by Mary Daheim
Morgan sat back on the window seat, her terror mounting. If the King went so far as to arrest his old comrade-in-arms, Norfolk, then no one was safe.
Morgan rubbed fretfully at her forehead. “Jesu, where will all this madness end?” She saw Nan and Harry exchange conspiratorial glances and was puzzled. Then Nan nodded almost imperceptibly and Harry stood up, touching Morgan’s sable oversleeve.
“I think we ought to tell Richard,” Harry said mildly. “Isn’t he quite the one for the latest news of the court?”
Morgan was still perplexed, but she stood up, too. “Of course, though I’m not sure where he is.” Pray God not with any of the Howards, she thought, and let Harry lead her from the gallery after he’d insisted that Nan needn’t trouble herself to come along, and that she and Kate Willoughby should take their ease and mull over this most recent shocking occurrence.
But Harry did not head for Morgan’s quarters. Instead, he guided Morgan into an empty antechamber just off the gallery. Once the door was closed, he turned to her and made a wry face. “You know how little I like politics,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But they can’t be avoided when you come to court.” He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’d—we—hoped you wouldn’t have to find out, but now that Surrey has been arrested, Nan and I can’t remain silent.”
“What is it?” Morgan demanded in a voice Sharpened by fear.
Harry had the same candor as Tom. His words came out in a blunt, factual manner: “Richard is deeply implicated in this plot with Surrey and Norfolk. You realize that I, as a Seymour, as well as Tom and Ned, would be the last to find out exactly what they have in mind. But your husband and the others have been conspiring to make Mary Howard the King’s mistress. They also want to use her to unite our families through a marriage with Tom.”
Morgan felt dizzy. She moved slowly to a leather-covered bench and sat down. “Putting Mary into the King’s bed smacks of … treason,” she said at last, and the final word came out in a whisper.
Harry sighed and nodded solemnly. “That and other things, since Mary is the King’s bastard son’s widow. As for marrying Tom, that idea was put forth years ago and nothing came of it. Nor would Tom consider such an alliance at all.”
Thank God for that, Morgan thought fleetingly, and cursed the Howards and their women, who constantly seemed to be aspiring to the royal bedchamber, with or without benefit of holy matrimony.
Morgan forced herself to stand up. She looked at Harry and took a deep breath. “I must find Richard. They’ll arrest him, I’m sure of it.” She started toward the door, but turned back to brush Harry’s cheek with her lips. “God bless you for telling me. There are some families who would never break silence when their own interests were involved. I’m so grateful the Seymours aren’t like that.”
The wry expression was on his face once more. “I’d be proud to think you are right, Morgan. But we Seymours are not all alike.” He saw her staring at him and gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “Go to your Richard. And never reveal where you learned of these dangerous designs.”
There had been no bravado, no mockery, no argument when Morgan told Richard about Surrey. Within the hour he was packed, saddled up, and ready to ride to Belford. “You must go north,” Morgan had asserted. “We can say an emergency summoned you to take care of my property.” Sighing with relief, Morgan watched him from the bedchamber window as he rode out of Whitehall and into the streets of London. Then she thanked God that the warning from Harry Seymour had been in time.
Norfolk was arrested later that same day. The charges not only involved trying to put Mary Howard in the King’s bed, but the Howards’ presumptuous use of the arms of England on their family shield. Such royal pretensions, Henry felt, must be snuffed out at once, regardless of his longtime friendship with Norfolk or the services rendered by Surrey.
Nan brought the news to Morgan late that evening. “Do you think the King will put them to death?” Morgan asked.
Nan didn’t know. Nor did she inquire after Richard’s whereabouts. “You still look tired,” she told Morgan. “You had best get a good night’s sleep.”
Morgan agreed and Nan left her, heading for her temporary quarters at the other end of the palace. Morgan checked first on the children, who were sleeping quietly in the nursery with a snoring Agnes, then returned to the bedchamber and fell into a restless slumber.
The room was still dark when Morgan was awakened by a rap on the outer door. She sat up with a start, at first not recalling the events of the previous day. She looked down at Richard’s side of the bed and its emptiness stirred her memory. The knocking sounded again and she leaped out of bed, picked up her night-robe, and went to the door.
“Who is it?” she asked breathlessly.
“It is I, Ned,” the deep voice responded.
Tremulously, Morgan unlatched the door. Ned stood before her, a velvet cap with an osprey feather held in his hands and two King’s Men behind him.
“Where is Richard?” he inquired, the dark brows closing together.
Morgan looked past Ned to the King’s Men. They were armed. One held a torch, which cast a glittering orange light into the room. Blinking in the unaccustomed brightness, Morgan summoned up her shaky playacting skills.
“He is not here, my lord. He left for Belford yesterday.”
Ned scowled. Morgan could feel his shrewd eyes piercing through her defenses. He motioned for the men to stay in the corridor as he stepped inside the room and closed the door.
“Why did he leave?” he queried, wishing that Tom had been sent instead. Tom knew Morgan so well, he could read her thoughts.
Morgan busied herself with a taper, glad for an excuse not to meet Ned’s penetrating gaze. “Some problems arose there with my properties and we thought it best not to bother Francis,” Morgan answered casually. She set the taper down on a table and turned back to Ned, her courage somewhat fortified. “What’s going on, Ned?”
Ned sat down wearily in an armchair and Morgan seated herself opposite him. “I’m not sure how much you know,” he said candidly, “or even how much Richard knows. But I am well aware that I can’t send men after him in the snow.”
Morgan opened her mouth in feigned amazement. She kept her hands tucked into her robe, lest he see how they shook. “Were you going to arrest him?”
“Aye.” Ned nodded, his hand rubbing his dark, forked beard. “Mayhap it is just as well that he is not here. We have those we want most.”
“We?” asked Morgan, with a tinge of sarcasm.
Ned was momentarily flustered. “I refer to the King and his loyal supporters. I hope your husband has not done something foolish.” He stood up but made no move to leave. “Hear me, Morgan. Richard may be spared this time, but tell him—and this might as well come from the King’s lips as mine—that if he ever intrigues or meddles again to the detriment of the royal person, his next journey will be not to Belford but to the block.”
Unsure of how far she could commit herself, Morgan answered simply, “I will tell him, Ned. You have my word.”
A glimmer of a smile touched Ned’s mouth. “Very well.” He bowed. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep, Morgan.”
Morgan waited a full week before writing to Richard at Belford. She phrased her letter in careful, innocuous wording, lest it be intercepted between London and Northumberland. She would leave the decision about Richard’s return up to him.
The Christmas holidays seemed markedly cheerless. But Morgan put on a gay front for the children and celebrated with Nan and Harry and their brood. On Twelfth Night a great ball was held at Whitehall. Henry watched from the dais, seldom smiling, his gross body looking like a pitiful, dilapidated ruin. As Morgan changed partners, she gave him a compassionate look, then turned away quickly before he could notice her expression. She reached out for the hand of her new partner. It was Tom Seymour. Morgan was startled into a misstep. Except for his brief greeting upon her ret
urn to court, it was the first time they had touched since their parting at Belford. Somehow, by chance or by design, they had never even danced together.
He had seen her approaching and was prepared. “You are as fair as ever,” he said lightly, “if somewhat preoccupied.”
“I was thinking of the King,” she answered, forcing her voice to keep steady.
“You don’t have to play the nervous maid with me, Morgan,” he said in a low voice. “We have talked—and touched—before this.”
“I know.” She also knew their encounter would be brief; there was something she was compelled to say. “Thank you, Tom—for seeing that Richard was spared.”
He tried to look surprised, but it was unconvincing. “I know you must have talked to Ned before he came that night,” she went on, “and I wanted to express my gratitude.”
They made their final turn together. “I have never been a man to wallow in regret, but I remember what we had together. Fate may have treated us unkindly, but by God’s blood, I hope we will never treat each other so.” And though he smiled, there was a strange, far-off light in his blue eyes. Tom released her hand as she stepped forward to take up the dance with Will Herbert.
The next day Surrey and Norfolk were both indicted for treason. A few days later at Guildhall, Surrey was tried and convicted. He was sentenced to be beheaded on Tower Hill. His father’s trial dragged on.
At noon on January twenty-seventh, Richard rode into Whitehall. It was a cold, bleak winter day with the wind whipping up from the Thames. But if it was dreary outside, it was gloomier yet within the palace. By now, everyone from the Queen to the lowliest groom knew that the King was dying.
After a somewhat perfunctory embrace, Morgan told Richard about their sovereign’s condition. “He is deathly ill, though it is said he will not admit it.”
Richard sat down beside the fire to pull off his boots. He had ridden all the way down from Sheffield that morning and was very weary. He stared at the darting flames for a long while before he spoke: “I should be relieved, mayhap, but I am not,” he said somberly. “For all his faults, Henry was a good ruler. If—when—he dies, I fear for England, for I know who will grab first for power. Edward is so young. A protector must govern in his stead.”
Morgan knew, too; indeed, everyone knew how Ned and Tom Seymour, and Dudley as well, could hardly wait to take the reins out of Henry’s dying hands. She took the opportunity to give Richard the warning that Ned had ordered her to deliver. He listened quietly, but only shrugged when she was done.
“We will see what happens now, how long England will be happy with Seymours and Dudleys in the saddle.” He stood up and came to her side, his arm slipping around her waist, his fingers caressing her breast. “We’ll worry no more about politics,” he said with a change of tone. “I’ve been too long out of your arms.”
Morgan looked closely into the green eyes, trying to plumb the depths of her husband’s emotions. Despite the weariness, there was an unmistakable spark of desire, and the fingers that pulled at the fabric of her gown were urgent. But for the first time since she and Richard had been married, Morgan felt no responding chord, not even when his mouth crushed hers in a demanding kiss. She did not resist him, however, and when he picked her up in his arms and carried her to their bed, she forced herself to match his enthusiastic, sensuous passion. And when he finally possessed her, she was both relieved and surprised to discover that she had found fulfillment in his embrace.
That evening, Richard and Morgan joined the other courtiers in the long gallery to keep the death vigil. Shortly before midnight Will Herbert brought the news that Archbishop Cranmer had arrived from Croydon. He was with the King, but Henry could no longer speak. Though the hour was late, no one ventured to leave the gallery. Ned Seymour appeared at intervals to exchange a hurried word with Tom or Dudley or Paget. Ned had already assumed an air of authority, even while Henry still lived. A few of the courtiers eyed him with open distaste and made sniggering remarks behind their hands. But they knew that by morning, perhaps within the hour, Ned Seymour would command new deference as the uncle of a King.
“Vulture,” said Richard bitingly, as Ned went past them and out of the gallery. Morgan looked at her husband warningly but said nothing.
It was two in the morning. Morgan dozed on the window seat, her head on Richard’s shoulder. William Paget came back into the gallery. One look at his grave face told the courtiers what they had to know.
“The King is dead,” said Paget. “Long live the King!”
Chapter 24
As a dark January dawn broke over England to welcome the new reign, Ned Seymour rode rapidly to Hatfield to tell nine-year-old Edward that he was now King. Whitehall was plunged into mourning, with preparations made for the removal of Henry’s body to Windsor, where he would be buried in the chapel next to Jane Seymour—the only Queen to give him a son.
His people, many of whom could not remember a time when he hadn’t been their King, mourned him not just from a sense of loss, but because their new sovereign was only a child. England had been safe from civil strife while Henry ruled; with a boy King on the throne and a council in charge, the country’s future was uncertain. Henry’s awesome will, his quest for material security for his people, his assertion of England’s power in Europe, and his mere physical presence had given the English a sense of pride in themselves and their country. His arrogance, his enormous ego, his terrorism directed at those who defied him, even the break with the Church of Rome were now overlooked by the majority of the people because he had brought them peace and prosperity. As the old reign ended and the new reign began, a sense of uneasiness crept over England.
Two days after the funeral, Ned rode back into London with the boy King at his side. Fair, sickly Edward raised his small hand to his subjects as they cheered him on his way. Ned looked satisfied, even smug. He was now lord protector of England.
If Henry’s death had put power into Ned’s patient if eager hands, it had also saved Norfolk’s life. Condemned to die on January twenty-eighth, the old Duke had managed to miss the block by hours.
After Edward’s coronation, Richard seemed content to watch the new council members struggle among themselves for supremacy. He seldom mentioned politics though one of his remarks evoked an uneasy response from Morgan.
“I think our new Duke,” he said one night at supper in their chambers, referring to Ned’s self-requested title of Duke of Somerset, “has made his brother unhappy.”
“How so?” queried Morgan, passing her plate to Polly for more meat.
“I fear Tom is angry because Ned did not share the protectorate with him. In fact, I hear the entire council is upset because they did not each get an equal measure of power.”
“Once things are settled, mayhap such discontentedness will disappear,” Morgan replied, and hoped it would be so. After all, she reasoned, Tom had done very well for himself. He was not only lord admiral, but Baron Seymour of Sudeley. There was even a rumor that he had asked the council for permission to marry the Princess Elizabeth, though Morgan discounted this as absurd. But Cat—did he still care for her? Would he be reckless enough to seek her hand now that she was a royal widow?
Morgan tried not to think about Tom’s rumored intrigues. As for Richard, his only apparent interest these days was the purchase of a house in Chelsea. For some time now, Morgan had tried to convince him they should buy a place of their own where they could have more privacy. She also felt that the move would lessen her husband’s opportunities for plotting and give them a more settled life. She had brought the subject up again shortly after Henry’s death, since she was no longer required to attend Cat Parr, who had moved to Chelsea.
Richard agreed at last and in mid-March they moved into their new home. It was small by the standards of Belford or even Faux Hall, but recently built and very comfortable. Morgan set about decorating and furnishing the rooms.
The proximity of Cat Parr, only a half mile away, permitted th
e Dowager Queen and Morgan to exchange frequent visits. As spring warmed into summer, Morgan noted that Cat was increasingly excitable, almost exhilarated. Though Cat tried to act natural, Morgan knew her sufficiently well to pick up the nuances of anticipation and excitement.
It was on a stifling July day that Morgan found out the cause for Cat’s state of mind. Morgan had gone to pay her a visit before leaving for Wolf Hall with the children. Nan had given birth to another boy in April—dutifully naming him Edward in honor of both the King and his protector—but had been slow to recover. The two women decided it would be more convenient for Morgan to visit Wolf Hall than for Nan to attempt the hot, fatiguing journey to the city.
“I’ll be gone a month or so,” Morgan told Cat, who was offering her some sweetmeats on a tray. Morgan took one and rolled it around on her tongue. “I don’t think Richard will join us, though—you know how he is about any kind of Seymour.”
Cat dimpled delightfully, her cheeks pink as a kitten’s paws. “Oh, Morgan, I shouldn’t say this, but since you mention the name yourself—and since you will be gone when we make the announcement—I will tell you now.”
Morgan swallowed the sweetmeat so fast that she choked. She already knew what Cat was going to say. Cat rushed up to pat her on the back, but Morgan had recovered.
Cat stood by Morgan’s chair and beamed. “Tom and I are wed—we have been since May.”
“You have wed already?’’ Morgan was shocked. She stared at Cat, who glowed like a first-time bride.
“Oh, I grant it may seem hasty to some,” Cat said quickly, “but we have written to the King and I am sure he will be pleased that his uncle and stepmother are married. You mustn’t say anything until the announcement is official, but I wanted you to know before you left London.”
He had waited, Morgan thought dully. Waited four years for Cat Parr, waited patiently for the Queen when he had not waited for her.