Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  Bursting into laughter, Morgan broke away from him. “You are impossible! You could bend Margaret any way you wanted.” She went to the mirror again, tilting her head to this side and that, feeling the coolness of the jewels against her skin.

  “But not her uncle, Norfolk,” Richard said lightly. “I fear he’s always mistrusted me—at least he did where the Howard money was concerned.” He came up behind Morgan and put his arms around her, cupping her breasts in his hands. “But let’s not talk about Howards and money and other mundane matters.” He slipped one of his hands inside her dress as his lips pressed the back of her neck. “In fact, let’s not talk at all.”

  She leaned against him, sighing contentedly. “Oh, must I take off the necklace already?”

  “No, no,” he whispered, his hands already at work on the fastenings of her gown, “just everything else. You may keep the necklace on.”

  Richard laid her on the bed, smiling in appreciation at the white, voluptuous body. The rubies took on a life of their own in the reflected candlelight. He leaned down to kiss her eyelids, tracing the outline of her jaw from ear to chin.

  “You are more fair than when you were a young girl,” he said, and plaited the long, tawny hair between his fingers. “Fine jewels become you, so do your elegant gowns—but your adornments are not what make you so desirable.”

  “Then you could have saved the money you spent on the necklace,” Morgan replied, kneading his shoulders with her hands.

  “Nay, I like to show you off in splendor. I want it said that my wife is the most dazzling woman at court.” He unclasped the necklace to lay it across her breasts, the two largest rubies each lying on her nipples. “You see? The gems are beautiful, but what lies beneath them is beyond price.”

  The gold setting of the stones was cold on her flesh and Morgan shivered. “I have no wish to compete for attention with the other ladies,” she declared. “Why does it matter, as long as everyone knows I belong to you?”

  He moved the necklace down between her thighs and brushed the tawny hair over the rubies and gold. A look of supreme elation crossed his face before he answered. “It matters. Such things do, for me.”

  Morgan frowned, but her expression changed swiftly as Richard took one of the rubies and rubbed it against the soft, intimate flesh of her womanhood. She began to writhe with pleasure as his other hand fondled her buttocks. After a few moments, he held the moistened necklace up to her face. “You see—you have baptized it with your own desire.”

  Morgan smiled at him, but inwardly she marveled at the paradox of passion and possession which was so much a part of her husband. Still, her senses were too stirred for coherent thought and the hands that now parted her legs left her bereft of any emotion except the need for consummation. Morgan and Richard moved together in a steadily increasing rhythm of intensity until they both lay gasping and replete—and unaware that the ruby necklace had fallen onto the floor beside the bed.

  Henry was going to war again. He had new armor made, built with ample space for his enormous stomach. The battle attire was so huge that two average-sized men could have worn it. Yet neither his girth nor his age would keep Henry from the field in France.

  He would sail for Calais with thirty thousand troops, leaving Catherine Parr behind as regent, as he had left another Queen Catherine over thirty years before during a different war across the Channel. Henry was also leaving behind a burned and ravaged Edinburgh, for the Scots had had to be taught another lesson and Ned Seymour had been designated as their tutor.

  With Henry would go Richard, and Morgan wept over the parting. She plied him with words of caution and pleas to take care. He laughed and kissed her lips, her throat, her forehead. It was his first real war and he was eager for battle.

  “An earldom is all I want out of this,” he told her on the July morning of his departure. “Would you not like to be a countess again?”

  She took one of his hands in both of hers and squeezed it hard. “No, no, I don’t care about that. Nor do I like to see you so concerned about it, either.”

  But Morgan knew that he would not rest until he achieved an earl’s coronet. She only hoped that he would not gamble too hazardously or risk his life too recklessly in the attempt. They had been so happy together in their first half year of marriage that Morgan could not bear to think of anything happening to her husband.

  The English already had a foothold on the Continent—Calais. But Henry wanted another, a possession that would be as much of a blow to French pride as to French strategy. He was after Boulogne, and only its capture would satisfy him.

  With so many noblemen at war, it was a quiet summer at court. In August, Morgan packed up the children and servants to head for Wolf Hall. She had not seen Nan and her family—now increased by the birth of twin boys the previous year—since the wedding. Nan had stood up for her cousin, happy and relieved that Morgan at last seemed settled.

  Morgan stayed the month, enjoying the long visits with Nan but anxious to get back to London where she had more immediate news of the war’s progress. She had received only one letter so far from Richard. He had said that little had been accomplished. The English were having difficulties getting supplies, and the midsummer rains were drenching the armies.

  “My earldom is obscured by all this water,” he wrote. “At the moment I would give up war making for lovemaking with you, sweet wife.”

  Morgan had kept the letter, bringing it with her to Wolf Hall, where she would reread it every night before she went to bed. She wished he would write more often, but he had warned her that he was a poor correspondent, and the lack of letters proved it.

  It was early September; Morgan gave orders to organize their belongings for the return to London. Nan begged her to stay on until Richard returned from France. “You might at least consider visiting your former brother-in-law before you return to court.”

  Morgan looked at Nan in surprise. “Go to Carlisle? Why, what on earth would I do that for?”

  It was Nan’s turn to look puzzled. “Carlisle? But Francis is not there now. He is in Woodstock. I thought you knew. The King wished to reward Francis, not only for his religious treatise, but for his valor in the raid on Teviotdale. He gave him additional land for his manor at Woodstock and Francis decided to move there so he could be close to the books at Oxford.”

  “Well.” Morgan sat down abruptly on a big trunk, which Polly had been packing. She shrugged. “Carlisle, Woodstock, it makes no difference. I have no plans to visit Francis. I’m sure he has left Belford in good hands with Matthew.”

  Nan eyed her cousin curiously but decided to drop the subject. “Come,” she said, “I will help you get your gowns ready.”

  Morgan did decide to make a visit on her way back to London, but it was not to Woodstock that she ordered her party but to Faux Hall. After so many years, she had finally gathered the courage to face her old home without the presence of her parents. Nan had assured her it was in good repair and that she and Harry made a trip there at least every three months. Morgan thanked them both, confiding that she wanted Faux Hall not for herself but for Edmund. Robbie, as her firstborn, would inherit Belford, but she would keep her old family home for her younger boy.

  It was twilight as Morgan, the children and servants reined up at the gravel drive to Faux Hall. Morgan stared straight ahead at the house, unchanged by the years that had altered her own life so much. Solid but graceful among the trees, with the broad sweep of lawn flanking the front, the house was comfortingly the same.

  Yet inside she knew it would be vastly different. Even now, only three windows were lighted by candles. There would be no fire roaring on the dining room hearth, no roving musicians in the gallery, no big meals being prepared in the kitchen. Most of all, there would not be the quick tread of her mother’s footsteps or the sound of her father’s deep drawling voice.

  “Your house, Mama,” said Anne, riding pillion behind one of the servants. “You lived there when you were little lik
e me?”

  Morgan nodded slowly. “Yes. I was little like you then.” She urged her horse forward.

  They were met at the door by Clemence, the elderly serving woman who had come from France with Grandmother Isabeau. She was so bent and lined that Morgan hardly recognized her. But Clemence knew Morgan immediately.

  “My lady! You’ve come back!” She held out her old arms stiffly and Morgan hugged her. “You should have warned us—we’ve nothing ready for you! Are you here to stay?” Morgan smiled but shook her head. “No, Clemence, only to spend the night. I had to see Faux Hall again. I’ve waited too long as it is.”

  “So you have,” said Clemence with some reproach. “Oh, I wish I had known that you were coming.”

  The other servants had gathered in the hall. Morgan recognized only two of them—Clemence’s Welsh husband, Arthur, and the stableboy, Hal. His twin, Davy, had moved with Bess to Aylesbury some years ago. Hal had never married and had remained at Faux Hall where the stables were his domain.

  “We only have three horses,” Clemence explained. She went on to tell how several of the servants had succumbed to the same epidemic that had taken Morgan’s parents. Others had died since or had left the service of Faux Hall and Nan had hired new people, just enough to maintain the house and grounds. Morgan already knew much of this but she listened patiently.

  “We’ve closed up so many rooms—put away much of the furniture, all of your father’s books and charts, the table services. I’m afraid it will not look the same to you now,” Clemence said with a sad little smile.

  Morgan patted Clemence’s gnarled hand. “I expected that,” she replied. “I’ll do my exploring in the morning when the sun is shining. It will be easier then.”

  Clemence nodded. “So it will.” Then she brightened, her watery blue eyes vivid. “Your room is untouched, though. I always thought you might come back. I’ll have one of the women prepare it.”

  “Oh, fine,” Morgan said. “We’ll put the children next door, in Nan’s old room. I assume that’s in order?”

  Clemence said it was, since Nan and Harry spent the night there when they came to Faux Hall. Morgan stood up, having finished the hasty meal the kitchen help had prepared. “I’ll retire since we’re all in need of a good night’s sleep. We’ll ride back to London tomorrow.”

  For the first time, Morgan noticed the troubled look creep into Clemence’s face. They were alone now, Agnes having taken the children off to bed. “Is something wrong?” Morgan asked.

  With great effort, Clemence pulled herself up from the chair. She rubbed her wrinkled cheek with her hand and gave Morgan a quick, almost furtive look.

  “Well?” asked Morgan.

  Clemence was unused to Morgan’s being in a position of authority. The sharpened tone of Morgan’s voice startled the old woman. She lowered her eyes and folded her hands across her big, drooping bosom. “You know I am not a fanciful person, my lady,” she began in a voice that was nearly a mumble.

  “What?” Morgan frowned, wondering if Clemence’s mind was wandering with age. But Clemence looked up, her usual alert self again. “I’m not fanciful, my lady, for all my years,” she said in a firmer tone. “But there’s something you should know, though you may laugh when I tell you.” Morgan was still frowning, but more from curiosity than concern. Clemence continued: “There are ghosts in this house.”

  “Ghosts?” Now Morgan was certain that Clemence had given in to senility. “Nonsense, Clemence!”

  Clemence nodded. “I said you wouldn’t believe me. But I myself have heard the noises. And so have the others. Ask Hal.”

  Morgan considered that Hal might be humoring the old woman. “What about Arthur?” she demanded.

  Clemence looked sheepish. “He says he’s never heard the noises. But I don’t believe him. Besides, he grows deaf.”

  Morgan tapped her fingernails on the table. She didn’t want to hurt Clemence’s feelings. She smiled gently. “Well, there certainly may be something making noises around here—the wind, or the trees, or something—but it’s not ghosts, I assure you.” She stood up again and took Clemence’s arm. “If I hear anything tonight, I’ll let you know.” Morgan gave Clemence another hug. “You sleep well and let me worry about the ghosts.”

  Clemence started to protest, to try to convince Morgan again, but then merely sighed, smiled feebly, and handed Morgan a taper to light her way to bed.

  Morgan undressed slowly by the window, watching the trees sway in the soft breeze, smelling the crisp night air of early autumn, and catching a glimpse of the river in the distance. She looked around the room—it was the same, or nearly so. She smiled to herself as bittersweet memories began to come back: her father, reading the works of Chaucer and Malory aloud after dinner; her mother, overseeing the basting of a dozen ducklings for a holiday dinner; Nan, taking her first precarious steps across the dining room floor; Aunt Margaret, missing stitches in her usually sure-handed needlework as she railed about Martin Luther’s latest heresies; and Grandmother Isabeau, so worldly wise, so perceptive, and always in such subtle control of the entire family.

  I will not cry, she promised herself. I will go to bed and pray for Richard’s safety. Then I will go to sleep. To her surprise, she did just that. But later, from somewhere, something awakened her. At first it was a muffled, thudding sound, which only partially penetrated her sleep. Then, there were louder but more infrequent noises. Fully awake, she sat up, her senses alert. The sounds stopped altogether. Morgan continued to listen, and just as she decided it had been either the wind or her imagination, she heard another thump. The noise was coming from the floor above her, the top floor of Faux Hall. Nothing was up there now but the storeroom, Clemence had said.

  But there was something up there now, Morgan was sure of that. Another thump, not so loud this time. Morgan sat on the edge of the bed, curiosity mingled with fear. Ghosts? Certainly there was no such thing! Yet there was little wind; mice or even rats wouldn’t be so loud; and a stray dog would bark, a cat would cry.

  She would have to get some of the servants to go with her, no matter how frightened they purported to be. She would not wake Polly or Agnes, though—rousing them would mean alarming the children. Just as Morgan got out of bed and reached for her dressing gown, she heard another sound, this time a scraping noise, like a chair being pulled across the floor.

  Morgan hurried out of the room, along the hall, and down the stairs, cautious about making any noise herself. She stopped at the first door of the servants’ quarters, wondering who would answer her knock. It was Hal, sleepy-eyed and puzzled at the sight of the Lady Morgan in her dressing gown.

  “My lady?” He looked as if he thought he were having some sort of strange dream.

  “There’s a noise up on the third floor,” Morgan said, keeping her voice brusque and unafraid. “You must come with me to see what it is so we can get this ghost matter straightened out once and for all. Who shares this room with you?”

  “Only Donald,” Hal replied, referring to the kitchen boy.

  “Well, then, wake Donald and tell him to come along.”

  Hal hesitated, then went back inside the room. Morgan heard him shaking Donald and calling his name. Presently, both young men came to the door.

  “Come with me,” Morgan commanded, starting toward the stairs. “It may be foolish but we’d best arm ourselves.”

  She mounted the stairs noiselessly as Hal and Donald followed. Even in the darkness she had no trouble finding her father’s armory. The key dangled on a chain. She inserted it in the lock, turned it, and pulled the door open. There was a slight squeak as the rusty hinges moved. She peered into the cabinet; she already knew what she wanted. Her hand moved over the assortment of weapons until she felt the cold carved hilt of her father’s Italian dagger. Then she grasped two pikestaffs and handed them to Hal and Donald. She said nothing but could hear the sharp intake of breath as each of the young men took hold of his weapon.

  The stairs made no ans
wering sound as her slippers and the men’s bare feet ascended them. At the top, they heard a crackling noise, then a rustling sound. They slipped along the narrow passageway, pausing outside the first door on the right. There was no sound there, no sound anywhere now. Cautiously, Morgan tried the handle, but it was locked. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips and clutched at the dagger. The spiraled steel hilt dug into her palm. Hal and Donald shuffled nervously behind her. The handle of the second door opened easily. The room was dark as Morgan stepped inside. She gasped as she saw weird shapes and forms cluttering the room.

  “Jesus!” whispered Hal.

  But as Morgan’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she began to make out the silhouettes: It was the unused family furniture, covered with protective cloths.

  Sighing with relief, Morgan started for the door. She was motioning for Hal and Donald to come along when there was another sound, this time more thumping, almost like footsteps. Morgan leaned against the door, torn between going out into the hall to face whatever was there, or staying in the room where they might be trapped. Slowly, she lifted the latch and eased the door open. There was nothing in the passageway. She stepped out of the room and continued on, less assured and more nervous. Behind her, Hal and Donald seemed to be barely moving. She waved her arm, urging them to keep going.

  She was at the third door, and it yielded as easily as the second. Again she moved inside, this time leaving the door open to provide a little moonlight from the windows flanking the balcony. At first glance she saw the history books and naval charts, the prized possessions of her father. Then she turned and saw the huge form lurking over her.

  “Hal!” she screamed. “Help!” But Hal and Donald screamed, too, and fled terror-stricken down the hall.

  Morgan screamed again as a sense of helplessness overcame her. She plunged frantically with the dagger into the swaying, menacing shape, down into the great threatening form. The dagger stabbed freely through some sort of substance and then nothing. The form still loomed and Morgan screamed again, lashing out impotently with her weapon.