by Mary Daheim
“The old Countess? I met her just once but she’s a dear friend of my Aunt Margaret’s.”
“She has been imprisoned in the Tower.”
Morgan could hardly speak. The Countess must be close to seventy. But tall and straight as a halberdier’s pike and boasting the courage of a dozen men in her flat bosom.
“She’s a Plantagenet, and Henry is out to purge all royal blood except his own from the face of England. The Marquis of Exeter and Lord Montague were put to death earlier this month.”
“Dear God—it is no longer what you do but who you are. Is no man safe?”
Lord Latimer took her hand and was about to speak a word of comfort when he saw his wife bustling toward them. “No hand holding in the corners,” she clucked merrily, her cheeks rosy from the spiced wine. “You two aren’t singing. Come, my lord, I will make you comfortable by the fire. We must be merry for it is almost midnight and the time of Christ’s birth draws nigh.”
The two women, with the help of a servingman, settled Lord Latimer into an armchair next to the hearth. Morgan stood beside Cat Latimer and raised her voice in an ancient carol. But though her lips sang the joyful words, her heart was heavy.
By March, Morgan was sure she was with child again. She had not yet informed James. She was thinking about telling him that evening at supper, when Polly came hurrying into the nursery where Morgan was playing with her sons.
“My lady,” she began breathlessly, “Willie is here with a message for you.”
At first Morgan didn’t know who Polly was talking about. Then she remembered: Willie was one of Francis’s servants. Quickly, she handed Edmund over to Agnes. Robbie wanted to go with his mother but she told him firmly to stay in the nursery until she returned.
She raced along the corridors, Polly at her heels. Dear Lord, had something happened to Francis? Visions of his big gray gelding galloping riderless along the edge of Solway Firth flashed through her mind. Her heart was pounding wildly when she came up to Willie in the entry hall.
“What is it, Willie? Tell me quick!”
He had obviously ridden hard, for he was covered with mud and sweat. His boots had left wet tracks on the stone floor. He fell to his knees, head bowed low. “Master Francis told me to do thus when I saw ye and to bid ye return with me to Carlisle where Mistress Lucy lies near death.”
“Lucy!” Morgan felt a strange sense of relief, immediately suffused by shock and fear. She bent down to raise Willie up. “How is she ill?” asked Morgan, with pox and plague in her mind.
“She was with child, in her fourth month, and she lost the babe. That was a week ago.” Willie, devoted to both Francis and Lucy, had tears in his eyes.
Morgan was incredulous. “But she was to have no more children! That’s insane!” She passed her hand over her forehead. How could Francis have allowed her to become pregnant again, how could he so selfishly have imposed his will upon his wife, how could …. Morgan turned to ask Polly to bring food and drink for Willie.
“Come into the library,” she said, leading the way. She didn’t even think about his muddy boots tracking over the fine Moorish carpet which she had laid after Francis left Belford. It had been his room until then—even James acknowledged that.
She was offering Willie a chair when she heard James’s footsteps in the hall. He turned the corner and saw Willie, recognizing him at once.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded sharply.
Morgan held up her hand, signaling Willie to be silent.
“Lucy is dying,” she told her husband. “She has asked for me.
“You will not go.” It was a flat statement, giving no quarter for argument.
Morgan faced him directly. “I will go,” she said in a voice as calm as her husband’s. “I must and I will.”
His blue eyes turned to glacier ice. “I forbid it, Morgan.” The tone was menacing.
Morgan felt a tingle of fear flicker in her legs, but anger had the upper hand. “It is not Francis who needs me but Lucy. I could not refuse a dying woman. Even you could not be so heartless.” She turned her back on him and began talking to Willie in as normal a voice as possible. At last, she heard James walk away, and she sank into a chair opposite Willie as Polly came into the room with the food.
The small caravan rode the rest of the day and all that night, skirting the Cheviot Hills, moving through forests of juniper and mountain ash. For some of the way there were no roads, only sheep trails winding across the heath-covered moors. In spite of the poor footing, they kept a furious pace, causing Morgan frightened concern for the babe she carried. Dear God, she kept praying, please save my child. Was she forfeiting her baby’s life in exchange for a grateful smile from a dying woman’s lips? Maybe Lucy was already dead. She prayed harder, blinking against the rain and wind. Willie rode up ahead, with Polly and two Belford retainers behind her. She had taken the men with her reluctantly, for she didn’t know what James might do to them when he found out they had accompanied their mistress to Carlisle.
Polly was keeping pace, but it was difficult. Morgan tried to shut out everything but what she would find at the manor house. Sinclair House, Willie had called it, renamed by Francis.
It was small, as Francis had said, built of stone among a copse of sycamore trees. Its two stories looked square and sturdy but very bleak in the murky dawn light.
Servants, some of whom Morgan recognized from their service at Belford, somberly met them at the door. She let a servingwoman remove her soggy riding cloak. Morgan had ridden so long and so hard that her whole body ached.
She noted that none of them wore mourning bands. “Where is Master Francis?” she asked.
She was told that he was with his wife; he had not left her side since the miscarriage. A servingwoman held a tray of food but Morgan waved it away. “Take me to them,” she ordered.
The room was very dark, with a single taper burning beside the bed. Lucy’s face was flushed against the white pillow, a damp cloth across her brow. In the dim light she didn’t recognize Morgan until she heard her sister-in-law’s voice.
“Lucy!” Morgan ran across the room and fell on her knees beside the bed.
Francis had been at one of the windows, trying to let in a little morning air. His long, quick strides brought him to Morgan’s side but he said nothing. Lucy smiled feebly, her lips dry and cracked.
“You did come,” she whispered, touching Morgan’s shoulder.
Morgan took the thin fingers in her own. Even Lucy’s hand was feverish. From behind Morgan, Francis spoke. “I will leave you two for a few moments,” he said. Morgan turned to see his big, retreating figure and fury enveloped her.
When he was gone, Lucy bade Morgan to sit upon the bed. “It will not matter,” she said in hoarse voice. She asked Morgan for some water. “I thirst so, all the time now.” She drank as Morgan held the tumbler. Then Lucy fell back again on the pillows, her brown hair lank and damp. “I know what you think. I saw how you looked at Francis just now. But it was not his fault. I—I deceived him, Morgan.”
“Lucy, pray do not tire yourself ….”
Lucy shook her head. “I deceived him,” she went on, as Morgan leaned forward to catch the words. “I knew he wanted another child so much, and I’d so little trouble with the first ones that I thought Dr. Wimble must be mistaken. So I told him it would be all right for us to make love one night … when I knew it wasn’t. You mustn’t blame him. He is a good man, Francis is, in spite … in spite of some things.” She closed her eyes, exhausted from talking so much. Then she opened them to look at Morgan again. “You heard me?”
“Yes, oh, yes, Lucy.” Morgan sat rigidly on the bed, fighting back the tears.
“Francis has been everything I ever wanted in a husband,” Lucy said in that weak yet determined voice. “He didn’t love me in the beginning, though I always loved him.” She paused long enough to let Morgan give her more water. “But he grew to love me and was always kind and humorous and good to me. Too kind
, you see ….” Her words became almost inaudible and Morgan started to tell her to stop wearing herself out.
“No,” she breathed, “I must say this; it’s important that you understand. I was always frail. My parents never expected me to live beyond childhood. But I did, and part of it was because of the care Francis gave me.” She smiled softly at her memories as Morgan tried to picture the two of them in the early days of their married life and felt her own heart turn over.
“But you see,” Lucy went on, her voice a little stronger, “there was another, more—oh, dear heaven, how shall I put it?” She frowned and seemed to wither against the pillows. “A more violent side to his nature. Nothing cruel, I don’t mean that,” she said so quickly that it made her cough, and Morgan proffered more water. “Sometimes he needed someone to … to satisfy him in ways I couldn’t.” The lusterless eyes pleaded with Morgan for understanding.
“It’s all right, Lucy,” Morgan assured her. “It’s all right,” Morgan repeated with more intensity. “Francis loves you very much. He often told me so.”
“Of course he does.” Lucy smiled faintly. “But you have to understand this about him, to accept him as he is, as I have done. Will you, Morgan?”
Morgan was puzzled and confused. And then she had a blinding, frightening insight: Lucy knew, she had always known, and forgiven them both anyway. And now all this selfless woman asked was that Morgan somehow make sure that Francis would have someone who understood and accepted him as his wife had done.
“I—I think I know what you mean,” Morgan said in a shaky voice. “I’m not sure how much I can … help, but I’ll do what I can for Francis. And the children.”
“You’ll find a way. God will help you find it.”
Lucy was still smiling, but now her eyes closed, and Morgan removed the compress and dipped it in cold water. She wrung it out and put it back on Lucy’s forehead.
“Go rest,” said Lucy.
Morgan hesitated, but decided she would be little good to anyone if she didn’t sleep a bit and have something to eat. Besides, there was the child in her womb. She got up slowly and started across the room on tiptoe, but Lucy wasn’t asleep yet.
“Thank you, Morgan. God bless you.” Morgan turned, but Lucy’s eyes remained shut.
Lucy died the next morning, just as the wind quieted down and the first streaks of light edged over the northern Pennines. Francis had kept his long vigil to the end, his shoulders slumped as he sat next to the bed. He stayed with her for an hour after she was gone, holding on to one of her lifeless hands, as if the contact could will her back to him.
Morgan made all the preparations, sending servants for a coffin, getting a priest, thanking the doctor for doing all he could, comforting the three children who were all old enough to know they had lost their mother. They clung to Morgan’s skirts, especially the eldest, nine-year-old Mary.
Finally Morgan went back to Lucy’s chamber. She put her hand on Francis’s arm and spoke gently. “You must eat, Francis. There is no more you can do.” He let her lead him away like a big, weary stallion. His eyes were empty, and though Morgan noticed he had added some weight since she had last seen him, his face seemed very gaunt.
They ate in his study as the early spring sun filled the room with light. They had talked little since Morgan arrived, and even now they exchanged only a few words, mostly about the funeral which Francis said would be that afternoon. When Morgan exclaimed about such haste, he looked at her levelly, a spark of life at last coming back into his gray eyes. “I will not wait. I cannot.”
Morgan left the next morning with Polly and the two retainers. Francis had seen them off. He was still numb with grief, but at least he walked upright in his black mourning clothes. He had helped Morgan onto her horse and for a moment his hand lingered on her arm.
“What of James?” he asked.
Morgan shrugged. “I’ll deal with him when I arrive at Belford.” She tried to act unconcerned, but her heart was afraid. She thought of telling Francis she was with child but did not; the news would only make the wounds of his grief run more freely.
“Well,” said Francis with finality, and Morgan knew it was time to be off.
“Farewell, Francis. Take care of the children … and yourself.”
He looked up at her but made no reply. Then he took her gloved hand and brought it to his lips. It is good-bye again, Morgan thought, mayhap for more long years, and mayhap our debts to each other are at last settled. How very much she wanted to take him in her arms and surrender herself to ease his pain. But there was no desire in the gray eyes, no sign that he wanted her: She saw only emptiness in his expression, as though part of him had been buried with Lucy. She blew a kiss to the three children, who stood in the doorway. Morgan tugged at the reins and did not look back at Sinclair House or its master.
Chapter 16
The return to Belford was taken at a more leisurely pace, two full days, with a night spent at a monastery in Otterburn. A handful of other travelers had stopped there too, since there was no respectable inn in the little town. In the common room at supper that night, Morgan listened vaguely to the gossip—about King Henry’s marital prospects; about the Countess of Salisbury still being held in the Tower; about the pursuit of recalcitrant priests who refused to submit to the new ways; about the possibility of war with France.
But Morgan’s thoughts were turned inward. What would James do when she returned? She was sure he wouldn’t mistreat her physically, not when she told him she was with child. Ironic, how every time things seemed to be going well with them, some situation developed to throw them apart again. She had never expected them to be lovers, but she had hoped they might be friends. Perhaps even that was no longer possible. Stern and conscience-filled, James knew only one way to live: his way. How different it would have been had she married Sean! She, who had always dreamed of the great love, the noble passion that would never diminish through the years. You always want too much, her mother had told her when she was small. But, she would think to herself, better to ask too much of life than to ask too little. Where had all those dreams gone? Why had all the hopes turned to dust? And where was her faith, her old faith, the comfort of her ancestors? How frail we all are, how weak, how in need of God’s mercy! She plucked at a piece of meat and caught a bit of conversation next to her.
“… And they found the priest in his wine cellar and hanged them both on the spot!” It was a fat wool merchant speaking, his round stomach buffeting the trestle table. The horsefaced woman next to him looked happily horrified. The man turned to Morgan, hoping his grisly tale had at last captured her attention. “I have little sympathy for those who hide corrupt priests. What of you, madam?”
Morgan stammered slightly. He looks like an old sow in a fur-trimmed doublet, she thought. “I? Oh, I think little on politics, sir.”
He leaned toward her and she felt his wine-soaked breath on her cheek. “What do you think of then, pretty lady? Eh?”
She stood up, gathering her skirts about her. “Pigs,” she replied. “I think a lot about pigs.” And she swept out of the common room, leaving the fat merchant’s eyes popping in astonishment.
It was dark by the time they arrived at Belford. A half-dozen lights burned in the castle windows. Morgan dismounted wearily, Polly trailing behind her, complaining of her aches and pains. Morgan let her grumble awhile before announcing she would go straight to bed after looking in on the children. She mounted the circular staircase with dragging feet. James was nowhere about. As well, she thought. I’d rather not face him tonight.
Robbie was delighted to see his mother, but Edmund was asleep. She held her elder son on her lap for a few minutes and told him a brief story about elves in the woods. When she was done he asked for another, about little people on the Holy Isle. She shook her head and said she would tell him that story—his favorite—another time. She kissed him good night, took a last look at Edmund, and made her way to the bedchamber. With luck, she would be asleep be
fore James came in.
But there was something odd about their chamber. She couldn’t place it at first. It looked different, but her tired mind wouldn’t function. Something missing …. A noise behind her made her turn with a start. James was at the door.
“From now on we will sleep separately,” he said calmly. “I have moved my belongings from here into another chamber.”
Morgan had anticipated some kind of retaliation, but even so, this move shocked her. She couldn’t take it in, not just now. “You mean … for always?”
“Aye. For always. We are quits, you and I.”
He watched her carefully; there was something about his eyes …. I am so weary, thought Morgan, I cannot argue, I cannot even think properly.
“I see,” she said, even though she saw nothing save the soft bed and inviting pillows. He watched her for another moment in silence, then was gone, quietly closing the door behind him.
“We are quits, you and I,” he had said. “For always.” The words went round and round in Morgan’s head as she lay in bed the next morning. She had dreamed wild dreams, of Francis and Lucy and James and renegade priests and fat men and elves in the forest. She sat up and called for Polly.
Distractedly, she ordered Polly to get her some breakfast. Well, she thought, as Polly helped her into a brown overskirt, at least we have the children. The children! I never told him about the babe I carry! That would have to wait, she decided. Maybe there would be an opportunity in the next few days. Maybe he would relent.
But he did not relent, nor did he seek her out. They would eat together or meet in the halls but they spoke little. He was polite but so distant that sometimes he seemed half a world away. Morgan began to wonder if he would keep her prisoner in the castle. No, she reasoned, he would not. He would wish to keep up appearances. That was why they still ate together.