Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

“I know enough to realize that James can be goaded just so far,” Morgan warned as a gust of wind rattled the casements. “Don’t exacerbate the quarrel further, Francis.”

  Slowly, he lowered the heavy volume onto the desk. “Don’t lecture me, Morgan. I’m not a fool. I don’t intend to stand up in the middle of York Minster or Whitehall and bellow my beliefs. But there are matters in life about which no man can remain silent and still retain his honor.”

  Morgan blinked at Francis, who seemed pompons, dignified, and angry all at the same time. His words confused her; he did not intend to proclaim his convictions, yet he vowed not to keep them within himself, either. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said at last in a sullen tone as rain slipped through the chimney opening and spluttered among the flames.

  “I didn’t expect you to,” Francis asserted, now looking more angry than pompous or dignified. “You sign oaths, acts, and marriage contracts as you would scribble your name on a dressmaker’s chit. You never think for one minute what any of it really means.”

  Morgan leaped to her feet, toppling a small bust of Aristotle onto the worn carpet. “That’s not so! I was coerced into each of those signatures!”

  Francis snorted. “Coercion or not, I daresay you never thought any of them through, never agonized for more than a few seconds—and probably can’t even recall to what you swore your soul away.”

  “And what if I had? What good would it have done? What good did it do Sean O’Connor?” she blazed.

  He had also stood up, looming over her across the four-foot width of the oak desk. “I knew you’d dredge up his name for the sake of this argument. I would like to think that at least O’Connor had an inkling of what he was martyred for, though I suspect he may have been as much anti-English as he was pro-Rome. Heretics and fanatics alike have a way of bending the truth to suit their own needs and ambitions.”

  “And you?” Morgan waved a finger in his face. “What makes you different from Sean or Henry Tudor—or your brother, for that matter?”

  Francis snatched the hand that waggled in front of him and held it fast. “That’s difficult to say,” he replied evenly. “But for one thing, I’m not steeped in self-deception, as so many are. I won’t deceive you either, Morgan. I want you. Now.”

  Morgan’s free hand flew to her mouth; the topaz eyes widened in surprise. It had been such a long time since she and Francis had touched except in the most casual, even accidental manner that she had all but stifled the threat of his desire—and her own response.

  “Well?” He was still regarding her steadily, the anger now replaced by a hint of amusement. She was silent, a reaction he took for consent, and he let go of her hand to stride to the door and lock it. When he turned back to her, she was leaning against the desk, offering neither resistance nor invitation. “Well?” he repeated.

  “I’m with child, Francis.”

  It was his turn to look surprised. And then he threw back his head and laughed in that deep guffaw she had not heard for some time. At last he sobered and shook his head. “By God, I’m glad for James! I didn’t think he could manage it.” He stopped and raised those bushy eyebrows at her again. “It is James’s?”

  “Of course it is, you beast! You think I would betray him?” she shouted, and quickly lowered her voice lest a servant passing through the corridor hear her.

  “You have, you know. Your question should have been, ‘You think I would betray him with anyone but you?’ ” He pulled her into his arms and removed the gold-trimmed coif to kiss the top of her head. “I’m merely amazed at James’s virility. And genuinely happy for him, too.”

  “You have a very peculiar way of demonstrating it,” Morgan retorted vexedly. “Now let me go; it’s getting late.”

  “It is getting late, but I’m not letting you go. Nay, don’t think to put me off with the mother-to-be’s lament of abstinence during pregnancy—it may work with James, but I know better. You were already carrying my babe the last time we made love.”

  “It was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten.” Morgan had meant the words to sound mocking, but to her chagrin, the plaintive note in her voice gave her away and Francis gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him.

  “It was indeed long ago—but I have not forgotten, and neither have you, you inept little liar.” Before Morgan could answer, his mouth was on hers, drawing the very breath from her, blotting out the sound of the wind and the snap of the fire. He lifted her off her feet, kissing her throat, her neck, the curve of her shoulder, and the cleft between her breasts in the square-necked gown. Morgan’s hands pulled him even closer, her fingers in his hair, her teeth bared against his ear, her body pressed tight against him. His weight was forcing her down onto the floor in front of the fireplace and she crumpled unresisting onto the old carpet. “Damned hooks,” he murmured, “why don’t you help for once?”

  She did, laughing at his clumsiness, astonished at her own. But it was not long before they were both naked, with the fire casting an amber glow on their bodies and their shadows merging on the library’s far wall.

  “You are more womanly than when I last saw you thus,” Francis declared, holding her rounded breasts in his hands.

  “I shall soon be more portly as well,” she sighed, letting her eyes roam over his long, lean body and tracing her fingers through the mat of dark blond hair on his chest.

  He flicked each nipple with his thumb and grinned at the hard, pink points. “Your eagerness is always so gratifyingly obvious. Do you greet James with equal ardor?”

  “You need not know that,” Morgan replied. But of course he already knew she did not. “As for you,” she murmured, reaching down to clutch his hard manhood with her fingers, “do you want Lucy that much, all the time?”

  “Usually.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the mouth that covered her breasts with kisses was impassioned and made her moan with pleasure. His hand moved between her thighs and she felt the flesh throb at his touch. Morgan writhed, arching her body toward him, urging him to probe harder, pressing her legs together to feel the full sensation of those searching fingers. To her astonishment, the fulfillment she’d yearned for came in a startling, sudden frenzy of delight, rendering her limp and gasping on the carpet.

  Francis rolled over onto his side and regarded her with amusement. “I didn’t realize you were that eager,” he commented dryly, pushing the sandy hair from his forehead. “I trust your endurance matches your impatience.”

  Morgan looked at him through a haze of contentment. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t help it.” She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and started to turn away, but Francis moved suddenly, trapping her between his knees.

  “Indeed, I’m flattered. But you can pleasure me in more ways than one.” He held her chin with his hand and moved the pride of his virility toward her mouth. Morgan stared in surprise and dismay. “Well?” Francis demanded. “Are there parts of me you find undesirable?”

  Her cheeks grew even warmer as she fixed her gaze on his face. “No … but I never … it seems strange ….”

  “Hardly strange at all, since you willingly accept my member in another part of your body. Somehow, such squeamishness doesn’t suit you.”

  She paused for just a moment, transfixed by the nearness of him. But the firm masculine flesh that hovered over her lips was part of Francis; it was the source of her firstborn child, the instrument of her contentment. She took him, tentatively at first, and then with more intensity, and felt him all but fill her mouth until she thought she would choke.

  And then he withdrew himself to fall on top of her, plunging between her thighs, and from somewhere in the night a brilliance rent the darkness like so many shooting stars blazing across the sky.

  They lay quiet for several moments, savoring the joy they had given each other, reveling in the sudden peace born of their passion. “Francis …” Morgan spoke at last, craning her neck to look into his face. The light from the dying fire threw shadows that
made the bushy brows seem more pronounced and the long face almost wolfish. She paused, suddenly afraid to go on.

  But Francis’s voice was not only encouraging, it was surprisingly gentle. “What is it, Morgan?”

  “I’m confused … I don’t understand why ….” She lowered her eyes and stared at the mat of hair on his chest. “It seems that you make me feel so … uncontrolled.”

  “Uncontrolled?” Francis chuckled. “I would have chosen a different word. But it’s quite simple. You are a woman and I am a man.”

  Morgan propped herself up on one elbow, her rounded breasts almost touching Francis’s chest. “God’s teeth,” she swore, using one of Tom Seymour’s favorite oaths, “that’s too simple. I don’t believe it!”

  Francis shrugged and brushed her nipples with his forearm. “All right. We are well mated—at least in this sense. There are many ways man and woman can be mated—physically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, romantically. Lucy and I are well matched emotionally and spiritually. Perhaps romantically, too. She does not, however, share my intellectual or physical temperament. Still, we have made a good marriage.”

  The last log sputtered and cracked in two. A smattering of sparks landed on the hearth, glowing red-hot before fading into the darkness. “So,” said Morgan slowly, “it is because of the physical differences that you go to whores—and me?”

  He saw the bitterness in the topaz eyes and touched her cheek with his hand, forcing her to look at him. “You are no whore. You are a woman, totally female, utterly without pretense or coquettishness when aroused by the right man. You are young and healthy, finely made, but not fragile. And you have an instinctive aptitude for what pleases a man—and yourself.”

  The calm, succinct explanation rendered Morgan speechless. She blinked several times, then frowned as she pondered Francis’s words.

  “You are still puzzling why, after the baby was born dead, I sought out a strumpet when I could have come to you,” Francis said in the same reasonable tone. “For one thing, you were also upset. You would have wanted tenderness, but I needed a violent purging of my rage. Even in happier times, Lucy could not abide my unleashed passions, in body or in mind. There are many aspects of love-making she finds distasteful. And she is very delicate, even more so now that she has lost the child. We must be very careful that she never becomes pregnant again.”

  The fire had gone out, and the only light in the room came from the three-tiered candelabrum on Francis’s desk. Outside, the wind was blowing out to sea but the rain was pelting the windows with renewed vigor. “I see—I think.” Morgan gave a choked little laugh. “How complex—and difficult for you both. I take it Lucy knows about—the whores?”

  “Oh, yes.” Francis was sitting up now too, his arms encircling his knees. “We never discuss it—but she knows.” He was silent for a moment, staring into the darkest corner of the room. “She does not know about you, of course. She must never know that.” The gray eyes swerved to fix on Morgan’s shadowy face. Francis’s voice had sharpened and she heard the unspoken threat.

  “I would never tell her—or James,” she asserted.

  “No, you would not,” Francis agreed. He reached for his clothes and stood up. “That’s why I stay away from you as much as I do. They must never, never find out what is between us. Come now,” he said brusquely, “it’s late and it’s cold.”

  They dressed without speaking and Francis was ready first, going to his desk to put away the books and blow out the three candles. Morgan adjusted her coif just as the mantel clock struck eleven. She could barely see Francis in the darkened room, but felt his hand on her arm, guiding her toward the door. They entered the empty hallway and walked to the main staircase together.

  “I’m hungry,” Francis announced. “I think I’ll go forage in the castle kitchen.”

  Morgan nodded once; she felt she ought to say something to resurrect the closeness she had felt toward Francis such a short time ago. But it was only physical intimacy, she told herself, and there was no need to play on sentiments that did not exist. “Good night,” she said at last in a wispy, small voice. But Francis was already striding toward the kitchen and did not seem to hear her.

  To her surprise, James was not only awake, but still dressed and pacing their bedchamber. Morgan froze in midstep as he stopped to gaze at her with ice-blue eyes.

  “Where in God’s name have you been? It’s past eleven! You left the supper room over two hours ago!”

  Morgan’s brain whirled in an effort to offer a credible explanation. But James gave her no opportunity to reply. In a half-dozen quick steps, he was in front of her, his hands on her upper arms. “Well? Am I right? Were you with my brother?”

  Oh, Jesu, Morgan thought dazedly—he knows. She jerked away from him and rubbed at the place between her eyebrows with frenzied fingers. “Please, James, I’m so tired—and the new babe makes me queasy, even at night.” James snatched at her hand and pulled her directly in front of him so that they were almost touching. “But not so tired that you can’t while away your evenings with Francis! What were you two doing?”

  The cold fury in James’s face made Morgan tremble. Yet how could he be sure of the truth? She tried to control her shaking limbs and raised her voice: “I went to see him because the two of you worry me! All this quarreling over religion gets on my nerves. I can’t stand it, especially right now!”

  James let go of her hand and moved back a step or two. “As I suspected,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “And I know what happened next—Francis played on those pro-Papist sympathies you shared with that Irishman, and no doubt my brother has set you against me!”

  “Oh, rot!” Morgan cried as much in relief as in anger. “It’s because of ‘that Irishman,’ as you so unkindly call him, that I detest your quarrel with Francis! That’s what I tried to tell him.” To help compose her churning emotions, she began to remove her coif and pearl necklace. “Naturally he put forth his own case, and naturally we argued. But,” she continued, placing the necklace in her jewel casket and speaking in a more normal tone, “neither of us would give in, so we spoke of other things, mainly Lucy and the poor dead babe. Francis is still sorrowing and so afraid for Lucy. Though you must know all that as well as I do. After all, James,” she said with a diffident smile, “Francis must envy you a wife who can bear your strong, healthy children without serious complications.”

  The play on James’s masculine vanity worked. His sharp features softened and the blue eyes warmed. “Well, at least he already has three robust youngsters. Yet the prospect of never having more must distress him, of course.”

  “I would imagine so,” Morgan agreed, unfastening her dress and hoping that the candlelight played invitingly on her fruitful body. “Still, I didn’t intend to worry you, but you know how Francis can go on once he gets started.”

  “I certainly do.” James paused and watched his wife step free of her garments. “Are you certain we couldn’t—that we shouldn’t make love tonight?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

  Morgan frowned and bit her lip in apparent anxiety. As before, she and James had agreed it would be better to abstain from marital relations during her pregnancy. But she was so relieved that he had not guessed what had really gone on between her and Francis that she weakened in her resolve. “Perhaps we could—but wait until tomorrow night, James. I am a bit queasy and very, very tired after arguing with Francis.”

  Morgan was safely delivered of another son on April nineteenth in the year 1537. The labor was hard but not long, and she was grateful that her second child had come into the world under happier circumstances than her firstborn. The child was christened Edmund, after Morgan’s father. As soon as she could sit up and write, a letter was dispatched to Faux Hall.

  One month later, the letter that came back was not from Faux Hall, but from London, and was penned in Nan’s rounded hand. It contained shattering news: Morgan’s parents had died within a week of each other, Lady Alice passing first,
and three days later, on the day of his namesake’s birth, Sir Edmund had joined his wife in the final sanctuary of death.

  “It was not plague,” Nan wrote, “though it was feared so at first. Both your parents succumbed to high fevers and excruciating stomach cramps, and ultimately, delirium. They have been buried next to Grandmother Isabeau and Grandfather William in the family plot at St. Michael’s.”

  It was two days before Morgan could emerge from her grief to finish reading her cousin’s letter. Nan had returned to court, taking Aunt Margaret with her. Faux Hall was too empty now, and though Nan knew how much her mother detested court life, she felt that the serene atmosphere under Jane Seymour’s influence might make Aunt Margaret’s stay more bearable.

  “She is not as well as she might be, having contracted the same disease in a less serious form,” Nan wrote. “Naturally, she was mightily distressed over the King’s harsh dealings with the participants in the Pilgrimage of Grace. So many were executed, though Lord Latimer was spared.” But Nan’s letter was not all grim: “The Queen told me she is with child. Now all know it and the King rejoices, treating Jane as if she were the most delicate piece of Venetian glass. Her Grace and I have become quite close, and last March her brother, Harry, came to court for a visit. He is jolly like Tom, dark like Ned, but of such an even disposition and with the ability to make everyone who converses with him feel as if she—or he—is the most important person ever born. He is a widower with two small children, and no doubt lonely beneath that kindly exterior.”

  Morgan folded the parchment and replaced it in her leather pouch for safekeeping. Nan was in love with a Seymour, or so it appeared. A faint smile played at Morgan’s mouth, the first since she’d learned of her parents’ death. But for James, the important news was that the Queen was pregnant and that King Henry might get the son and heir he had wanted so desperately.

  Morgan smiled encouragement as she watched Robbie toddle on chubby legs along the long gallery at Belford. The July day had started out sunny, but heavy clouds moved in from the North Sea and rain chased both mother and child in from their romp in the orchard. Little Edmund was napping in the nursery and James had gone into the village to settle a quarrel between two tenants who were in conflict over a boundary which ran through their adjoining fields. Still, he ought to be back by now, she thought, as it was past the supper hour and she was growing hungry.