Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  But it was Francis, not James, who came into the gallery, the bushy eyebrows drawn together and his mouth set in a tight line. “Sit, Morgan,” he ordered peremptorily, motioning to the settee with its fine-stitched covering made by the Dowager Countess some years earlier.

  Morgan obeyed, eyeing him speculatively. Robbie continued to scurry about, chasing a tabby cat one moment, kicking at a ball the next. When Francis remained silent, she finally plucked up the courage to ask what was wrong.

  He did not respond at once, but kept his gaze fixed on Robbie’s happy, unceasing movements. “Much is wrong,” he said at last. “Lucy and I are leaving Belford tomorrow.”

  Morgan’s mouth dropped open. “Why? For how long?”

  He sat up straight but still didn’t meet her eyes. “Forever, I daresay. I have quarreled with James. It is not a matter that can be mended.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Now he finally faced her. “It started out over these bloody reprisals the King and your uncle instigated against the poor souls who took part in the Pilgrimage of Grace. Until now, I’ve gone along with many of the new ways, since I felt reform was needed in the Church. But these murders—-how many I’ve lost count—are too much for my stomach. And murder it is, not justice. James disagrees; he thinks it right and proper. He told me he could not shelter a traitor beneath his roof.”

  Protests came to Morgan’s lips but Francis stood up, stalking the gallery, and went on talking. “If he considers me a traitor, I will not stay here to scar his conscience. It is, of course, his roof—he never lets me forget that.” He looked down to his boot where Robbie was clambering, begging to be picked up. Francis bent over to swing the child high above his head, and Robbie squealed with pleasure.

  “Oh, Francis!” Morgan came to stand beside him. “What of Lucy? Where will you go? To Woodstock?”

  Francis held Robbie in the crook of his right arm. “As you know, Lucy has always had strong feelings about the old faith. You also know that an uncle of hers died this winter in Carlisle. He was a childless widower, with fond memories of Lucy as a little girl. He left his possessions to her—not much, just a small manor house and a few farms, but we’ll make do. Woodstock is too close to London for my tastes just now.” He set Robbie on the ground, regarding the little boy with a fond, faint smile. “Grow up strong, wee one.”

  Morgan’s eyes were flooding with tears. Francis started to walk away but she grasped his sleeve. “Francis! You can’t leave us, not like this!” She clung to him, both hands holding his arm.

  He shook his head. “No tears, for Christ’s sake! I can’t bear tears! We leave before daybreak, and I wish you’d spare Lucy the pain of farewells. It’s better that way.”

  Morgan covered her face with her hands; she was sobbing aloud now and could only nod. Francis bent down and gently took her hands away. He kissed the tears on her cheek, and was gone.

  James was jiggling tiny Edmund on his knee. One look at his wife’s red eyes told him what he wanted to know. “You’ve heard, then?”

  “Yes. Francis told me.” They said no more, and Morgan went into the bedchamber and fell facedown on the counterpane.

  Acceding to Francis’s request, Morgan did not see Lucy. But as the first light crept into the western sky, she rose from bed and tiptoed into the hallway and down to a window overlooking the courtyard. Lucy and the children were already there, watching as the servants piled the last items atop the carriage and onto the mules. Francis came out from a side entrance. He helped Lucy and the little ones into the carriage and called for their serving people to mount. Then he swung up onto his gray gelding, and the gates opened wide as the little procession moved out of the castle courtyard.

  Chapter 14

  Now the loneliness set in. Gone was Lucy’s high, clear laughter, the children’s scampering feet, Francis’s gruff, booming voice. James never mentioned them; it was understood that their names should never more be heard at Belford Castle.

  He knew why his wife was strangely quiet, why she spoke to him in words instead of sentences. But he was certain she would get over it in time. Meanwhile, he could devote even more of his energies to building up Belford and its lands.

  It was autumn before Morgan’s spirits began to pick up. She must remain friends with James, she reasoned, for there was no other companionship except for the children and the servingwomen. Gregarious by nature, she could no longer endure her self-imposed unsociability.

  She would not apologize for her remoteness, of course. Instead, she arranged for an especially tasty supper for herself and her husband, with candles burning in the best gold candlesticks and incense permeating the room.

  James was appreciative. He told her so as they finished up the last morsels of the pheasant, and she smiled, the first real smile in months.

  “After all,” she said, serious again, “we only have each other and the children now.”

  They both drank more wine than usual. James suggested a walk to clear their heads and Morgan agreed. They ventured down the castle roadway, then up the little hill where they could survey not only the sea but the surrounding countryside. The moon glistened on the waves and they could hear the water lapping on the shore far below. James looked all about him, in every direction.

  “I love this land,” he said, aware that the wine had made him expansive. “The crops have been good and I ….” Something caught his eye, far off on a distant hill. “Look! Bonfires!”

  Morgan shuddered. “Not another border raid?”

  “No, no—those are signal fires. It must be the Queen. She must have given birth.”

  The fires seemed to grow brighter as Morgan peered into the darkness. “Does it mean she’s had a son?”

  “Aye, I wager it does.” James lifted a hand in the air and cried out, “God save England! God save the King!” He smiled foolishly at Morgan. “I grow too exuberant.” He put his arm around his wife; even though they had continued to sleep in the same bed, they had not touched each other since the day before Francis and Lucy left Belford. “You are cold,” he said, feeling her shiver slightly.

  Morgan wasn’t sure whether it was the night chill that made her tremble or something else. But she nodded. “Yes, perhaps we had better go inside.”

  They made love that night, more tenderly, if not passionately, than they ever had before. When at last they lay back in bed, Morgan noticed that James hadn’t drifted off to sleep as he usually did. Suddenly she sat up, resting on one elbow. “Who did you really wish to marry, James? Did you love her deeply?”

  She couldn’t see his face very well but she heard the sharp intake of breath. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know—I’ve just always wondered,” she replied.

  He shifted his body beneath the bedclothes and cleared his throat. “She was the daughter of a Newcastle shipbuilder. She had hair as black as a raven’s feathers and eyes as blue as an ocean sky. My father forbade us to wed. She was beneath me, he said. The last time I saw her was on my way to London to become betrothed to you.” He had kept his voice even, as if he had been discussing how the pear orchards had fared that year.

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan said simply. She settled back into bed and was silent. Maybe she shouldn’t have pried, for he had never inquired into her own past. But then maybe he had never cared enough about her to be curious.

  They learned the next morning that Jane Seymour had given birth to a boy who would be called Edward. All England rejoiced. Morgan was delighted for Jane and smiled at the thought of Tom Seymour as uncle to a future King.

  Soon other news reached Belford. Queen Jane was dead. She had come down with fever after the christening, and five days later she had died while Henry paced outside her room and wept.

  Morgan wept, too, and hurriedly wrote a letter to Tom. “You have been with me in so many of my troubles,” she told him, “that only the good Christ knows how much I wish I were with you in yours.”

  She looked down at the words writte
n in her big, sweeping script. How she did wish she could be with him! Almost two years since she had seen him. “Dear Tom … how I miss you!” she whispered into the empty room. Quickly, she folded the letter and applied the seal.

  “I look like a Turk!” Nan leaned forward into the mirror, hands on her hips. She turned around to where Morgan was laughing on her bed. “This isn’t a wedding headpiece, it’s some sort of hideous burnoose! Did I really order this?” She snatched the ornate coif, veil and all, from her head. “I’m tall enough without that!”

  Morgan pulled herself to her feet, still laughing at her cousin. “You told the shop owner you wanted one like the Duchess of Suffolk’s. I heard you say it.”

  “Kate Willoughby is a clever wench, but she never did have an ounce of taste.” Nan sighed and collapsed into a chair. “Let’s drink,” she said, snapping her fingers at her serving wench. Nan surveyed the rest of her wedding finery, which was scattered about the room. The ceremony uniting her with Harry Seymour was only two days off. Though now the uncle of a prince, Harry still refused to spend much time at court.

  But he had, of course, come to London for little Edward’s christening and Jane’s funeral. Though his stay was brief, it was long enough to convince him that the dark, dazzling Nan with her vivacious manner would make not only a winsome wife but an excellent stepmother for his two small children. If Harry lacked Tom’s dashing good looks and Ned’s penetrating mind, he had his own quiet charm and wry sense of humor.

  “Well, it won’t do,” declared Nan, giving the headgear a kick with her satin-shod foot. She accepted a goblet of wine from her serving girl and took a deep draught. “Lord, I’m so glad you came, Morgan! Two years! I was ready to saddle up and come see you.”

  Morgan was as glad to be back at court as Nan was to have her there. They had arrived ten days earlier, James setting off immediately to handle business affairs while Morgan helped Nan choose her trousseau. The ceremony would be at Wolf Hall in Wiltshire and the wedding party was to leave the next morning.

  Aunt Margaret, now supported by a cane, came thumping into the room. “What! You girls drinking again? You’ll both be sots before the festivities start.” She had grown thinner and more lined, but Morgan had been so glad to see her aunt that she wouldn’t have cared if the older woman had looked like a hamper of prunes.

  The serving wench proffered a glass of wine to Aunt Margaret, which she accepted readily enough, and sat down on the bed next to Morgan. “You and I must talk,” she told her niece. Morgan asked her what about. “Faux Hall is yours, of course,” Aunt Margaret said. “I’m going to live with Nan and Harry. My daughter’s condescended to take in her doddering mother.” She pulled a wry face at Nan, who was kicking off her shoes. “So, I suggest you make arrangements for the maintenance of the place through Thomas Cromwell.” She spat out a mouthful of wine. “Faugh! I can barely speak that vulture’s name!”

  “Have a care, Mother,” warned Nan. “There may be a spy under the bed.”

  “I wish there were,” asserted Aunt Margaret, brandishing her cane. She turned to Morgan again. “All my belongings have been moved out. You and James should go to Faux Hall, if you have the time.”

  Morgan nodded. She knew she’d have to do something about her old home, but the thought of visiting there without her parents waiting in the doorway was hard to bear. “I shall speak to James,” she agreed.

  Morgan rode beside Tom on the trip to Wolf Hall. James was directly ahead of them with Ned Seymour and Nan. Aunt Margaret traveled in a litter, though the others were mounted on high-spirited horses, ready for a brisk morning canter.

  “Good wedding weather,” Morgan remarked to Tom as she surveyed the blue sky with its scudding white clouds. “Is it true the King is looking for another wife?”

  “It is being urged upon him, at least by your uncle,” Tom answered. He was somewhat subdued since Jane’s death. “Henry has mourned Jane to such an extent that his heart doesn’t seem to be in it.”

  “He truly loved her, didn’t he?” Morgan tugged on the reins, for her little mare was eager to trot. “I’ve seen Prince Edward only once, and then he was asleep. He looks so pale.”

  “Jane’s coloring,” Tom said. “I thought you might bring your boys to Wolf Hall.”

  Morgan explained that they would be gone for only a few days and that she had thought it best to leave them at Hampton Court. “They’re too young to enjoy a wedding,” she added.

  “Speaking of weddings, I suppose you heard that Richard Griffin has taken a bride?”

  The topaz eyes widened in surprise. “No. Who is the happy lady?”

  Tom gave her a sidelong glance before he replied. “He wed two weeks ago with Margaret Howard. They’re still on their wedding trip in Wales where he took her to meet his mother.”

  Morgan shook her head in bemusement. “Strange that I had not heard. I suppose we’ve all been so excited about Nan’s marriage.”

  Tom slowed his black stallion to a walk to make certain they were out of hearing range of the others. “Did you ever really care for him, Morgan?”

  She frowned, ostensibly studying the needlework of her kidskin riding gloves. She could be candid with Tom if with anyone. “I don’t know. I felt some sort of response to Richard, but it certainly wasn’t love. It’s odd, but as much as I cared for Sean, I never really felt that same kind of—desire for him. Does that make sense?”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, it does. To me, at any rate. And James?”

  “Are you prying?”

  He grinned. “I believe I am.”

  “James is my husband. That’s all I have to say about that.” And thank God, Morgan thought, he did not mention Francis ….

  Nan and Harry Seymour were married on the morning of May seventeenth in the family chapel of Wolf Hall. Aunt Margaret and Morgan cried, Ned and Tom laughed, and everyone except James drank too much. It was a wonderful wedding.

  James and Morgan were back at Hampton Court Palace on the twenty-first. It was then that she broached the subject of Faux Hall. James agreed that he should talk to Thomas Cromwell and went to see him that very afternoon.

  When he returned, he told Morgan that Cromwell had been most agreeable. He had, in fact, insisted that Morgan not pain herself by going down to her old family home.

  “I truly think he means well, Morgan,” James said.

  “Perhaps,” said Morgan. At least the subject had been confronted. But it was still too soon to face the emptiness of Faux Hall.

  Chapter 15

  Morgan invited what James referred to as “half the countryside” to Belford for Christmas that year. Although he grumbled about all the wine and food it took to serve their guests, he let her have her way. He knew she was determined not to spend the Christmas holidays alone as they had done the previous year.

  The long gallery was decorated with pine and yew, red satin bows clung to the holly wreaths, and a ten-foot Yule log burned on the hearth. The servants wore their best and Morgan herself had a new red velvet dress for Christmas Eve.

  Since the visitors came from long distances, they would stay several days. Among the guests were Lord and Lady Latimer. It had pained James to have them, but Morgan insisted. And while he vehemently disapproved of Latimer’s religious views, he did not want to make Morgan angry. Besides, Latimer was a sick man, sick as much in heart as in body since the failure of the Pilgrimage of Grace. It had cost him dear to travel to Belford over the snowy roads, but Lady Latimer had been as insistent as her hostess that they, too, would have a gay holiday. Since Lord Latimer doted on his redheaded Cat, he accompanied her without complaint.

  But Lord Latimer’s heart ached more than ever that Christmas of 1538. He had heard recently of another outrage committed by Cromwell’s men, a blasphemous deed which made what had gone before seem trifling by comparison: The shrine of St. Thomas à Becket at Canterbury had been desecrated.

  While the others sang carols and drank mulled wine, Lord Latimer sat on a window seat
with a fur robe over his legs and told Morgan what had happened. She listened with growing shock and disbelief as he reiterated how the soldiers had carried off two large chests of jewels and numerous wagonloads of other booty. Then they had smashed open the tomb and scattered Becket’s bones to the four winds.

  “It is said,” Latimer concluded, “that the King will declare that great saint a rebel.”

  Morgan’s eyes were wider than ever. “Sweet Jesu! And he dead these four hundred years! It’s senseless!”

  “Aye.” Latimer nodded. “But he defied his King in his time and Henry finds that unforgivable, even at this late date.”

  Morgan shook her head sadly, then turned to her guest. “Why do you tell me these things? You must know how my lord feels about these actions.”

  Latimer pulled the robe up close about him. “Your husband condones them, I know, but I think you do not.” He regarded her with shrewd eyes. “As I recall, I once heard a tale of your distress upon seeing a monastery near Snape Hall being dissolved.”

  “I remember too well. That poor old monk, lying on the cobbles ….” She blinked quickly, trying to dispel the vision which contrasted so vividly with the merrymaking across the gallery from where she and Lord Latimer sat.

  “There is something else you should know, too, my lady,” Lord Latimer went on softly. “You remember Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury?”