Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  It was now mid-September and the King’s armies had still not come north. Francis’s children were elated at being reunited with their aunt, though young Mary, in particular, fretted constantly about her father’s wellbeing. Morgan tried to reassure her that he would soon be back, safe and sound. But her heart was afraid, and the fear mounted when she received no reply from Scotland to her offer to ransom her brother-in-law.

  Then, in early October, a rumor reached Belford that an English army was on the road from York to Berwick. Morgan rounded up the children and took them up to the little hill next to the castle. It was a hazy day with no wind. Morgan raised her hand over her eyes and looked to the south. She could see nothing but quiet fields and orchards, red-gold trees, and the rolling moors. They waited for almost half an hour, the four boys chasing each other among the trees, the two girls staying close to Morgan. Suddenly Mary pointed toward the horizon.

  “Look, My Lady Aunt! I see something move!”

  At first, movement was all they could see; then forms began to take shape. Morgan knew it was a column of men, a huge column filling up the road and rolling like a human wave in the direction of Belford.

  The boys were very excited. Robbie watched them intently and asked his mother if she thought they would stop at Belford. “Mayhap,” she replied, “though I would rather they did not. If they feast on our provisions it will leave us little if we have to withstand a siege.”

  They stayed on the hill until the men got so close that they disappeared into the village. There were foot and horse soldiers, with swords and lances glinting in the uncertain October sun. Morgan wondered who their leaders were, and if Tom Seymour might be one of them.

  She directed the children to follow her back inside the castle. They were about to sit down to dinner when Polly came in to announce that “some great nobles and their men” were in the courtyard. Morgan told the children to eat without her and hurried outside.

  At least a hundred men were gathered inside the gates. At their head were the Duke of Norfolk and Ned Seymour. A Howard and a Seymour, thought Morgan, and wished that it were Tom instead of Ned.

  Norfolk bowed, his aging figure no longer agile under the chain mail. “We would like to quarter some of our men at Belford, my lady,” he said. “The rest will stay in the village. We will continue our march in the morning.”

  Morgan frowned. “My lord, we are not provisioned for large numbers of men. I don’t wish to be inhospitable, but I fear we cannot handle a great force, even for one night.”

  Norfolk’s heavy brows drew together but it was Ned who spoke: “Our men have had a rugged march. Supplies have been held up at sea. Tomorrow night we should be in Berwick, but I have grave doubts about the state of our men’s morale if we do not have at least one good meal and some real English ale before we reach our destination.”

  Morgan eyed the horsemen carefully. They looked tired and dirty and in ill humor. If they were discontent, the foot soldiers must be near mutiny. And then Morgan thought of Francis, lying in a filthy, vermin-infested Scots prison. She looked straight at Ned and then at Norfolk.

  “Bring them in, my lords, as many as can come. We will offer you all we can afford to give.”

  Norfolk grunted his satisfaction and gave the signal to his men. Ned smiled, that peculiar thin smile so characteristic of him, so different from Tom’s big, expansive grin. “I will tell the King how generous you have been,” he said. He walked beside her into the castle.

  “You needn’t praise me to the King,” she answered. “If you repay me, it will be by seeing that Francis Sinclair is ransomed. I will provide the funds.”

  Ned was taking off his helmet. He brushed the dark hair back into place. “I cannot do that, Morgan.” She stared at him in puzzlement. “The Scots refuse to ransom those prisoners,” he explained. “They remain in detention—or worse—until this war is over.”

  The soldiers ate and drank so much that Morgan thought they could march clear to John o’Groat’s, let alone Berwick. They acted ravenous, chewing loudly on meat and fowl, quaffing down big tankards of ale, keeping the servants running to bring more. She watched them from the door of the big dining hall and then went in to take a look at the men who were eating in the gallery where trestle tables had been hastily set up. They would sleep in these rooms, too, and then eat again in the morning before continuing north.

  The four boys were thrilled to have soldiers in the castle. She let them watch, too, and after supper, introduced Ned to them. He told them about his own two boys and patiently answered their questions about army life and going to war.

  Morgan tried to keep her voice level when she inquired about Tom. Ned responded curtly, saying he had been recalled to England at last. The frosty gaze indicated that it was no thanks to her that Tom was finally coming home.

  While the household had watched the army ride away, Morgan consulted with Matthew about procuring more supplies. He would go to Alnwick immediately to seek additional provisions.

  After he and three retainers had left, Morgan went up to look in on James. But all the time she watched his vacant eyes and sunken cheeks, she thought of Francis. No ransom, she thought with a shiver, and wondered if he were getting enough to eat. The ultimate fear she suppressed. Francis could not die, not when his brother was already half-dead. Surely one day soon she would see that great loping figure stride through the entrance of Belford Castle.

  But the news from the border was not good. On the march into Berwick, the bridge across the Tweed had collapsed and five men were drowned. A raid was made on Kelso, but with little effect. Norfolk was discovering that his old bones, which had fought so well so often for England, were no longer fit for battle. He wanted to relinquish his command to Ned Seymour, regardless of the familial rivalry.

  The autumn chill was turning into winter cold. In late November King James gave orders for his Scots to attack. But there was dissension in their ranks over leadership, and as they hesitated, quarreling among themselves, the English rushed forward. First came the cavalry and then the foot soldiers, trapping the Scots between Solway Moss and the River Esk.

  It was a disaster for Scotland; King James, now as sick of heart as he was of body, watched helplessly. Many of his finest nobles were killed or drowned during the encounter. Several earls and barons, along with two hundred lairds, were captured by the English. Ned wrote triumphantly to King Henry that “there are now in your hands men who, with good order, may make the peace, or the conquest, of Scotland.” And on that optimistic note, Ned asked to be recalled.

  The victory brought some cheer to Belford that Christmas. Mary Percy came for the holiday, fretting constantly about Francis’s imprisonment. Her worries hardened Morgan, who asserted on several occasions that anyone as big and stubborn as Francis could certainly take care of himself. The brave words, however, did not lift her own spirits.

  The day after Twelfth Night, Mary and her entourage returned home. By the next morning Matthew brought news from the village that the ailing King of Scots was dead, dying shortly after his wife gave birth to a daughter. She was their only child and would be named Mary. Fate had dealt a double blow to Scotland; in London, Henry could begin another wily round of politics. He could also turn his attention to war with France.

  Morgan relaxed at last, certain that Francis would be released any day. Of course he would probably head for Carlisle, but when he found out his children were at Belford he would come there. Morgan would have a big feast to welcome him. She sighed with relief, thinking how good it was not to have to worry about a possible siege.

  But January slipped into February, bringing more cold and snow. Morgan’s temper sharpened along with her nerves, and she found she was snapping too frequently and for little reason at both the children and the servants. To make it up to the young ones, she had Matthew rig up a sled. Piling them amid the furs and wrapping them so that only their eyes showed, she herself drove them around the grounds of Belford Castle.

  They h
ad just returned from one of those excursions when Polly met Morgan at the door. It had been snowing in big, wet flakes, and Morgan had to wipe the moisture from her eyelashes before she could focus on Polly.

  “My lady, I have terrible news!” Polly cried, twisting her hands in her apron.

  Morgan clutched at her breast. Francis! Oh, God, not after all this time! She put her other hand out as if to clutch Polly for support, and the servingwoman’s words seemed to come from far away:

  “My Lord James—Cedric says he is dead!”

  Morgan stared at Polly. She had a hideous desire to laugh wildly, loudly, to bring down the castle with laughter. Am I mad? she asked herself. No, merely relieved. But relieved because James was finally at peace—or because Francis was apparently still alive? She wasn’t sure, and so she just stood there, oblivious to the children, who had come into the castle and were looking curiously at the two women.

  Morgan gathered her strength, telling Polly to get the children out of their heavy clothes and give them a treat. Polly was more composed, too, as she unwound a long scarf from Anne’s head. Morgan left them and hurried upstairs.

  Two lone tapers burned upon the altar in the chapel. The musky smell of incense hung in the air. Everyone was gone now, everyone but Morgan, who knelt by the new tomb, trying to pray for her husband’s soul. Death had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, for all that she knew it could come any time, indeed, that it was long overdue. Yet there had been occasions when she was sure James would go on forever, living out long, empty years in that same bed, maybe even outliving her in final irony.

  Now it was over, what had actually ended almost three years ago, what had really finished even before that, on the day in March when she had returned from her forbidden trip to Sinclair House.

  She crossed herself, brushed back the black veil, and got to her feet. Behind her, the chapel door scraped on the floor. She turned quickly and saw Francis Sinclair, his big form looming in the dimness.

  “Francis!” It was a shouted whisper, echoing among the hand-carved pews.

  He came forward, thinner and tired, with a bushy blond beard which greatly altered his appearance. His heavy tread was unusually loud in the chapel’s stillness. He seemed totally unaware of Morgan’s presence, passing right by her and dropping on his knees at his brother’s tomb.

  Morgan withdrew to the door of the chapel but stayed inside. She watched Francis as he knelt motionless for long minutes. He was dressed in riding clothes, and even though he had lost weight, the garments were too tight. She guessed that he had borrowed them, mayhap stolen them somewhere between his Scots prison and Belford.

  His shoulders heaved a great sigh and he stood up. He came down the short aisle, still not speaking. She watched him warily as he opened the door for her and let her precede him into the courtyard.

  “You are safe,” she said, and her voice sounded strangely small.

  “Aye.” He stood looking up at the castle, his hands on his hips.

  She bit her lip, wishing he would speak. He wore his familiar stormy look, which had come between them so often—a look that brooked no interference, accepted no kindness.

  “You will take the children back to Carlisle?” she finally asked.

  He continued to look off, beyond the castle towers and to the heavy gray snow clouds. “I will take them today, unless we have a blizzard.”

  Morgan set her jaw and made a sudden decision of her own. “That’s just as well, since I plan to leave for London.”

  Francis swung his head around to stare at her. “London? In this weather?”

  “Well,” she amended hastily and in annoyance, “I mean as soon as the roads are passable. It’s almost March now. I’ll go in another month or so.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, apparently unaware that Morgan was freezing from the cold. His coarse wool cape flapped about him as the wind picked up. “You are that eager to get to Seymour—and your lord dead only three days!”

  “As if he would have cared what I did!” she flared at him. “Or you for that matter! I’m getting out of this wild country and I hope I never come back!”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “get away, run away, do what you will. But if you’re going to abandon Belford, I must insist that you leave its care to me, for all that my brother would have hated you to do so.”

  “Have its care. Live here. I’d give you the cursed place except that it belongs to the children now.” She tried to keep from shivering outright as the snowflakes began to fall.

  “We won’t move here, I told you that before. But if you really decide to go to London,” he said with a challenging look, “I will see that Matthew and the others take good care of it in your absence.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and knew she sounded ungrateful.

  Francis took another look at the sky. “I think we had better leave at once. If it gets worse along the way, we can stop at the Countess of Northumberland’s until the weather is better.” He started toward the castle entryway as Morgan watched him, cold and shivering, her anger rising steadily.

  “She’ll be thrilled to see you,” Morgan called after him. “Her whey-face and all.”

  He stopped and turned back, his head cocked to one side. “Do you think Seymour will like you in black—or will you keep your clothes on long enough for him to notice?” He stamped on into the castle.

  Morgan clenched her fists and kept her lips clamped shut as a horde of vile oaths hovered on the tip of her tongue. Surely no man was ever more infuriating! Or callous. Or cruel. He had no right to criticize her, not after her miserable marriage to his brother, not after the way Francis himself had mistreated her on so many occasions. She sighed wearily as she made her way across the courtyard and through a side entrance, hoping she wouldn’t see Francis alone again before he left.

  But why did it matter so much? And why did the thought of his possible courtship of Mary Percy upset her? Useless questions, she told herself, as useless as the energy they expended in quarreling with one another. The answers didn’t matter; all that mattered, Morgan told herself with determination, was joining Tom in London and finding happiness in his arms.

  Chapter 21

  A gentle mist hung over London, dampening the flowers and trees around Whitehall. The smell of wood smoke lingered in the air as the city’s residents fought off the early spring chills.

  Morgan glanced out the window of her apartment before putting on a black silk gown over her petticoats. The dress was cut square and low at the neck, too low perhaps for a widow of less than two months. She stood quite still as Polly put the pearl-trimmed black coif over her tawny hair. She would need a little color—perhaps some lip rouge would suffice. She dabbed into a cosmetic jar before looking in the mirror. A touch on her cheeks, too—and she smiled in satisfaction at her image.

  She and the children, Polly, Peg and Agnes, and a half-dozen retainers had arrived at Whitehall the night before. Tired from the trip, Morgan had gone straight to bed, but now after a full night’s sleep she was refreshed and even exhilarated. Tom was at court. She had heard that he was at Whitehall from one of the pages, and within hours, maybe minutes, she would see him again.

  Excitedly, she pondered what she would say. It would depend upon the circumstances under which they met, of course. Perhaps in the palace gardens, maybe in the gallery, or then again, not until supper that night. Should she act indifferent to tease him a little, or be candid about her feelings? She smiled to herself as she applied a touch of perfume along her throat. After three years of waiting, these last hours of anticipation were as difficult as they were exciting.

  I’m free! she thought, hugging herself and twirling around the room like a delighted child. I’m free of James and Belford, free of Uncle Thomas, free at last to love someone who loves me. She started to laugh aloud but checked herself for fear that Polly or Peg would think she had gone daft.

  Morgan decided to walk down to the gallery; it was too damp to stroll in
the garden.

  As usual, there was a group of courtiers gathered in the gallery. Morgan scanned the faces quickly but Tom’s wasn’t among them. She noted Ned, however, and Sir William Paget, the new secretary of state, but the others, both men and women, were unfamiliar. How quickly people came and went at court! It seemed that every time she came to London, there were new faces to replace those who had left the court or died—or been executed.

  Feeling buoyant and self-assured, she approached the group with a smile. Ned took her hand and made a little bow. “How good to see you at court again, my lady, even though you are in the sad state of mourning.”

  Morgan felt a touch of reproach in his voice and bowed her head slightly. “Yes, my lord, but truly, it is well that death released James from such a terrible void.”

  Ned nodded gravely, outwardly sympathetic. He introduced her around and the courtiers resumed their gossip. The talk was, as it had been for these past months, channeled in two directions: the war in France and the King’s next matrimonial venture. Both topics afforded much speculation.

  Soon Will Herbert joined them, happy to see Morgan and full of opinions about a possible new bride for the King. “She will be English,” he asserted. “After Catherine of Aragon and Anne of Cleves, he will not seek another foreign wife.”

  “You seem so certain,” said Ned. “Is it possible, Will, that you might have some idea who this lady will be?”

  Will smiled, a secret kind of smile. “I? Oh, no! How should I?”

  Ned eyed him carefully. “Well, since you disclaim all knowledge, I see someone coming to join us who might have further information.” He lifted his hand. “Greetings, Brother.”

  Morgan looked up and saw Tom Seymour, as dashing as she had remembered him and more handsome than ever. He was grinning at Ned, but then he saw Morgan and the grin died on his lips. “Morgan,” he said with unwonted gravity, “I didn’t know you were at court!” He took her hand and kissed it. Why, she thought, he is quite undone! I’ve never seen him so disconcerted. She was so happy she could burst, but she maintained perfect decorum.