by Mary Daheim
He had not asked about Lucy. Surely he must wonder, she told herself. But he had shut Francis and Lucy out of his life as irrevocably as he had now turned from her. Lucy—and Francis, too—had died long ago as far as James was concerned.
By early June, Morgan could no longer keep silent about the child. She had felt life the day before and was now adding a new panel to one of her older gowns.
She confronted him that afternoon in the library. He was going over the accounts and his thumb was ink-stained. She stood before him, one hand on her breast.
“I’m going to have a child, James.”
He looked up, that odd light in his eyes which she had seen the night she returned from Carlisle. He stared at her for a long moment. Doesn’t he comprehend? she asked herself. She was about to repeat her words when he suddenly stood up.
“You carry no child of mine!” he cried, the strange light glittering in his eyes. “Francis! You carry his child!” His arms flailed and the account sheets flew about the room.
Morgan stepped backwards, trying to decide between protest and flight, but he was around the desk and gripping her shoulders in fierce, clutching hands before she could make her move. “You and Francis! I knew it all along! I saw the lust in your eyes for him—and in his for you!” He shook her violently, his teeth bared.
“No! No!” she shrieked, vainly trying to get away. “I was with child when I left! I swear it! Ask Polly!”
He stopped shaking her; his hands loosened their grip. “You swear?” The voice was a whisper. She nodded, trying to get her breath. “You’ll swear—on my father’s tomb?”
“Yes … yes. Anywhere!”
He held her arm, dragging her from the library. They went to the chapel and Morgan fell to her knees beside the old Earl’s tomb. She swore that she carried James’s child. He watched her intently, his breathing fast and heavy, and seemed satisfied when she was done. But after that, they did not eat their meals together.
In August, Morgan wrote to Nan, begging her to come to Belford for the baby’s birth. Nan had had a boy in April. Morgan had hinted in her previous letters that all was not well between herself and her husband, but now she poured out the whole story to her cousin. Nan must know before she arrived just what kind of situation she would find.
It was September first when Nan arrived at Belford. She was accompanied by several servants and the baby, Thomas, named for Tom Seymour. The two young women embraced warmly, laughing as Morgan’s bulk got in the way.
“You’ll never know how glad I am to have you here,” Morgan said. “I don’t think I could survive without you.”
Nan laughed again, but her eyes revealed deep concern. Morgan was so thin and pale, while she herself bloomed in the happiness of her marriage and new motherhood.
Nan took over the domestic duties at Belford. James didn’t interfere, and treated Nan with courtesy.
“Frankly,” said Nan the next day, “I find him as usual. Perhaps the birth of the babe will make a difference.”
Morgan sighed. “I have grave doubts.”
“Well,” said Nan, “if it does not, I think you had better get away for a while when you can travel. Come back with me to Wolf Hall for a visit. Mother would love to see you. She’s been unwell ever since her old friend, the Countess of Salisbury, was put in the Tower. Surely James wouldn’t stop you?”
“He’d probably be glad to see me go,” Morgan replied. “Let’s talk of other things. How are Tom and Ned?”
Nan told Morgan that she and Harry had fretted much over whether to name their son Edward or Thomas, and had finally chosen to honor the younger uncle. Ned had been unhappy about it, but managed to cover his disappointment. Nan shrugged. “I just like Tom better,” she said.
“So do I. In fact, next to you I’ve missed him more than anyone since I’ve been at Belford. He’s been knighted, I understand.”
Nan nodded. “He and Ned have both been showered with lands and honors since becoming uncles to a future King. Tom was offered Mary Howard’s hand, you know.”
“Oh?” Morgan looked up from her stitching. The Howard women seemed very busy making matches with men Morgan knew well. “She’s beautiful, rich, widowed by Henry’s bastard son—what more could Tom ask for?”
Nan noted the asperity in Morgan’s tone, but decided she would ignore it. “Love, I suppose. And Surrey disapproved. I’m not sure why. He and Tom used to be boon companions.”
“Politics seems to divide everyone eventually,” Morgan sighed, and wondered why she was pleased that Tom had not married the lovely Howard widow. And so she and Nan talked the days away, and Morgan’s spirits rose a bit. Nan, capable and comforting, had brought some life back to Belford.
On September fourteenth Morgan’s labor began. Eight long hours later, early in the morning of the fifteenth, a daughter was born. “Tell James,” she said to Nan, and fell asleep.
When she awoke Nan was by the bed. She herself looked very pale, and Morgan chastised her for not resting more. “What did James say?” she asked.
Nan seemed disconcerted. “Oh,” she answered, getting up to straighten the bedclothes, “he didn’t say much. But I believe he had Agnes bring the babe to him.” She turned and looked at Morgan, a little color now in her face. “He did say for you to name her.”
“Then I shall name her Anne, for you,” said Morgan.
Nan bent down and hugged her cousin.
But if Morgan prospered following the birth of her much-wished-for daughter, Nan seemed increasingly nervous and ill at ease. Two weeks after little Anne was born, Morgan exercised her authority as the elder of the two cousins and ordered Nan to come sit by her divan.
“Something is bothering you,” she said bluntly. “Ever since the baby was born.” A sudden fear overtook her. “Is aught wrong with the babe—something I’ve not noticed?” She remembered the wild ride to Carlisle.
Nan smiled faintly. “No, no. The babe is perfect. Dr. Wimble said so himself.” She sighed and leaned against the silk pillows next to the divan. “I can’t stay here until you are ready to travel. I must go within the week.”
Morgan sat up, clutching her fur-trimmed robe around her. “But why? Has Harry sent for you?”
Nan shook her head. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but perhaps I should. The night the babe was born … when I went to tell James … he didn’t speak for the longest time. Then he came up to me and touched my face with his hand—it was so cold, Morgan—and said something I could barely make out about ‘hair like a raven’s feathers.’ ” Her voice gained momentum. “I thought he was going to kiss me, really I did, but he dropped his hand and seemed to become himself again and spoke of the babe. Yet ever since that day, he watches me. I even see him on the terrace or at the library window when I take the children for a walk.” She shivered. “Maybe I imagine it, but …” her voice trailed off.
Morgan brushed the hair from her forehead. “No. It’s not your fancy. You remind him of someone. Of someone he loved very much long ago.” She fell back against the divan. “Yes, for your sake, you had best leave as soon as possible.”
Somehow, Morgan struggled through the fall and winter and into the spring of 1540. She occupied herself with the household, which she now ran adroitly and with more efficiency than her mother would have ever thought possible. Indeed, she had picked up the reins quite easily when Lucy had moved away and now had fallen with surprising naturalness into the role of chatelaine.
James paid little attention to his daughter and seemed to grow estranged from the boys. Robbie, at four, had a tutor from the village twice a week, and Edmund begged to join him at his studies. Morgan told him he must wait but he was impatient to keep up with his big brother. She spent long hours with all her children, bestowing upon them the love she could offer no one else.
News, as usual, filtered slowly into Belford Castle. Nan wrote in early February insisting that Morgan come to Wolf Hall as soon as the roads were passable. She also wrote that the King’s marri
age to Anne of Cleves had taken place January sixth. It had been arranged by Cromwell, who sought political alliance with Anne’s brother, but rumor had it that Henry was ill pleased with his new bride.
“He calls her his ‘Flanders Mare,’ ” Nan wrote. “Imagine! Some already say her fate may be the same as another Anne’s.”
Morgan pondered on what effect the marriage might have on her uncle. She wrote back that she would try to come to Wolf Hall in May. Another two years since she had been there or to court. She looked into her mirror. Can it be possible that I am twenty-four years old? In spite of three children, she was as slim as ever, the topaz eyes as limpid, the tawny hair thick and shining. And still James kept away from her.
It was May, the month she had promised to visit Nan. But little Anne was sick. Dr. Wimble said it was only her teeth, but he advised against traveling for a while. Morgan had not approached James about her proposed journey; she would wait until she knew her exact departure date.
It was a beautiful spring. The lilacs and fruit tree blossoms brightened the backdrop of the somber castle walls, and their petals fluttered to earth in pink and lavender drifts. In the woods the wild columbine began to open, and even on the moors the heath seemed more lush, more verdant. Sparrows built their nests in the castle eaves and kestrels nurtured their young in the rock pools along the seashore. Goslings dotted the fields, calves stood up on shaky legs, and lambs bleated for their mothers’ milk. The common folk seemed restored by the season, walking with a lighter step from their stone and clay thatched cottages into the fields newly sown with wheat and rye.
James was in Newcastle for a few days, and Morgan was relieved to have him gone. She felt a sense of freedom with him away from the castle and one afternoon she caught herself musing on what it would be like at Belford if James never returned from his trip. Guiltily, Morgan put such thoughts aside, set down the book she had been trying to read, and told Agnes to take charge of the children. She would walk in the orchard for a bit.
She strolled among the fruit trees, wondering how Francis fared with his three motherless children. Perhaps he was wed again by now—unless he was content to keep company with the whores of Carlisle. If only she dared write, but all the servants had been given strict orders never to carry any messages to the younger Sinclair. James had not punished the retainers who had gone to Carlisle with Morgan, but it was understood that no one at Belford would ever communicate with Francis again.
Morgan sadly shook her head. What kind of Christianity pitted brother against brother? Then she saw something next to a big pear tree that drove all else from her mind. A bundle of rags. Perhaps someone had left their belongings. But she was mistaken. With a little cry she realized the bundle was a man. She started to run away, but stopped. Cautiously, she approached the huddled form. She bent down. Was he dead? No, but he didn’t seem to be asleep either. Something about him was unnatural.
She put her arm under his head reluctantly, for his clothes were dirty and ragged. He was in his forties, she judged, with close-cropped graying hair and a hawkish face. There was a spot of dried blood at one corner of his thin, straight mouth.
His eyes flickered open and he coughed twice, his emaciated body shaking. Morgan supported him, her heart thumping. What if he were a thief or border raider who had been chased off by some law-abiding citizens? To her surprise, he smiled a little, his dark eyes bright.
“I did die after all and am surely in heaven.” He spoke well in a resonant voice with a trace of a Northern accent. Certainly he could not be an outlaw! She relaxed slightly.
“Are you ill, sir?” she asked, aware that her voice sounded weak and small.
He tried to sit up, though he had to let her help him. “Aye, sick of body and soul.” He coughed again, so deep that Morgan thought it hurt her, too.
“How did you get here?” she inquired, letting him go as he leaned against the tree.
He smiled again, ruefully. “Such a tale would keep you here all day, my lady.”
“I’ll send for some of my serving people. You must come to the castle and rest and eat.”
“You are the lady of the castle then, the good and beautiful Countess of Belford?”
He sounds like a courtier, though there is mockery in his voice, Morgan thought. Who on earth could he be? She nodded and stood up. “I’ll be hack shortly.”
He held out a hand to stop her. “Nay, nay. You must not. I shall rest here and be on my way. I daresay I swooned a bit, but I feel much better now.”
“Nonsense!” said Morgan, her self-assurance restored. “I insist you come to Belford. You’re not fit to go on.”
He again asserted that he was. But as he started to get up, he fell forward and would have dropped to the ground had she not put out an arm to steady him. He was of medium height, with slightly bowed shoulders. He is so thin, she thought. He cannot have eaten well for months—or else his coughing sickness has wasted him.
“Come, lean on me.” She took his arm.
He shook his head, his dark brows drawn together. “Madam, I cannot! Do you know who I am?” She said no. He seemed to be debating whether he should tell her. But her tenacity forced his hand. “I am Father Bernard. You have heard of me?”
Morgan searched her memory, at last recalling something about a priest named Bernard who had defied the King’s Men in Lancashire. Nan had spoken of him when she had been at Belford. Father Bernard had refused to turn over his holy relics to the soldiers and had somehow managed to escape. He was said to have fled to France. Or Ireland. Or some place.
“Father Bernard!” Morgan whispered the name.
He smiled wryly. “Now you will call the guards, madam?”
She looked at him carefully. Somehow priests should always be old, bald and chubby, or tall, thin and white-haired. How different this one was!
Morgan made her decision in an instant. Looking back later, she would never know how or why—except that he was another fellow being, ill, alone, hunted and virtually helpless. She could not have denied him any more than she could have stifled her distress for the monk at the Yorkshire monastery or suppressed her compassion for Anne Boleyn on the scaffold.
“Come,” she said, and took his arm before he could protest. As he tried to stand, another coughing spasm racked him. He was so thin that she could almost carry him. They stumbled along the path until they came within sight of the castle.
There Father Bernard paused, forcing her to stop, too. “My lady, do you know the penalty for hiding renegade priests?”
“Yes. Do you know who I am?” she asked. He replied that he had already said he did. She shook her head. “Did you know that I am Cromwell’s niece?”
“No.” He frowned, the heavy dark brows again converging. “Then why do you do this for me?”
“I told you. I’m Cromwell’s niece. Maybe that’s reason enough.”
He peered off toward the castle. “I see. Well, if you’re so determined, then I would at least suggest for both our sakes that we wait until dark before I go into the castle.”
She finally agreed to that. She helped him back to a more secluded part of the orchard and asked if she couldn’t bring him something to eat. He said he would wait; Morgan must not take a chance of being seen bringing food outdoors.
Back in her sitting room, Morgan felt shaky. She poured herself a cup of brandy and stood by the window, trying to think how she would hide Father Bernard. She could not tell anyone, not even Polly. The responsibility must be hers alone, for she could not share the guilt and endanger others. What was it that fat merchant at the monastery in Otterburn had said about someone hiding a priest? Something about hanging …. Morgan clutched the brandy cup tightly.
Now that she ate alone or with the children, it was simple enough to set aside sufficient food for Father Bernard. While Polly was out of the room, she put meat, bread, dates, and a flacon of ale into a hamper. Robbie and Edmund, preoccupied with which of them could stir their gravy the fastest, paid no heed.
After the boys had been sent back to the nursery to play, Morgan slipped into the corridor and hurried up the narrow, winding steps to the tower room. She deposited the hamper and uttered a quick prayer of thanksgiving that James was away. By the time she had arranged the bedding on the tower room floor, the sun had almost disappeared behind the Cheviot Hills.
She waited another twenty minutes, occupying herself by helping Agnes put the boys to bed and making sure Anne was sleeping peacefully. She tried to control her taut nerves by exchanging casual conversation with Polly and Agnes.
It was dark now, with only a sliver of moon rising out over the sea. The wind was up a bit; all was quiet. She headed for a side door, which opened out onto the sea-cliff path. Skirting the edge of the castle, she hurried down the little grade and then up the hill to the orchard.
It was so dark that she wasn’t sure at first where she had left Father Bernard. She almost stumbled over him before she realized she had reached the hiding place. He had been able to make out her outline as she approached him, but said nothing. She aided him in getting to his feet as he put an arm around her shoulders to let her support his body with her own.
“Slowly now,” she whispered.
They went back the same way she had come. The hardest part was the little grade up to the castle. Father Bernard stumbled once and Morgan braced her knees to keep them both from falling down. They were almost to the side door when he started to cough. Five times the coughs racked him, and Morgan stiffened like a hunted animal, straining to hear if anyone was nearby. But the only noises were the sea and the wind and Father Bernard’s heavy breathing.
She opened the door, which seemed to creak loudly. Had it made such a noise when she came out of the castle? It must have, but she hadn’t noticed it then.
They ascended the first flight of stairs successfully, but on the third step of the second stairway, Father Bernard sagged against her and she had to clutch at the wall for support. Morgan struggled to lift him, ignoring the sounds they made. God help me, she prayed. And then she heard the voice.