Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “The tournament, that’s what I would enjoy,” Mary Percy was saying in her singsong voice. Though she had at first appeared shy and quiet, Morgan had quickly discovered that by showing the other woman even the slightest hint of warmth, Mary opened up like a spring brook running full spate. Lonely, no doubt, Morgan had decided with compassion, and obviously not much cherished by her husband. So Morgan listened with half an ear, making occasional comments and watching Robbie nap in his place between herself and Agnes.

  “… A masque where the Muses and the Furies got their parts confused and ….” Mary was still babbling on, but Morgan’s attention was caught not by her loquacious companion but by a slowing down of the coach and James’s voice from outside:

  “King’s Men? Are you certain, Harry?”

  The coach came to a complete halt as Morgan poked her head out of the small window. “What’s happening?”

  James jerked his hand to the right. “See that monastery? The King’s Men are stripping it.”

  Morgan hesitated as Robbie began to cry. She picked him up and opened the coach door. “Dear heaven! Are those monks by the gate?” she asked as she carefully descended to the ground.

  James nodded. “At least they aren’t being foolish enough to resist.” But even as he spoke, a small, thin, elderly monk stepped away from his brothers and said something to one of the soldiers. The soldier gave him a shove, nearly toppling the old man.

  Outside the gates, near the road, a group of villagers had gathered. They seemed to take one step forward as a body in protest but went no farther. The soldiers were husky and well-armed; the townsfolk were empty-handed.

  Percy tried to quiet his rambunctious gelding. “They’ve found many a religious house here in Yorkshire teeming with vice,” he said.

  “This one among them?” asked Morgan.

  Percy shrugged. “Does it matter? It seems they are all dens of iniquity, one way or another.”

  “In the eyes of the King at least …” said Morgan in a low voice.

  Neither James nor Percy heard her. They were watching intently as soldiers came out the door of the monastery carrying gold plate, bejeweled vestments, and precious stones taken from smashed statues. The booty was loaded onto a cart as the soldiers made jokes and boasted about who had taken the most valuable pieces.

  Morgan and the others had all been slowly moving closer to the monastery. The villagers eyed the well-dressed newcomers surreptitiously. Morgan thought at least one glance seemed to beg for help. She held Robbie tighter and discovered she was praying. “But why?” she asked herself. “Why am I praying for these men of Rome, Rome which cost me so much—” She cut off her self-questioning abruptly, riveting her attention on the door of the monastery through which a tall blond soldier was emerging. He carried a ruby-encrusted gold chalice in one hand and had a piece of fusty cloth thrown over the other arm.

  A gasp went up from both villagers and monks. The old brother who had protested earlier suddenly made a rush for the soldier, crying, “St. Mary Magdalen’s veil! No, no!” He grabbed for the soldier’s left arm, displaying an unnatural strength in such a feeble-looking body.

  Swiftly, the soldier jerked his arm free and struck out at the monk with the chalice. The old man went sprawling on the cobblestone walkway, blood running from his bald head.

  Morgan could no longer restrain herself. A scream escaped her lips as she started running for the monastery gates. She was halfway there when a hand on her shoulder made her come to a stumbling stop. James had both her and the baby in a steel grip.

  “You fool! Are you mad?”

  She looked up at him, then shook her head as if to clear her senses. She leaned limply against her husband, not trusting herself to speak.

  The villagers were now watching the noble party with mixed reactions—sympathy for Morgan, hatred for the others. James motioned to Percy. “We’d better leave at once.”

  Percy assented. James helped Morgan and Robbie back into the carriage. Mary, who had remained inside during the entire episode, was clutching her cloak and looking anxious. “Such commotion! Why did you run up to the monastery?”

  Morgan was still shaken. She handed Robbie, now fussing loudly, to Agnes, who began to nurse him. “I don’t know,” Morgan answered at last in a hollow voice. “I don’t know.”

  The wheels started to grind again. Morgan looked out the little opening toward the monastery. The old monk still lay on the cobblestones. Some of the villagers watched him helplessly; others stared malevolently at the retreating entourage. On the roof, several soldiers were busy with tools. Morgan was puzzled at first, then realized what they were doing to the roof.

  “The lead. They even want the lead ….”

  After the stop at the monastery, Percy had made a sudden decision. He told James he thought they should pause at Snape Hall, the home of Lord Latimer. The name was only vaguely familiar to James, but Percy explained that Latimer was a Neville, a wealthy man, and a supporter of the old faith.

  Above the sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves, Morgan could barely hear what James and Percy were saying. She listened as closely as she could, hearing James ask why they were going to pay Lord Latimer a visit.

  “I want to know what accounts for the attitude of these villagers,” Percy replied. “I’m sure Lord Latimer can tell us.”

  “If they’d been armed I think they would have attacked those King’s Men,” James said thoughtfully.

  “Yes. That’s what I want to find out. How much resistance—armed or otherwise—is there to the King in the North?”

  James didn’t reply; the two men rode along in silence. Morgan sat back on the carriage seat, trying to relax. Shut away at Belford for so many months, she had given only fleeting thoughts to the strife in the rest of England. Now, with the carriage creaking along the rutted road to Snape Hall, and Mary Percy dozing on the opposite seat, Morgan had time to think. And what she had seen at the little monastery forced her mind into contemplation of recent political and religious happenings.

  How much authority did the King really have in church matters? Were all the abbeys and convents and monasteries riddled with sin and perversion? How did the common-folk feel about the uprooting of their old faith? Had all this upheaval been caused by the King’s fancy for Anne Boleyn and his desire for an heir, or was it genuine, long-needed reform? But most of all, was it ever right to hurt and maybe even kill a defenseless old man in the name of justice or the King … or anything? And how many times, in how many places in England, had that same scene been played out?

  Morgan looked down at Robbie, now content and staring solemnly up at his mother. Irrelevantly, the thought came to her that that old monk was someone’s son, long, long ago ….

  Chapter 11

  It was twilight when the little party turned into the road at Snape Hall. Lord Latimer’s dwelling stood on the crest of a small hill, surrounded by oak and maple trees. Several servants and a large sheep dog came out to greet the visitors.

  James helped Morgan and Robbie alight from the carriage. Robbie was again screaming with hunger, his tiny face all mouth, his little fists waving mightily. Morgan vainly tried to shush him, but her efforts only made him yell even louder.

  Lord and Lady Latimer had come to the entranceway, greeting the Percys effusively. Percy, in turn, made the introductions to the Belfords. Lord Latimer was a fairly tall, lean man of indeterminate middle age with thinning dark hair and a close-cropped beard. His wife was pretty, small, and plump, her red hair done up neatly under a linen coif. She was many years younger than her husband, perhaps not much older than Morgan herself.

  Morgan apologized for her small son’s behavior but Lady Latimer only laughed. “The poor mite is half-starved! Give him to me—just for a moment, anyway. You have a wet-nurse with you?”

  Morgan assured her hostess that she did. The party went into the house, where Lady Latimer called for food and drink. Robbie was handed over to Agnes, and the grownups settled down
to a tasty supper of roast goose with savory stuffing.

  After they had finished, Percy began to steer the conversation away from casual talk to serious matters. Noting this, Lady Latimer motioned to Morgan and Mary. The women excused themselves, going to Lady Latimer’s sewing room where a small fire was already burning in the grate.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, Mary,” Lady Latimer said, motioning for her guests to sit in two comfortable armchairs.

  “I don’t often leave Northumberland,” Mary answered, warming to her hostess’s kindness. “Not that I don’t keep busy. We have enormous holdings and the servants number over a hundred at the castle. We have guests, of course, though not a great many since we are so far north. Still, when the weather is fine, a goodly number pause to visit.” As Mary stopped for breath, Lady Latimer smiled at her sweetly and turned to Morgan. “Your estates are even more remote, I understand.”

  Between the emotional strain at the monastery, the long ride, the filling supper, and Mary Percy’s soporific conversation, Morgan was half-asleep. But she rallied at her hostess’s comment.

  “That’s so, but as a rule, there’s sufficient activity. My husband’s brother ….” Morgan paused as Francis’s image as she had seen him last flashed through her mind, standing tall and unapproachable in the courtyard on the morning of her departure with James. “My husband’s brother and his wife and their children usually are with us,” she continued in a slightly forced voice. “Your home is very comfortable, Lady Latimer.”

  “Please, don’t call me Lady Latimer! It makes me feel a hundred years old! Just call me Cat … and I shall call you …. I don’t know your first name!” Lady Latimer laughed merrily.

  “It’s Morgan.”

  “Morgan! What a wonderfully unusual name! I’ve always felt there were too many Annes and Marys and Catherines about. Catherine always comes to Kate or Cat anyway. Cat Parr—that’s what they always called me before I was wed. No romance to it—but then I’m not a very romantic person.”

  Romantic or not, Morgan was finding herself very relaxed in Cat Parr Latimer’s presence. “Have you and Lord Latimer been married long?”

  “Seven years. I’d been married at sixteen—to Lord Burough.” Catherine pulled her sewing frame in front of her and began to work with precise efficiency. “He was quite old—he died very soon. I was sorry; he was such a kind man. But Lord Latimer is kind, too. I don’t think I’ve known a better man.”

  “Do you—do you have children?” asked Mary, who was beginning to feel left out of the conversation.

  Cat Parr looked up quickly from her needlework. She smiled, a soft, sad smile. “No. No, I’ve never had a child.” She didn’t speak again for a moment and Morgan felt embarrassed by Mary’s question. But Cat was quick to sense the feelings of others. “I don’t mind you asking, Mary. But I’ve never been blessed with a babe. That’s why I wanted so much to hold yours, Morgan. Well. Come look at this tapestry. It’s Fair Rosamonde in her arbor. Isn’t that a lovely color for her hair?” Morgan agreed with enthusiasm; the talk turned to domestic matters, but before long it was time for the weary party to retire. Morgan thanked her hostess for such a gracious welcome, but Cat only smiled. “You can repay me,” she said, patting Morgan’s shoulder. “Before you leave tomorrow, I must hold your sweet son, just for a little while.”

  It was late afternoon when the weary party finally arrived at Greenwich on May 2. As they rode up to the palace entrance, Morgan noted that the pennants from the previous day’s tournament drooped from their standards in the tiltyard and that a handful of servants were still busy clearing away the debris from the May Day festivities.

  Noting this activity, Mary Percy could not help but remark that if they had left the North a day or two sooner, they might have arrived in time to see the spectacle.

  “We discussed that before we left Alnwick,” Percy replied caustically. He and his Countess rarely spoke to each other, and though Morgan was by now bored with Mary’s constant chatter, she understood the other woman’s need to talk.

  But the atmosphere at Greenwich was far from festive: The palace seemed deserted, almost ghostly. The usual assortment of pages, guardsmen, and dogs was missing from the entry area. The corridors seemed lifeless, with no sound of courtiers’ banter or servants’ bustle. A lone halberdier directed the Sinclairs and the Percys to their quarters on the second floor. The group trudged silently up the stairway, their retainers following with the baggage.

  “Something’s amiss,” Morgan declared after the door was closed and Robbie had been taken into the next room with Agnes and Polly. “The weather is fine, yet I see no one outside in the gardens.”

  “Perhaps they’re merely resting up from yesterday’s celebration,” James said.

  “It’s eerie,” Morgan said, still looking out the window toward the river. “James! Look, the royal barge is just pulling out into the tide.”

  James joined Morgan at the window as someone rapped on their door. Before James could even ask who it was, the door flew open, and Tom and Ned Seymour burst in.

  Tom enfolded Morgan in a bear hug while Ned shook James’s hand. Both Seymours seemed tense and yet somehow exhilarated. “What’s happening, Tom?” Morgan asked after the preliminary greetings were finished. “Where is everyone?”

  But it was Ned who responded. “There has been a tragic turn of events this day,” he said gravely. “You saw the barge just now?” As both Morgan and James nodded, Ned continued in his smooth, controlled voice. “That is Anne Boleyn, on her way to the Tower. She was arrested this morning for treason.”

  Morgan’s hand flew to her mouth; even James seemed to reel at the news. “Treason?” he cried. “How can the Queen commit treason?”

  Tom was concentrating on the gold braid that banded the cuffs of his dark brown doublet; Ned nervously licked his lips, stared at the ceiling, and finally looked at James and Morgan. “By committing adultery. She has been charged along with five men.”

  “What?” Morgan shrieked. “Five! Who?”

  Ned seemed to be speaking by rote: “Mark Smeaton has already confessed his crime to your uncle, Thomas Cromwell. The others are Will Brereton, Francis Weston, and Harry Norris.”

  “Sweet Jesu!” Morgan breathed, and found herself leaning against James. Smeaton was but a carpenter’s son, and though a fine musician, hardly the sort of young man Anne would have taken into her bed. As for Brereton, Weston, and Norris—they were all decent sorts, especially the kindly, middle-aged Norris.

  “Hold on,” Morgan said suddenly, jabbing a finger at Ned. “You said five—that only makes four. Who else?”

  Net let out a long sigh and actually shuffled his feet. “There are only four charged with adultery. The other charge is incest—between Anne and her brother, George.”

  The mere idea was so incredible that Morgan could hardly keep from laughing hysterically. There was no doubt that Anne and George were close, but it was the kind of sibling relationship that Morgan herself had envied: a brother and sister who loved each other, who supported each other, who enjoyed each other’s company. Even if she could have believed the other charges, this one was so preposterous as to make the rest equally ridiculous.

  “By Our Lady,” Morgan exclaimed fervently, “I’d as soon believe that of Anne and George as of you and Jane!” To Morgan’s surprise, Ned actually flinched at his sister’s name. “As for Mark Smeaton, how was this confession elicited?”

  “Please, Morgan,” said Tom, who finally came to face her, “that’s not important. What matters is that he did confess, and implicated the others.”

  But Morgan knew all too well how her uncle secured information. Sean’s face flashed before her eyes, and if Thomas Cromwell had been present, she would not have been able to keep from trying to tear him apart with her bare hands. “He used torture! You know he did; I know he did!” Morgan was screaming at Tom, and James had to restrain her.

  “Wife, hold on! This is a grave matter. W
e must curb our tongues! Pray excuse my Countess, gentlemen; she has had a long and arduous journey.”

  “It didn’t addle my wits,” Morgan snapped, and shook off James’s hand. But the shock of Anne’s downfall horrified her. Anne Boleyn, who had vanquished the most powerful men in England, who had steered her course into apparent safe harbor, was now heading up the Thames toward the Tower and a fate which only God could know. If Anne had failed at triumphing over her adversaries, how could a lesser mortal such as Morgan take charge of her own life?

  Ned was talking to James, but Morgan missed hearing the words. Apparently, they were discussing Percy, since Ned was making an abrupt bow to Morgan and James was murmuring something about the Earl. As the two men left the room, Tom went to the window, looked out toward the river, frowned, and turned back to Morgan.

  “I’m sorry, I’d no idea you would come to court at such a terrible time.”

  “I’m beginning to think there is never a good time to come to court,” Morgan asserted bitterly as she sat down on a large crate which had not yet been unpacked. “I don’t believe any of it. The King is just trying to get rid of Anne. By the Saints, it’s a wonder you and Ned weren’t arrested too!”

  Tom’s perennial tan seemed to darken. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, the gold earring winking in the late-afternoon sun, his wide mouth tightly closed in the red beard. Morgan eyed him curiously as it finally dawned on her that both he and Ned had been behaving strangely, even given the horrendous circumstances in which they had greeted her and James. “All right,” she said quietly. “What aren’t you and your gruesome brother telling us?”