Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “What is it, Morgan? Do you think we acted wrongly?” Cat asked in an anxious voice.

  Morgan forced a smile. “No, no, you deserve much happiness, Cat. And I am very happy for you. Truly I am.” She rose and kissed the other woman’s smooth cheek. “I wish you both well. Always.”

  Morgan said nothing to Nan about Cat and Toni’s marriage, but by August, word had reached Wolf Hall. Nan made no comment, but Harry was outspoken about Tom’s rash marriage.

  “That brother of mine will go too far some day,” he said, shaking his head. “And Ned, too. I dislike the depths of their intrigues.”

  Morgan, Nan and Harry were seated outside the manor house in the shade of two big oak trees. Nearby, the children played boisterously. Nan pulled a face at her husband. “You think you could convince those two mulish brothers of yours to act otherwise?”

  Harry tugged up a handful of grass and studied it thoughtfully. “No, I won’t even try. It wouldn’t be so bad if they could at least agree between themselves.”

  Nan stretched out her long legs and yawned. “Well, I’ll not worry about them any more than I ever have.” She turned to Morgan. “Are the Princess Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey still living with Cat and Tom?”

  Morgan nodded. “They both consider Cat a second mother. And she treats them like her own dear daughters. It’s a happy arrangement, since Cat never had children of her own.”

  But Harry disagreed. “They should not be living with Cat and Tom,” he said determinedly. “Ned doesn’t approve either.”

  “They have to live someplace,” Morgan retorted. “It’s better than having Elizabeth stuck away at Hatfield or Enfield as she was for so many years.”

  Harry started to reply but Nan held up both hands. “No more wrangling! This is getting to sound like Whitehall,” she declared firmly. Dutifully, Harry changed the subject.

  The subject was not abandoned so easily in other quarters, however. Behind bejeweled hands, across the supper table, between silken pillows, the whispers grew: The Princess Elizabeth was infatuated with her stepfather. He had made advances. He had come into her bedroom in his dressing gown. She blushed and stammered whenever his name was mentioned.

  Richard brought the rumors to Morgan, repeating them with a malicious smirk. She dismissed his words with a sharp laugh. “Stories like that are bound to crop up with a fourteen-year-old girl under the same roof as a newly married couple. Especially,” she added slowly, “when the husband has a reputation with women such as Tom Seymour’s.”

  Richard appeared to be closely examining his favorite tennis racquet, which he had decided needed restringing. “Oh, I don’t know. Such stories are not circulated about Jane Grey. Yet she also remains under Seymour’s roof.”

  “Jane is different,” Morgan countered. “She’s such a quiet little thing, a genuine scholar.” Bending down to pick up her favorite cat, Erasmus, she added, “You are merely envious because Tom has both chicks in his coop, Richard.”

  “So you think I’m thwarted in my plans for Robbie then?” He gave the racquet a couple of experimental swings, one of them coming dangerously close to Morgan’s head.

  “Take care!” She moved a few steps out of range, the big cat cradled in her arms. “I had assumed you’d abandoned such folly.”

  Richard eyed his wife thoughtfully but said nothing.

  There was a somber note about the court that fall and winter. Morgan and Richard spent little time in any of the royal establishments, preferring to give small parties at home. Their guests came readily, glad to take leave of a court where a ten-year-old boy presided under the rigid influence of his self-righteous uncle.

  One of the Griffins’ visitors in the New Year was Francis Sinclair, down from Woodstock to make an appeal to King Edward and Ned for their continuing support of Oxford. Francis had been elated when the late King had finally founded two new colleges shortly before his death—Christ Church at Oxford and Trinity at Cambridge. Francis was further pleased when Ned had agreed to maintain the universities as long as they remained free of what he considered “insidious Papist teachings.”

  “Ned would guard our souls as well as our government,” Francis commented dryly as he recounted his exchange with the lord protector.

  It was the first real meeting in almost fifteen years between Morgan’s former brother-in-law and her husband. They treated each other politely but it was plain that their differences were greater than their similarities, and that neither really approved of the other. Francis, sensing the lack of warmth beneath Richard’s hospitality, said he would only stay for the day. He spent much of it with the children, and Morgan was pleased to see how quickly all four of them became reacquainted. She noted that Robbie in particular seemed delighted to visit with Francis. But perhaps that was because he was the eldest, and not because he had any instinctive filial feeling for the man he called his uncle.

  After the youngsters were put to bed, the three grownups shared a late supper in the private dining room Morgan had furnished in varying shades of blue. “Ned wants to turn us into psalm-singing Protestants like the Scots are fast becoming,” said Richard, toying with his venison pasty. “He grows more austere by the week and would have the rest of us follow suit.”

  “The man’s a fool,” Francis asserted, spearing half a pullet from the sideboard as Richard eyed him with distaste. “Any man who seeks unlimited power is unbalanced, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Richard’s lips pressed tightly together and a deep crease appeared between his brows. Morgan feared he would say something rude to Francis so she quickly intervened: “Don’t fill up completely with this course, Francis. There’s blancmange and cheese still to come.”

  Francis regarded Morgan with amusement. “Eating blancmange is like eating a thick fog. I prefer something with more substance.”

  Morgan swung a rabbit haunch in Francis’s direction. “Really, you can say the most tactless things to your hostess! I had it made specially—you used to eat tubs of it at Belford.”

  “I did that to please Lucy. I’ve never touched it since.”

  “Hunh. I never thought you did anything to please anyone—except yourself.”

  “I don’t, very often. But occasionally I have a lapse.” Francis polished off the pullet and pushed his chair back, sighing extravagantly and easing his long legs out so far that his boots appeared on the other side of the table.

  Richard had risen. “One thing I’ll wager you can’t resist is a bottle of French wine I have secreted down in the cellar. Only I know where it is hidden, so if you’ll both excuse me?”

  Morgan said, “Of course,” and Francis gave an indolent nod. After Richard was out of earshot, Francis began to laugh in a low rumble.

  “I swear, Morgan, your Richard expects me to grind the meat bones beneath my heel into the carpets and clean the plates with my tongue.”

  She lifted her chin and threw him a mocking, humorous glance. “Well?”

  He snorted, but his mouth turned up in amusement. “Am I always to be the rude country knave in your eyes then, too?” he asked, and there was an unexpected seriousness in his voice.

  Morgan sat with her elbows on the table, rubbing the place between her brows and shaking her head. “Oh, Francis, you are—just you—and it’s occurred to me that you may be the only true gentleman I know.” She let her hands drop and eyed him intently, almost as if seeing him for the first time. Morgan gave him a faint smile, then lowered the thick lashes and stared at her wedding ring.

  Francis shifted in his chair, which seemed to teeter dangerously under his weight. “Hmmm. That sounds like a grudging compliment.” When she did not respond or look up, he placed both palms on the edge of the table and studied his own hands carefully before he spoke again: “Don’t tell me you have finally tired of the courtier’s life and the dashing Richard?”

  As ever, Francis’s candor put Morgan off. Yet she felt compelled to be honest with him, felt a need to reveal her own deepest thoughts. But be
fore she could speak, Richard was bounding into the room, brandishing a dusty, dark bottle in one hand.

  “A treasure, this one,” he glowed, setting the bottle down on the table in front of Francis and Morgan. “I managed to wheedle an entire case out of a niggardly Frenchman when I was in Boulogne. This is the last of it, so we must savor each drop.”

  “Indeed,” said Francis in a subdued voice, and the quizzical glance he gave her made Morgan feel suddenly sad and empty as she watched her husband fill the wine goblets and propose a toast to better days.

  Cat Parr carefully folded Morgan’s embroidered cape over her arm. “What a dreary day,” she complained. “It always seems twice as gloomy when it rains in the summer.” Morgan smiled. “You feel discomfort because of the babe’s weight.”

  Cat beamed. She was pregnant at last, soon to bear the child of the man she loved. Though she grumbled about the weather, her splendid happiness showed clearly in her eyes. “True enough,” conceded Cat, settling her bulk into a chair by the window. “But I will be out of the city in a few days. Tom wants the babe born at Sudeley Castle. We leave next week.”

  “That is well,” Morgan replied, and was relieved to think that she felt no envy toward Cat for bearing Tom a child. Better for Cat to give him a legitimate heir than for Morgan to have borne him a bastard. Somehow, it seemed so easy to rationalize the sorrows and misdeeds of the past.

  “How is Elizabeth?” Morgan asked, and was surprised to see Cat flush slightly.

  “I have a letter from her which arrived this morning,” Cat answered, the flush fading. “She is sickly at the moment but says it is only a passing indisposition.”

  Morgan nodded sympathetically, deciding to move on to another topic. Elizabeth was at Cheshunt, having left the Dowager Queen’s household in May. Sent away, the rumors ran, after being found in Tom’s arms one morning by Cat Parr. Again, Morgan preferred to discount the whispers as malicious, politically inspired gossip.

  They were discussing names for the prospective baby when Tom came in. He kissed Cat’s cheek tenderly and bowed to Morgan. His manner toward her these days was friendly, if not the same open expansiveness he had displayed in years gone by.

  “And how is the future father?” Morgan inquired with a bright smile.

  To her surprise, Tom frowned. “I would be happier if I had not just heard certain reports,” he said.

  Both Morgan and Cat looked questioningly at him. “What reports?” queried Morgan.

  Tom shook out his wet cloak and hung it on a peg. “Mind you, I would not mention this if we were not old friends,” he began, “but I have heard that your husband is meddling again, this time in a plot to wed Robbie to Jane Grey.”

  Morgan laughed aloud, but the sound was hollow. “Oh, that! Why, he mentioned it once to me himself, but it was—well, a long time ago! I was sure he’d forgotten all about it.”

  Tom turned on her sharply. “He has not forgotten. He has never forgotten. He knows that some people favor Jane as heiress to the throne. Even now he is getting efforts under way to convince the Greys that they should remove Jane from this household and take her back with them.” He pounded his fist so hard that the table legs trembled. “I will not have it! He was warned about his intrigues, he damned near went to the Tower because of them, and yet he will not give up. This time he goes too far!”

  Morgan could not reply. She was too shaken, for she knew Tom was right. Her earlier suspicions were justified.

  Cat had gotten up and gone to her husband’s side. “Becalm yourself, sweet Tom. Your temper upsets me so!”

  He smiled down at her and patted her bottom. “I apologize to you—and to Morgan. But,” he said, turning toward Morgan, “I am warning him through you. He must cease his plotting at once.” He helped Cat back to her chair and sat down between the two women. His single gold earring glinted as he looked first at Cat and then at Morgan. “Now,” he said, his usual good humor surfacing once more in the blue eyes, “let’s talk of more pleasant matters.”

  Richard was before his mirror, fretting at his image. “That fool of a barber! See how close he cut my hair! Or am I getting ….” He paused at the fearful word. “Bald?”

  In any other circumstances, Morgan would have laughed and hugged him in doubtful reassurance. Richard was beginning to lose his hair, but that was a minor tragedy compared with what faced her now. She had just returned from her visit with Cat and Tom. Her temper and her fear had both mounted as she made the short journey home through the rain.

  “I warned you, Richard, not to meddle with my children,” she said in a barely controlled voice. He turned from the mirror, his face suddenly white under his tan. Morgan didn’t wait for his reply. “Robbie is my son. He will choose his own bride. I’ll not see him forced into a marriage as I was with James. If anyone besides me has any say in this matter, it will be Francis.”

  “Francis!” Richard exploded. “What right does your ex-brother-in-law have to have a say about my stepson?” Morgan angrily brushed the raindrops from her velvet hood and wondered vaguely why she’d worn it in the damp weather in the first place. “He is Robbie’s godfather,” she replied defensively, and wished she had not mentioned Francis’s name at all.

  Quickly, Richard calculated how to handle his obstinate wife. He decided on a firm stand. “You are married to me,” he said calmly. “The husband rules in all matters. Surely you understand that?”

  They were on the brink of a serious, perhaps disastrous quarrel. Morgan had hoped this moment would never come, but she was prepared. She stared at the floor, then spoke very quietly: “So. If you persist in this matter, I will have no choice but to take the children and go away. I will leave you, Richard, before I see you involve Robbie in what is bound to become a dangerous, even a deadly situation. I will do this as much to save you as him.”

  They looked straight at each other for a long time, and both became aware of something ugly in the other’s eyes. “I will not let you go,” Richard breathed at last.

  “You cannot stop me,” Morgan said, just as softly. “If you try, I will go to Ned and tell him.” She started for the door to summon Polly. Richard reached for her arm, but she ducked away. He advanced again, trapping her between a table and the wall.

  “You will not go!” The threat was naked in his voice, though the tone was still low.

  Something shiny next to the fruit bowl on the table caught Morgan’s eye. It was a small but very sharp knife for paring apples. She snatched it up and held it out before her. “I will,” she said evenly, and Richard drew back, his eyes incredulous. He could take the knife from her easily, but he would have lost the battle. It was the war that was not over, and they both knew it. He looked at Morgan long and hard, and the first hint of hate glinted in his eyes. “We are not done yet,” he said, and strode rapidly from the room.

  The next morning, under a warm July sun, Morgan, the children, and some of the servants set out for Wolf Hall. Nan and Harry were surprised to see Morgan but even more astonished to hear her tale. She swore them to willing secrecy. They were equally upset over Richard’s plot, and Harry was frank to admit his deep concern.

  “This is a shocking thing,” he said. “That Grey child will be the death of someone one of these days, mark my words.”

  Tired and distraught, Morgan could only nod numbly in agreement.

  It wasn’t until she had had two nights of deep sleep that the enormity of what she had done struck Morgan. The breach in her marriage seemed too deep to mend; hatred had come too close to the surface for both of them. And though their mutual passion had taken them to soaring heights of physical joy, it had also brought them to the depths of disaster. There had been much lust between them but never any love, and without love there could be no forgiveness.

  “I have failed at two marriages,” Morgan said despondently to Nan. “Is it ill fortune that dogs me or is it something within myself?”

  Nan, unphilosophical but eminently practical, gave a short laugh. �
�You married the wrong men, that’s all. The first time, it was not your doing, but the second was. You should have used better judgment, if you want my opinion. Which you probably don’t,” Nan added.

  Morgan couldn’t help but smile at Nan. “It’s easy for you to speak like that. You and Harry have always been so happy.”

  “We loved each other when we wed. We still do,” said Nan. “Why shouldn’t it be easy to be happy when you love? I don’t give a whit about marriages of convenience or politically motivated unions. They breed more than aristocratic children—they also breed adultery and intrigue and hatred. That’s not right; it’s not what God intended.” She had become unusually heated, her black eyes snapping with the passion of her convictions.

  Morgan smiled wryly. “You should have spoken thus to Uncle Thomas and my parents a long time ago.”

  Nan rearranged the cushion behind her back. “But I didn’t know—then.”

  The warm, drowsy days of summer drifted by at Wolf Hall. Eating a picnic lunch in a meadow of clover or riding out through the shady Wiltshire woods, Morgan could almost forget about Richard and the bitterness his image brought to mind. Still, at night, she would turn in her sleep and put out a searching arm before she realized he was no longer at her side. The slow, painful realization would overcome her, but she would thrust her heartache aside and try to sleep again.

  Morgan knew she would have to start making plans for the future. She could not impose forever on Nan and Harry. Faux Hall was both too close to Richard and, at the same time, too far from court. She lingered over the thought of Belford, surprised that she would even think of returning there. No, she could not—would not—go back to Belford alone, not after all that had happened within its walls.

  She sighed, convinced that she would never feel at home anywhere again. Trying not to dwell on the empty void of the future, she glanced at the pages of the book she had hardly begun to read, but immediately was distracted. A rider was coming up the road into Wolf Hall: It was Tom.