Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “You are very tan for so early in the spring, my lord. Have you been to sea again?”

  “Briefly, a week or so ago.” He turned to Ned. “Well, what good gossip have we under way?” And they were off on another round of pleasant conjecture, this time about the French King’s next moves.

  Morgan kept waiting for Tom to give her a wink, a smile, some kind of sign. But he kept talking to the others as if she were not present. She knew little about the latest war on the Continent so she kept silent. As she listened with diminishing interest, she was suddenly conscious of being an outsider. Observing the women’s gowns, she was aware of her own, made at Belford before leaving for court, and that it was at least a season out of style.

  It was time for dinner. The group moved out of the gallery and toward the dining hall. Surely Tom would give her his arm, but instead he escorted Anne Herbert, Will’s wife. Puzzled, Morgan let Will lead her to a place at the table.

  During the meal she sat between Will and Surrey. Directly opposite her was Lady Latimer, also attired in black mourning.

  “Cat!” she exclaimed as they sat down. “It’s been years!” They leaned across the table and exchanged a kiss on the cheek. “You’re in mourning—I’ve not heard ….”

  “My husband,” she answered. “He was ill for such a long time, like your own, you know. I have already heard about your loss. I’m sorry.”

  The two women exchanged condolences. Cat asked if Morgan had met her sister, Anne Herbert, and Morgan said they had just been introduced in the gallery. Cat was most interested in Morgan’s children, plying her with questions and insisting that she would come to visit them soon. They chatted throughout the meal, with Morgan grateful for the diversion. She kept telling herself, however, that as soon as dinner was over, Tom would seek her out, perhaps ask her to accompany him for a walk in the gardens now that the mist had evaporated.

  But he did not. He rose with only a general word of farewell for the company and left the hall alone. Morgan watched him walk away, then leaned toward Ned, who was sitting next to Lady Latimer.

  “Pray could I have a word with you when you are finished, good Ned?” she asked.

  He hesitated but finally answered, “Yes, my lady, of course. I am finished now.”

  They withdrew to an antechamber off the dining hall. Morgan came straight to the point. “Your brother—is he afraid to approach me in public?”

  Ned paced the floor with quick steps before answering. He sighed. “How shall I phrase it?” For a man who was considered articulate in political affairs, Ned seemed tongue-tied with more personal matters. “Tom loved you very much,” he allowed, ignoring her stunned reaction to his use of the past tense. “He stayed away a long time, waiting for your freedom. But last fall, when he returned to court briefly, he met someone else. Her gentle demeanor captivated him, and her ….” Ned’s usual composure failed him as he nervously fingered the glittering symbol of the Garter which he wore against his dark doublet. “He fell in love with her, Morgan, and in so doing, fell out of love with you.”

  The words had the stunning effect of a physical blow. Morgan actually felt herself reel. She leaned against a little table, mouth open and eyes wide. “I don’t believe it!” she gasped. “He said he would wait ….”

  “He did. I told you that,” Ned asserted, now meeting her shocked gaze head on. “I know he did. But you cannot expect a man like Tom to wait forever, not when he had already waited so long for real love.” He saw the depths of her distress and put his hands on her shoulders. “He did love you, I swear it, but he knew that James could live for five, ten years, maybe more, and that you had sworn to be faithful to him. Tom is human, Morgan, more so than most men. You asked too much of him, I fear.”

  Morgan looked up at him blankly. “Who is she?” Her voice was hoarse and shaky.

  Ned put his arms down straight at his sides. “I cannot tell you.”

  “You must!” she cried. “You must tell me who she is! The conniving slut! Scheming harlot ….”

  He raised a hand as if to silence her by force, but she held her tongue of her own accord.

  “Very well, I will tell you, lest you misunderstand his feelings. She is no slut, I assure you. But you must swear on your mother’s soul never to repeat what I confide in you, not just for Tom’s sake and hers, but for yourself. The knowledge is dangerous.”

  Morgan stared at him. She couldn’t understand what he was getting at. “I swear. Who is it then?”

  “The Lady Latimer,” he replied.

  Morgan’s hand flew to her face. “Cat! But that’s incredible!” Cat, kind and sweet, small and square, nowhere near Morgan’s peer in looks or wit! Morgan started to laugh hysterically.

  Ned took another step forward. “None of that! I warn you!” He was menacing. Again, Morgan controlled herself.

  “But what is the danger? She is a widow now, too.” She simply couldn’t fathom all this.

  “Exactly,” Ned said evenly. “And she is soon to end that lonely state by becoming the King’s next wife.”

  Morgan spent the rest of the day in her rooms and most of that time in bed. She couldn’t confide in anyone, though she wished Nan were with her. She pushed away a half-finished bowl of soup. Polly fussed at her, convinced that her mistress’s malaise was caused by working too hard for so long and that the trip to London had been too much.

  “If you kept in bed for a week, you wouldn’t harm yourself any, my lady,” Polly asserted.

  Morgan paid no attention. She wanted to be alone to cry, to weep far into the night, to pour out her grief for her lost love. At first she had blamed him, but Ned’s words came back to her and she wondered if it really had been Tom’s fault. Perhaps Ned was right. Had she asked too much of him? Maybe neither Tom nor any other man could have been expected to give what she demanded.

  I have lived on the promise of a dream for so long, she thought, mayhap the reality would not have been so sweet. It matters little for I will never find out. And he will never know about the babe we almost had, for now I cannot tell him.

  She avoided Tom in the following days at Whitehall.

  When they did see one another their words were cordial, but they never seemed to look directly at each other. He knows that I know—Ned must have told him, she thought. But if he wanted to explain or make amends, she never gave him a chance. That would be borrowing pain, and she had had enough already.

  Instead, she began to fling herself into court life, mourning gown or not. She was determined to become part of it again, to be in the center rather than on the periphery. She had new clothes made, the most splendid black gowns she and the dressmakers could dream up. She got out all the jewels and furs she already owned—a substantial amount, in spite of James’s thrift—and pondered how to use them to best advantage. She studied new books and verses and songs with great care. She picked up every snatch of gossip she heard to tuck away for future conversational use. She sang and danced and laughed and talked with the other courtiers far into the night. And often, she would fall into bed exhausted, too exhausted to allow time for the tears which were always so close to the surface.

  I have been through a lot, she lectured herself. I can survive this, too. I will not eke out my days living on faded hope. I will start again, somehow, somewhere.

  But it was not easy. Part of the problem was with Morgan herself, part with the court. Life within the royal palace was not as gay and vibrant as it had been ten years ago. Henry was older and had sustained the shock of being married to at least one unfaithful wife. Though many of his courtiers had individual wit and daring, they were not given the opportunity to shine in the King’s circle as their predecessors had.

  I don’t truly feel part of this, Morgan thought one day as she sat with William Paget and John Dudley watching an archery competition in the palace gardens. After a few weeks she felt as if the only reward she had received from her efforts to join in with life at court had been the deadening of her inner senses.


  “Surrey’s form is excellent as always,” Paget commented, nodding in the direction of the contestants.

  “Indeed,” answered Dudley, “but Will Herbert has greater accuracy.” He turned to Morgan. “Wouldn’t you agree, madam?”

  “What? Oh, yes, Will always hits near the mark.” I don’t much care if Will hits Archbishop Cranmer in the backside, Morgan told herself, and wondered how she could politely take leave of Dudley and Paget.

  “A shame Thomas Wyatt’s son isn’t taking part today,” Paget was saying. “Have you ever noticed his wrist motion? He doesn’t just shoot the arrow, he springs it free. Last fall at Hampton Court ….”

  Morgan was gratefully distracted by a small terrier nuzzling at her ankles. She reached down to scratch behind his ears as he panted with pleasure. When she looked up again, Richard Griffin was coming toward her, waving his hand.

  “A poor cur gets more attention from you than some humans,” he said, squeezing in on the bench between her and Dudley. “If I came crawling on hands and knees, with pitiful eye and wagging tail, would you be so kind to me?”

  “I’d have to see that happen first—particularly the wagging tail,” Morgan replied, unable to keep from smiling and thankful for Richard’s intrusion. Rogue he might be, but boring he was not. She settled back and listened as he drew Paget and Dudley into somewhat reluctant conversation.

  In June the royal entourage packed up and moved to Hampton Court for the summer. On the second day in residence, Cat Parr, the Lady Latimer, came to see Morgan and the children.

  “I was going to come sooner, but I have been so busy!” she exclaimed, rolling her golden eyes.

  Morgan surveyed the sturdy, compact little figure. She had charm and goodness, there was no question of that. She was even pretty in a solid, English manner. But Morgan could not accept the attraction Cat held for Tom Seymour. And strangely, she could not feel resentment toward Cat, not even jealousy. For Cat herself was not going to wed Tom, but the King, and everyone knew that now.

  “Will it be a great state wedding?” Morgan inquired as Cat put an agreeable Anne on her lap.

  “No, no,” Cat replied quickly. “His Grace and I—we have both been wed too often for that. I thought we should be married here, in my chamber, as simply as possible.”

  Morgan wondered how Cat felt about marrying the King when her heart was with Tom. But if she dared not ask, neither could she resist a bit of probing: “How does it feel to become Queen of England, Cat?”

  Cat chucked Anne under the chin and smiled wryly at Morgan. “I don’t know yet. Though I suspect your query is really, ‘How does it feel to marry a man who has had five wives?’” Morgan flushed slightly at Cat’s shrewdness, but the other woman didn’t seem to notice. “It’s different now, with Henry older and … and more settled. It’s a little like marrying Moses.”

  Morgan laughed at Cat’s candor. Maybe it is this honesty, this forthrightness, which had delighted Tom so much. But the thought of Cat lying in Tom’s arms, moaning under his kisses, stifled her laughter. How much does she know about me? Morgan asked herself. One thing was certain—Tom wouldn’t tell her. Tom wasn’t like that.

  “Best of all, though,” Cat said, “I will be able to have Henry’s children at court with me—little Edward, Mary, even Elizabeth. They need a mother so desperately.” She looked down at Anne’s small head. “Almost as much as I need children.”

  Cat’s eyes traveled to Edmund and Robbie, squabbling over their toys in a corner of the nursery. “Mayhap you’ll have some of your own now,” said Morgan encouragingly, though she doubted Henry’s ability to produce further offspring.

  “Mayhap,” said Cat, but there was little optimism in her voice.

  She envies me, Morgan realized, because I have had babes. If she knew I almost had Tom’s! She thrust the thought aside and the two women began to talk of Cat’s trousseau.

  King Henry and Catherine Parr were wed on July twelfth, 1543. It was a brief ceremony, as Cat had planned. There was a wedding feast afterward in the Great Hall, and no bridegroom seemed happier than Henry the Eighth. The whole court turned out, but with one exception, Morgan noted: Tom Seymour was not among them. He had left a few days earlier for France before going on to the Low Countries.

  “She is making him happy,” Richard Griffin said, referring to Cat and the King, who led the hunting party through the park at Windsor. “She is one of those rare women who truly know how to please a man.”

  Intended or not, Morgan felt a sting of reproach. “With two previous husbands, she’s had considerable practice,” Morgan snapped, and wished she hadn’t.

  They were riding a little way apart from the others. Richard pulled up on the reins and laughed aloud. “Don’t tell me you were planning on a crown for that wild head of yours!”

  Morgan’s first impulse was to roar angrily at him, but instead she scoffed. “You are most exasperating.”

  He reined his horse closer to hers. “I tease too much,” he said seriously. “Perhaps I only meant that the King and his new Queen set a good example for their subjects. An example which you and I could follow, Morgan.”

  Uncomprehending, she looked up at him. There was no mockery or humor in his eyes now. “What do you mean, Richard?”

  “Well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “if I can’t get you in bed illicitly, I’ll have to try a more honorable approach. I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “Oh!” Morgan let the reins slip from her fingers but quickly retrieved them. She looked at him closely; he had seldom seemed so sincere. “It’s so soon,” she ventured.

  “Soon?” Richard made a deprecating gesture with his hand. “Margaret has been dead for a year and a half and James might as well have been dead for the last three. Why, Cat Parr was only a widow for five months before wedding with the King. The question is, do you want to marry me?”

  I don’t know the answer, thought Morgan. Hastily, she considered the alternatives, knowing them by rote after months of conjecture. There was the prospect of perennial widowhood, which appealed very little to her warm blood; there were other eligible men at court, but they were dissipated, dull, or in the market for a fresh young bride; and then there was the faint hope that with Cat Parr married to the King, Tom might one day turn back to Morgan. He had already demonstrated that he wasn’t one to play a waiting game. But that was the sort of dream she had foresworn—nor could she really believe in it. If nothing else, her pride would not permit her to consider it any longer. And had she not always found Richard amusing if irritating company? Hadn’t his touch fired her blood as Tom’s had done? Reluctance was pushed aside as she felt her hands go slack on the reins. “Very well, Richard,” she said in a low, even voice, “I will marry you.”

  “I believe I am as happy as I had hoped,” Morgan wrote to Nan, wondering if her words lacked conviction. She brushed the end of the quill against her cheek, pondering the misgivings she could not suppress. What kind of father would Richard make for her three children? Would he remain as courtly and ardent once they were wed or would he tire of her quickly? Would Richard become entangled in political ploys against the Seymours and their supporters? Why did she often feel a stab of regret for her hasty decision?

  She put the quill down and nibbled her forefinger. It was useless to worry over such things, save perhaps about Richard’s attitude toward the children. So, she demanded of herself, why this feeling of reluctance? She should be delighted that this time she could choose her own husband instead of submitting to her uncle and her parents as she had done before. Was it Tom’s image that stifled her enthusiasm? No, it must not be—much better to bury his memory with Sean’s. And if it were not Tom who bothered her so, then what was it? Only her fantasies, she assured herself, and she picked up her quill again.

  “Yes,” she wrote very swiftly, “I am very happy indeed and know that Richard and I will find great joy together.”

  Morgan and Richard were wed New Year’s Day at Greenwich in
a ceremony conducted by Bishop Gardiner, who had performed the ceremony for the King and Cat Parr. Gardiner was more conservative than his arch-enemy, Cranmer, and Morgan preferred that he officiate. Richard readily agreed, for the Howard influence was still upon him.

  At last, after ten long years, Morgan finally lay in Richard’s arms, experiencing the delights of his long-practiced lovemaking. How different from James, she thought, even different from Tom, and certainly not like Francis. Richard was artful and almost poetic. She chided herself for making intimate comparisons, and with deliberation she swept her mind clean of any thoughts at all and succumbed blissfully to Richard’s ardor. It was a new year and a whole new life for Morgan Todd Sinclair, of late the Countess of Belford, and now Lady Griffin.

  Chapter 22

  Like vessels of Burgundy wine, the rubies shimmered in the candlelight as Morgan excitedly fastened the necklace clasp. “They’re too lovely,” she cried, beaming at her reflection in the mirror. She whirled around to where Richard was standing and hugged him close, half laughing and half crying with pleasure. “Thank you, oh, thank you, dear heart!”

  He laughed, too, satisfied that his birthday gift had been an immense success. “Rubies are your perfect jewel,” he said. “Pearls are too tame, emeralds too dark, diamonds too colorless. Only rubies glow with a life and fire to match your spirit.”

  Morgan looked up at him with an arch smile. “You speak as smoothly as ever, even after two months of marriage, good husband,” she said. “On whom else have you practiced that speech?”

  He kissed her nose. “No one. I swear it. How could I? I’ve never been able to afford rubies before. Margaret kept me on an allowance.”