly over the Dowager Countess’s face. “What about the boiling water? Is no one at the walls?” There was calm reproof in her voice.

  “Aye, but there are so many, must be a hundred. They have a battering ram!”

  “Get back to your post, Malcolm,” the Dowager Countess ordered quietly. The servant obeyed without another word, leaving the room as fast as he’d entered it. The Dowager Countess looked at Morgan and Lucy. “Go to the keep with the children at once. And no protests!”

  Both girls hesitated only momentarily, then fled into the hall. At the foot of the stairs Morgan stumbled, a sharp pain stabbing at her back and engulfing her stomach.

  Lucy turned. “Morgan! Are you all right?”

  She didn’t dare tell Lucy about the pain, not now. “Yes, yes—let me stop to get my breath. Get the children. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Lucy looked at her sister-in-law anxiously, then heard the wild cries outside grow louder. Fear for her young ones overcame everything else and she raced up the stairs and out of sight.

  Morgan leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs for several minutes. It occurred to her now that this wasn’t the first pain she’d felt. In fact, she realized, it had been a similar but less severe one that had awakened her. Dazedly, she looked up at the staircase; it seemed insurmountable. Clinging to the wall, she started up, a step at a time. She had reached the first landing when another, more searing pain struck her. Stifling a scream, she fell fainting to the floor.

  When she regained consciousness she had no idea where she lay. Slowly, she remembered what had happened and tried to pull herself upright. The shouts and clatter seemed so close now—or was it just the roaring in her ears? She sat up at last, peering down the stairs and into the corridor. She screamed then, a hideous, piercing shriek. A redheaded giant of a man, clad more in rags than clothes, was running down the hall, the Dowager Countess’s pearls in his left hand. He looked up at Morgan and broke into a toothless grin.

  “A young lassie! I’ve had my due with crones for the day!”

  He bounded up the stairs, seeming to grow larger with every step. Morgan huddled in the corner, her teeth chattering, another pain ripping through her body.

  He fell on her with such a shock that she could only gasp. He smelled of ale and filth. The pearl necklace tumbled down the stairs behind him.

  “What’s this?” One hand clutched at her stomach, the other at her breasts. “A bairn in there? What sport!” His hands now ripped at her skirts and Morgan moaned piteously. He pulled her legs apart just as another sharp, racking pain enveloped her body.

  “Christ,” the borderer muttered, “your belly’s so big I’ll have to take you sideways.” The idea suddenly seemed to amuse him and he chuckled hoarsely. Granting with effort as well as desire, he began pushing Morgan onto her side. Weak from the pains and terrified for herself and the babe, she made one last, feeble attempt to plead with her assailant.

  “I’m having my child—now!”

  “Ye be having me—now!” chortled the borderer, as he stood up to undo his breeks.

  Morgan saw the lust-crazed glint in the man’s small eyes and knew she could not stop him. His exposed member looked more menacing than any dagger. She was sure that his thrust would kill her—and perhaps the babe as well. She wanted to close her eyes, to faint again, to become oblivious to the fate that was about to befall her—but she lay as if paralyzed and the borderer moved toward her.

  His deliberate movement turned into a lunging lurch as a look of shock and pain spread across his dirty, bearded face. And then he toppled over and crashed down the stairs. The last thing Morgan remembered was the grim look on Francis Sinclair’s face as he stood on the landing, his right hand still drawn back from the dagger’s thrust.

  Chapter 10

  Morgan’s finger moved gently down her son’s tiny face, tracing the outline of his features. He was to be called Robert, after James’s grandfather, the fourth Earl of Belford. Smiling faintly, Morgan held her baby close. James sat beside the bed watching them both, a new softness in his eyes. Lucy and Polly were busying themselves around the room.

  Morgan recalled little from the time she had fallen unconscious on the stairs until she awoke to hear James tell her she had given birth to a fine son. Now, a day later, she still felt too weak to talk much, but she had heard a great deal—and what she had been told had filled her with sorrow.

  The Dowager Countess was dead, her neck broken by the redheaded borderer. She had been buried the following morning next to her husband in the chapel. Her death struck Morgan as so unnecessary, so wanton. Yet perhaps she had found eternal peace, joined again with her beloved Earl.

  Two of the servingmen had also died while fighting the raiders. One of them was Malcolm, poor frightened Malcolm, who had shown his mettle at the last minute trying to defend the Dowager Countess. And three of the serving wenches in the kitchen had been brutally raped, although Dr. Wimble assured James they would recover.

  Fortunately the castle itself had not been severely damaged. James and Francis had already noted the needed repairs. The castle entrance had taken the brunt of the assault, but inside, only a few dishes and some of the crystal had been smashed, the hangings on the main floor had been torn, and some of the furniture was ruined.

  All but a handful of the borderers had escaped capture. The others were dealt with swiftly and mercilessly: They were hanged that same day in the market square at Belford, with James supervising the executions. He and Francis had also set out to help the townspeople repair their homes and try to replace or retrieve at least some of the food.

  Morgan learned, too, how the Sinclair men had arrived at the castle so quickly. They had finished their business sooner than expected in Newcastle. Even there not a great deal of supplies were available. James and Francis had bargained hastily and shrewdly to make sure they could get anything at all. They had started back early for Belford, and when they got to Morpeth, they went into an inn for some drink. Two travelers who were coming from the North were talking excitedly about a band of borderers who were ravaging their way southward. Alarmed, the Sinclair brothers left the provisions in the care of their retainers and hurried to seek help among the men loyal to their family and to the Percys. With about fifty men accompanying them they raced north for Belford—and arrived too late to save the Countess but soon enough to rescue their wives.

  Two days passed before Francis came to visit Morgan and the babe. He entered the bedchamber in the early evening as the winter wind blew down the chimney and rattled the windowpanes. Morgan was dozing at the time, the child asleep in the cradle next to her bed.

  For several moments Francis stood looking down at the tiny creature who slept with one small fist thrust out from under the blankets. Little Robert’s fuzzy hair was blond, and while Lucy had debated whether he took after Morgan or James, the truth was that despite his fair coloring, he most resembled Sir Edmund Todd.

  “He’s sturdy,” Francis said at last, and started to sit down in an armchair, apparently thought better of it, and loped toward the fireplace. “Dr. Wimble has told James you delivered early because of the border raid,” Francis said without inflection.

  “That’s true,” Morgan asserted, speaking for the first time since Francis had entered the room.

  “Perhaps.” Francis picked up a porcelain nymph from the mantel, almost dropped it, and replaced the little figurine next to a miniature of the late Earl.

  The baby squirmed under the blankets and let out a series of squeaking cries. Morgan sat up to see if he was all right, but Robbie had merely turned his head and was already asleep again.

  “He’s dreaming,” Francis said.

  “Of what?” Morgan felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh, food, I suppose
. You have a wet-nurse?”

  “Yes. A village girl named Agnes, a cousin to the one Lucy has employed for George.”

  Again the room grew silent, save for the wind battering the castle walls. Francis paced from the fireplace to the window overlooking the sea and then to the bed. “He’s a fine babe, Morgan. You did well.” Francis’s tone was faintly gruff but the gray eyes turned soft as he stared down at the sleeping infant.

  “It was you who did well, Francis,” Morgan said, and as she saw him raise both sandy eyebrows, she hastened to make sure he understood her meaning. “You saved my life—and his. I will be forever grateful.”

  Francis’s gaze seemed fixed on the brocade bed hangings. There was yet another pause until he spoke. “I never killed a man before.”

  “You had no choice.” Morgan riveted her topaz eyes on his face, willing him to look at her.

  And he did, but his expression was pained. “True. I could not let him harm my son. Or you.” He saluted Morgan abruptly, glanced once more at the babe, and strode quickly from the room.

  Morgan was still abed by Christmas and James had ordered the festivities curtailed. Tradition would have to be broken for once—the customary gifts would be dispensed with, to be replaced instead by whatever the people of Belford needed most to repair their homes and properties.

  By Twelfth Night, however, Morgan was able to attend the ceremonies in St. Bartholomew’s Church. The previous two days had been mild and Morgan had had an inspiration: Not only would she play her part in the children’s homage to the Christ Child, she would have her own babe christened before the little pageant began.

  The small Saxon church was crammed with villagers, tenants, and even a few visitors from the neighboring countryside. The same clergyman who had married James and Morgan presided; fortunately, he was swift-spoken and the service was concluded just as the new mother felt her knees grow wobbly.