by Mary Daheim
The courtyard was empty. It was very quiet, ominously quiet, Tom thought. As they dismounted, he ordered his men to stay with the horses. Tom opened the great castle door and ushered Morgan inside. James stood alone in the hallway.
I don’t even think enough of him for hate, thought Morgan, and to her surprise, James smiled. “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “We were expecting you.”
His voice sounded so odd, not at all as Morgan remembered it. “We’ve come for the children,” she said abruptly, as Matthew came quietly into the hallway. She acknowledged him with a curt nod.
“I heard you were in the village,” James said, as if she had not spoken. “Yes, I was waiting for you.”
“The children,” Morgan said impatiently. “Have Agnes bring them at once. They are ready to travel, I assume?”
“Travel?” He seemed vague. “Oh, they are traveling already!” He smiled and nodded.
Morgan felt panicky. “What do you mean?” She advanced on him, her fists clenched.
“You promised them a trip, don’t you remember?” His eyes glinted. “They have gone without you, madam, to the Holy Isle.” And he laughed, a high wild shriek, which seemed to cut into the very stones of Belford.
Morgan screamed and started at him, but Tom pulled her back and turned to Matthew. “Where are the children? Quickly, or I’ll have you on the rack!”
Matthew spread his hands. “I—I’m not sure,” he stammered. “I did see his lordship with them on the sea-cliff path a bit ago ….”
Tom called to his men. “Come,” he commanded Matthew, “show us the way.”
Morgan herself led them, racing out of the castle and along the path, her skirts in her hand. Unseeing, she sped headlong, oblivious to everything but her terror and fear. And suddenly, she stopped, for halfway between the shore and the Holy Isle she spied a little boat with three tiny figures in it. Buffeted by the waves, it pitched and plunged in the sea. She screamed and Tom grabbed her arm.
“Wait, do you hear?” He shook her. She nodded, unable to speak. He turned to Matthew. “I see other boats on the beach. How do we get to them?”
“There’s a path just a few yards from here, where the cliff drops down. Believe me, my lord, I had no idea ….”
“Enough,” said Tom, and Matthew and the retainers followed him down to the beach.
Morgan clung to a tree, her eyes fixed on the little boat, which still bobbed and tossed and turned on the waves. Were the children moving? Anne, not even a year old! James must have carried her down the path and put her into the boat with her brothers. How could he? How could he have done such a thing? But of course she knew that James was completely, hopelessly mad.
It seemed like hours before Tom, Matthew, and two of the retainers had shoved a boat into the sea and climbed in. Tom was at the oars, pulling mightily. The other four men took a second boat and followed their master into the water.
Morgan knelt on shaky knees in the dirt, praying, her hands clasped so tight that the nails dug into the skin and drew blood. The boat with the children mounted a great wave and slid out of sight. Morgan gasped and leaned forward. Suddenly it appeared again, and she counted the three little heads, still aboard.
And then Tom’s boat was next to them. He climbed into the children’s craft as someone—it seemed to be Matthew—handed him an extra set of oars. Tom brought the boat around quickly and started for the shore.
Morgan couldn’t wait any longer. She jumped up and plunged down toward the beach, the sand flying from her feet. She was waiting at the edge of the water as Tom let the oars rest in their oarlocks and got out of the boat.
She waded straight into the sea and grasped the bow of the boat. “My babies!” she cried, and picked up Anne in her arms.
“Why did we have to come back?” Robbie was asking. “You promised!”
She held him, too, and Edmund. And then she handed them over to Tom and ran back up the hill, not even hearing Tom’s voice shouting at her to wait.
She had never felt so full of strength. Fury and fear, followed by her children’s rescue, had given her a sense of great power, an almost supernatural energy. Yet she moved slowly into the entrance hall. Yes, he was still there; she was sure of it. He was alone, just staring ahead.
He heard her and turned. “They are gone, are they not, madam, gone to the Holy Isle?” Still that ghastly smile.
She was on him in an instant, her fingers tearing at his throat. He struggled to break free but her hold was fierce. He gasped for air, his eyes beginning to bulge. And then he could breathe again as Tom held Morgan fast, her grip at last broken. James recognized the naked murder in her eyes. He took in air gratefully and then his own anger flared.
“Whore! Slut! Bitch!” His face went purple, even more so than it had with her fingers around his neck. He took a step forward and fell to the stone floor.
Dr. Wimble mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Why did people always have to get sick on the hottest day of the year? He stepped outside the chamber where James lay, and faced Morgan and Tom Seymour.
“He is conscious now,” he told them, “but I regret to tell you that he cannot move or speak.”
“Will he recover?” Morgan asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I have seen other cases like this, madam. Although some of the patients have lived for months, even years, they seldom get back the use of their limbs or their full speech. In some cases only one side of the body is affected and on occasion they will recover to the point—”
Morgan silenced him with her hand. “You mean he will be like this forever … until he dies?”
Dr. Wimble nodded sadly. “I fear so, madam. And such a young man.” He shook his head again.
After the doctor left, Morgan led Tom into her chambers. The furniture was covered and dust was everywhere. It seemed that no one—not even the loyal Polly and Peg—had expected their Countess to return.
“We should have gone into the library,” Morgan said, as she lifted the covers from two of the chairs. They both sat down. “You must know, I am sure,” she began, “that I cannot return to London with you.”
Tom’s eyebrows pulled together. “Morgan, you don’t mean that. After all that James has done to you, it would be ridiculous to stay here, isolated and alone, watching over him. It might be months, even years, as Wimble said. You have a good sleep tonight, and we’ll talk about it in the morning.” He started to get up.
“No, Tom, I mean it.”
His blue eyes were openly incredulous. “Morgan,” he said, leaning toward her. “That’s absurd! There are servants to take care of him here. Pack your things and get the children ready and I’ll take you back to London. I’ll even find a house for you there.”
“No.” She stared at her hands in her lap.
He knelt in front of her, his own hands pressing against her thighs. “You would not part from me now, surely?”
She looked at him straight on, the topaz eyes unwavering. “Yes. That is why I must stay. What has happened to James and to me is like a judgment. I’ve sinned with you. I sinned with—another man. I yearned over Sean’s memory. I even thought about Richard. No wonder James and I were never truly happy!”
“Muffet …!” He squeezed her knees, still unconvinced.
“No more ‘muffet,’ I told you so long ago. I have not been a good or faithful wife. Now I will do my penance. I will not leave him. As long as he lives, you and I must deny our love.”
His arms went around her waist and he shook her hard. “Morgan, Morgan! That’s asking too much—of me and of yourself. James tried to kill you! You don’t owe him anything! If you must talk of owing, then it’s to me that you owe your life and it’s you I claim as my reward.”
“You already have claimed me,” she replied with a soft smile. “Please … don’t make it any more difficult than it is. You know I love you,” she said, and was sure she spoke from the heart.
Tom still gripped her about the waist as he fathomed the deter
mined and unhappy expression in her big eyes. He leaned closer, his hands moving to undo the hooks on her dress. “Would you be cruel enough to deny either of us what we both want so much?” he breathed.
She jumped up and out of his grasp, knocking the chair over behind her. “Yes!” Her hands covered her face.
He stood up, his face dark. “By God’s most precious soul,” he murmured, as if to himself, “I’ve waited so long for you. I never had to play the monk with a woman before. Now I finally declare my love, and then …. He cut himself off and gave one of the drapes a shake. Dust flew about the room. He grinned at her but it wasn’t quite real. “Well. I’m not a patient man, but I’ll do my best.”
She smiled back, trying to stop her tears. “You’ll not be lonely while you do,” she said. “I know that.” But I will be, she thought. I will be unbearably lonely for his great smile and I shall hunger for his touch during those weeks and months that lie ahead.
She had refused to sleep with him, asserting that making love under her husband’s roof would be unthinkable. But Tom’s urgent caresses and fierce kisses had won her over. They came together that night with almost savage passion and scarcely slept at all.
Tom left with his men the next day. Before leaving, he talked with Morgan about how to run the castle and its lands but she assured him there would be no problem. She was used to being in charge of the domestic life at Belford, and Matthew was expert at caring for the surrounding properties and farms. It would mean that she would have to keep the accounts, but Matthew could help with that, too. The tenants were friendly, and the villagers, she had heard from Polly, now regarded her as a heroine.
“So you see, all will be well,” she asserted, standing with him in the entrance hall.
“I hope so,” he replied, glancing out to see if his men had their horses saddled up. They did, and he knew it was time to leave. “One thing—I suggest you write to Francis and tell him what has happened. He will hear rumors, of course, but I think you should tell him yourself.”
Morgan considered for a moment. “Yes, mayhap I should.”
Tom leaned down and put his hand under her chin. He kissed her gently on the mouth. “I love you, Morgan.” And then he left her, his boots resounding sharply on the stone floor.
PART THREE
1540-1549
Chapter 19
A week later, Francis Sinclair rode into Belford’s courtyard. He had never again thought to see the stark strength of its walls, the entryway, the little balcony overlooking the courtyard, the rose window of the small chapel. He stood for a moment, his hands still on the reins of his horse. It is all the same, he thought, but those of us who have lived here are much changed.
“Master Francis!” It was Polly, at one of the side entrances. She waddled as fast as she could to Francis and fell to her knees, grasping his hand. “Oh, Master Francis, it is so good to see you back within these walls!”
He lifted her to her feet, brushing aside her effusive comments. “You seem rotund and well fed as ever, Polly. Where is your mistress?”
“In the wine cellar, checking the stores. She is so capable for such a pretty little thing! Why, just yesterday she even found some errors in the account books which the Earl had made in his … his sickness. She has had all the walls scrubbed within and without, and the windows cleaned and new rushes laid and ….”
He half listened to Polly rattle on as she led him down the winding stairway to the wine cellar. At the door, she called to Morgan: “It’s Master Francis come home!” Morgan flung open the door, a smudge of dirt on one cheek and her dress patched with dust. Her tawny hair was done up on her head and loose strands flew in several directions.
She started forward as if to hug Francis, but offered her hand instead. “I never thought you’d actually come!” She smiled up at him, surveying his face in the dim light. He is so tall, she thought, and his hair seems darker. “Oh!” she cried, “I’m such a mess! Come upstairs and I’ll clean up while Polly gets you something to eat.”
He followed her up from the cellar, commenting that Polly might also send a groom to care for his mount. Francis headed straight for the library and Morgan soon joined him, her face clean and her dress free from dust. Even the stray locks of hair were back in place.
“How is he, Morgan?” Francis asked without preamble. Morgan settled herself on the window seat. “The same as when I wrote. He neither moves nor speaks. Dr. Wimble says it is quite hopeless.”
“If it were not, I wouldn’t have come. Does he know or understand anything?”
She shook her head. “He eats and sleeps and the rest of the time just stares straight ahead. I have no love or hate for him, Francis, but there is much pity.”
“If he knew I was here ….” Francis shook his head. Polly came in with food for Francis and a decanter of brandy. She gave him another fond look, sighed contentedly, and left the room.
Francis began to eat. “I have heard most of what has happened to you,” he said between mouthfuls. “You have suffered a great deal.”
Morgan shrugged. “Everybody suffers, at one time or another.” She told him what he didn’t already know, especially of the day she had come back to Belford. Francis listened without comment, but occasionally he frowned. “And still you stay with him,” Francis said at last.
“I told you, I pity him. Besides ….” She hesitated, not sure whether she should speak. “I have been a false wife.” Francis looked up at her, letting the carving knife slip to the table. “So? I was a false brother. At least you did your penance while he could still be a husband to you. I did not. But I don’t owe him my soul; I owe that only to God.”
“That’s true,” Morgan said slowly, pushing aside the plate of trifle she had scarcely touched. “But it wasn’t only you.”
“Oh?” Francis’s features tightened. “Perhaps it shouldn’t, but that comes as a surprise.” He picked up a pheasant leg and chewed with noisy gusto.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Morgan said hastily. “I haven’t been … promiscuous. In fact, it happened after James had me arrested.” She saw the skeptical look in the gray eyes. “I fell in love,” she added defensively.
“Ah,” Francis added with mock solemnity. “Congratulations. To both you and Sir Thomas.”
Morgan’s hand flew to her breast. “How did you know?”
Francis wiped his face and hands on a napkin. “Who else but your gallant, rakish savior? Spreading your legs for Seymour was an extremely generous act of gratitude, made even more touching by your sudden discovery of true love.” He paused to take a hefty drink from his wine goblet. “But now you must forsake his ardor and tend your helpless husband. By the Mass, I’m well-nigh moved to tears!”
The rage, which had started out as astonishment, unleashed itself in a flurry of flying tableware which bounced off Francis’s shoulder. “Whoreson! How dare you make me out as such a conniving wanton! You! Of all people!” She grasped the brandy decanter, but Francis leaped up and clamped a hand on her wrist.
“Becalm yourself,” he commanded in a steely voice which held an echo of James’s chilly tones. “Perhaps I spoke too bluntly. But you do have a habit of hurtling into situations you never think about beforehand. As an impulsive sort myself, I understand the dangers well.”
Morgan’s heart was still pounding wildly with emotion, but her anger had begun to fade as Francis grew more reasonable. She set the decanter down carefully as he let go of her wrist. “We love each other,” she declared, attempting to look dignified. “We would have sought an annulment and married had James not fallen ill.”
Francis said nothing. He sat in silence finishing his brandy and eating at least two dozen fresh raspberries. Morgan watched him covertly; it occurred to her that she no longer felt the overwhelming need for his kisses or the surging power of his body in hers. As he pushed away the now-empty silver fruit bowl, her eyes strayed to his hands. And from somewhere in the very depths of her being, she felt a jarring sensation which made h
er knees go weak. Oh, sweet Virgin, she thought, I am not yet free of him, despite Tom!
Francis appeared to be paying her no heed. A manservant called Simeon, who was almost stone-deaf, had come to remove the dishes. Simeon looked quizzical as he bent to retrieve the three forks, two spoons, and the napkin ring Morgan had hurled at Francis.
“Awkward,” bellowed Francis, and Morgan jumped, but Simeon still did not hear.
After Simeon had poured brandy and left them, Morgan decided it was time to put the conversation on more neutral ground. She inquired about Francis’s children, who were thriving; she asked how Francis liked the house at Carlisle and was informed that it suited him well, especially since he’d enlarged the tiny library; she queried him about his neighbors but was told they were few and far between, which bothered Francis not at all. At last she asked the question she had put off:
“Have you considered marrying again?”
He avoided her eyes, looking instead at the arrangement of iris and lilies on the trestle table. “No.” His face was in shadow as the sun began to fade behind the western hills. “It is too soon for me.” He took one final sip of brandy and stood up. “Come—I wish to see Robbie, and the other two as well.”
Francis spent four days at Belford, consulting Matthew, speaking with the retainers, going over the improvements Morgan had already effected, and riding out among the fields and farms and orchards. He did not see James. Even though he had been assured by both Morgan and Dr. Wimble that James would never recognize him—or anybody else—he avoided his brother’s sickroom.
Nan had given birth to a daughter on July twenty-eighth. She wrote a long letter to Morgan, filling in the details. The new babe would be named Margaret, for Nan’s mother. Two other, more momentous events had taken place that same day, Nan wrote. Thomas Cromwell had been beheaded and Katherine Howard had become the King’s fifth wife.