Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  And now she would actually live in London with the court. Of course Catherine was no longer Queen; Henry had forsaken her for Anne Boleyn. It was hard to think of anyone but Catherine as Queen. She had been consort long before Morgan was born. It was especially hard to think of Anne Boleyn in her place, since Morgan’s parents neither approved of the new Queen nor of Henry defying the Pope to marry her.

  But politics and religion were not uppermost in Morgan’s mind as she strolled along the edge of the oval-shaped fishpond. The cloud of anxiety which had fallen upon her so swiftly had departed. Sean awaited her in London; the court awaited her; the whole center of the world seemed to await just a two-day journey away.

  From somewhere, a cry broke Morgan’s reverie. A cat, an owl—or was it human? Morgan turned slowly, unsure of where the sound had come from. The dovecote, maybe, or the stable. Perhaps one of the servants had been hurt. But she heard the sound again, and alert this time, she decided it was coming from far out in the orchard and was not human but an animal cry. Picking up her muslin skirts, she ran past the stable and through the tunnel of trees laden with pink and white blossoms. There, not far from the road, was Gambit, the family’s aged collie, in obvious pain and tended to by a very tall man dressed in riding clothes. Morgan paused, unable to recognize Gambit’s rescuer and faintly bemused that the dog seemed unafraid of a stranger.

  The man looked up from under bushy sandy brows as Morgan approached. “A thorn,” he said in a deep, vaguely gruff voice. He was in his mid-twenties, with short-cropped hair and slate gray eyes. Gambit gave a brief bark of gratitude, sniffed once at the man’s long fingers, brushed past Morgan and limped back toward the manor house.

  “How kind of you,” said Morgan, smiling pleasantly.

  “Indeed.” The gray eyes glinted with amusement. “Then it is obviously your turn to be appreciative.”

  “Why surely,” Morgan began, as the stranger unclasped his riding cloak and threw it on the petal-strewn ground. She blinked once and then stared in frozen astonishment as the man walked purposefully toward her and took Morgan in his arms. “Sir!” Morgan cried, attempting to push him away. But before she could make another sound, his mouth claimed hers in a devouring kiss. Stunned, all Morgan could think of in that moment of shock was that this was certainly not the way Sean had kissed her. But as his tongue forced her mouth open and she felt his teeth on her lips, Morgan began to struggle in his grasp. This was no prank, no fantasy; it was real—and terrifying.

  With one desperate wrench, Morgan pulled away a scant two inches. “No! Leave me be. I’ll scream!”

  The stranger merely laughed in a low, rumbling manner. “Assuming anyone would hear you from this distance—what would they think?”

  Morgan stared at him with a mixture of fear and puzzlement. He was very tall. She didn’t even come to his shoulder. He was lean, but hard-muscled; Morgan could feel the strength of him as he held her close. And he seemed quite unperturbed by her reaction. She opened her mouth to scream—but no sound came out, and before she could try again he was kissing her even more savagely than the first time. He was also pulling the thin bodice from her shoulders, and Morgan began to kick at his shins and pummel him with her fists. He was easing her onto the soft ground, none too gently, and his weight seemed tremendous. One hand went to her mouth and covered it; he lifted himself off her enough to slide the bodice down, down, down—until her full, firm breasts were almost thrust against his chest.

  “Enchanting,” he murmured—and winked. “They were right; you are a delightful little morsel.”

  Morgan’s eyes sparked fury, and her cheeks flushed with humiliation. She reached out to claw, to scratch, to slap—but his hand grabbed both of hers, and in one swift motion he had pulled off his finely wrought leather belt. Morgan felt tears of helplessness well up in her eyes as he slipped the belt around her wrists and cinched them fast together.

  “They did say you were a bit fractious,” he said, frowning slightly. “Though I think you’re carrying it too far.” He shrugged his slightly sloping shoulders, seemed to consider taking his hand off her mouth, saw the mutinous look in her topaz eyes, and changed his mind. Then his other hand began to stroke her breasts, slowly, appreciatively. The long fingers traced the deep pink around her nipples, and he nodded with satisfaction. “You are not as unwilling as you pretend.” He grinned, a wicked yet vaguely whimsical expression. His fingers squeezed each nipple in turn and Morgan suddenly realized what he was talking about; the petal-pink tips had turned hard and seemed to throb at his touch. He was hurting her—not a great deal, yet there was something else besides the slight pain, another ache further down in her body, a sensation she had never felt before. She writhed under him in a vain effort to escape.

  But he mistook her movements. “You are that eager?” His hand was so large it almost enveloped both of her breasts in a crushing embrace. “Very well, my horse is probably ready by now anyway.” He raised one bushy eyebrow and looked at Morgan speculatively. The topaz eyes were pleading with him, she was begging him wordlessly to stop—and yet she herself was confused by that unfamiliar sensation in the very core of her being. The man hesitated, kept his hand over her mouth, and with her legs still pinioned under his weight, he moved just enough to pull down the muslin skirt and leave her naked except for the small undergarment which covered her most intimate self.

  Morgan tried to turn away in horror but she couldn’t move her head. “Long legs—for your size.” He nodded again in approval. “I’m not much good at flimsy stuff such as this,” he said in the same conversational tone, his thumb hooked into the undergarment. “You’ll have to cooperate from this point on.” At last he removed the hand from her mouth and started to lift her up so she could take off the final vestige of clothing. Morgan did scream this time, a piercing shriek which seemed to paralyze the stranger. He kneeled motionless for a brief moment, then hurled himself on top of her, the hand again clamped to her face. “Damn!” He glowered at her from under the bushy brows. “This is not a game!” The other hand tore at the undergarment, shredding it swiftly. Just as rapidly, he undid his own clothing, and Morgan shut her eyes in shock as she caught her first glimpse of hard, firm manhood. Eyes still tightly closed, she felt his hand pry her thighs apart, felt the intensity of him searching her out in the most secret recesses of her flesh—and then shuddered as he penetrated her unwilling body.

  His movements seemed harsh but sure. Morgan’s head reeled, and she wondered vaguely if she would faint. And then she felt real pain, sudden, searing and totally unexpected. I will faint, she thought hazily, as tears rolled down her cheeks. And then the world seemed to come apart in a blinding explosion, and though she still hurt, the unfamiliar ache was gone, to be replaced by something else, another new sensation, which caused her to go completely limp in her assailant’s grasp.

  It was his turn for shock. He withdrew himself from her slowly, staring at her in astonishment. He took his hand off her mouth and put both arms around her. “Christ,” he murmured softly. “They swore you were no virgin.” One long finger brushed the tears from her hot cheeks. He grabbed his riding cloak, threw it over Morgan, and quickly got his clothing back in order. “Are you … all right?” He looked genuinely concerned, deep furrows on his faintly sunburned forehead.

  Morgan was too stunned, too shocked to speak. Of course she was not all right. She had been violated—and her wrists were still bound together. “Untie me!” she demanded in a shrill, hysterical voice. “Oh God,” she moaned, as the world stopped spinning and her power of speech returned, “you are a monster!”

  The man had clearly forgotten about Morgan’s wrists. The cloak had slipped down to her waist but she was too outraged to care. Yet even as he undid the belt, he could not resist grinning at her naked breasts. “You are enchanting just the same.”

  “Animal!” Morgan snatched her clothes off the ground, turned her back and dressed quickly. The shredded undergarment she hid in the folds of her skirt. “If
you think you can get away with such a heinous crime without serious repercussions, you’re mad! In fact, I think you are mad!”

  The man had also stood up after retrieving his riding cloak. “Nonsense. You got precisely what you came for. And you enjoyed it, despite your maidenly protestations.” He gazed around, taking in the orchards and the distant stable. “The twins said they would be done in half an hour. I was headed for Woodstock and my horse lost a shoe.” He was speaking in the same conversational tone, not even faintly contrite and no longer apologetic. “You have pears, apples, and what else—quince?” He jerked his head in the direction of the stable.

  “Quince!” Morgan could hardly keep from flying at him, but it occurred to her that the man was knave enough—and somehow deluded enough—to think she might be offering him her body again. “That’s enough! You’ll talk no more of apples and quince after I’ve told—”

  “Ah,” the man interrupted, brushing a stray leaf from his sandy hair, “here comes my horse—and the twins.”

  Morgan turned to look over her shoulder. The Madden boys were approaching, leading a gray gelding by the reins. They both looked as good-natured as ever, their identical red-cheeked faces smiling somewhat vacantly at Morgan and the man. The vacant look was not caused so much by lack of intelligence as by extreme shortsightedness, however, and it dawned on Morgan that they probably hadn’t yet recognized her—nor did she want them to. She gave one last swift glance at the stranger. “I hated what you did to me. I hate you!” And she ran as fast as she could, deep into the orchard and away from the man who had ravished her and hadn’t seemed to care.

  It took Morgan almost ten minutes to traverse the long way back to the manor house. As she reached the lime walk, she saw Bess coming from the direction of the stables. Bess cast a wary, petulant look at Morgan and scurried off toward the kitchens. Morgan paused. So that was it, she thought, thunderstruck. She had been mistaken for the promiscuous Bess. One of the Madden twins, whichever one had not been with her in the stable, had no doubt offered the wench to the stranger as a means of passing time. But Bess had been otherwise occupied, giggling under the weight of Hal or Davy. Morgan cursed the slut and clenched her fists. Bess was the wanton creature who had caused this unspeakable, horrendous calamity!

  But Morgan already knew she could do nothing about it. As she had walked through the orchard she had realized she could not tell her parents what had happened, no matter how horrible it had been. As Lady Alice had said, Morgan’s life at court would determine her whole future. If her parents knew she had been raped, they might not even let her go to court. Worst of all, they might not let her marry Sean O’Connor. And if they did, what would Sean think of taking a bride who was not a virgin? Better to explain away her lack of maidenhood as the result of a riding accident or some other such mishap. Her parents must not know, Sean must not know, no one must ever know.

  Except, of course, the stranger. But she had no idea who he was. Going to Woodstock, he had said. That meant nothing. Many people went to Woodstock. His accent was different, but Morgan had no notion of its origins. One thing she did know, however, was that he was a gentleman—at least by rank. He was well-spoken and his clothes were of fine quality. He was, she supposed, even rather handsome in a faintly satyrlike way, with his longish face and wicked, whimsical grin. He was certainly tall and …. Morgan stopped herself and resumed walking toward Faux Hall. He was also certainly an uncivilized beast, and she prayed to God that she would never see the man again. Indifferent to her pain, uncaring about her loss of virginity, more bemused than concerned by her reaction—and stating that she had enjoyed his animal-like attack on her body! She paused at the entrance to the manor house’s small gallery; she had felt something like pleasure, a physical excitement as he explored her breasts, the ache that had asked to be assuaged, the sudden blinding relief after pain. Yet it couldn’t be so. She didn’t even know him. There could be nothing like that without love, the kind of love she felt for Sean O’Connor.

  Cautiously, Morgan slipped inside the gallery. She would have to change her rumpled and dirty clothes and dispose of the torn undergarment. She didn’t realize she was still trembling until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom on the second floor and closed the door behind her.

  Morgan stripped her kirtle and bodice off quickly, rolled the undergarment inside them, and put the whole bundle at the bottom of a box in which she and Nan had been placing worn, discarded items Morgan would never need again.

  There was only a small looking glass in Morgan’s bedroom; the one full-length mirror at Faux Hall was in the sewing room where her grandmother and the seamstresses were working. Morgan sat down on the bed and scrutinized her body closely. Her wrists were red and chafed; small bruises were beginning to appear on her breasts, upper arms, and legs; but what shocked her most was the stain of blood between her thighs. Morgan’s trembling became more violent as the enormity of what had happened finally struck her with full, terrifying force.

  “Oh, sweet Mother of God!” Morgan’s fingers shook uncontrollably as she traced the bloody evidence of her shame. Until now, it had seemed unreal, almost as if she had dreamed the incredible episode in the orchard and the blond giant who had so cheerfully ravished her.

  She had no idea how long she sat on the edge of the bed, shaking and uttering short, gasping sobs. At last, she became aware of someone pounding at the door. It was Nan, calling for Morgan to come out.

  “Grandmother is finished! She says you must try the dress on!”

  With enormous effort, Morgan responded in what she hoped was a normal voice, “I’ll be there at once. I was—I was taking a nap.”

  Nan did not reply. Morgan knew that her cousin was probably standing outside the door, dark eyes dubious. Morgan seldom napped; she was too full of youthful energy and good health to need extra sleep. But the strain of leave-taking might explain her sudden tiredness, and apparently that must have been what Nan thought, because within a few moments Morgan heard the younger girl say, “Very well,” and walk away.

  Morgan bathed herself as best she could with a bowl of scented rose water. She brushed the tawny hair and put on another kirtle and bodice, almost as old and worn as the one she had just discarded. Picking up the looking glass, she stared at her face: I look the same, she thought, but I am not. I was a maid a little over an hour ago; now I am a maid no longer.

  “Sweet Jesu, help me,” Morgan murmured aloud, and put the looking glass down. Bess had obviously relished her encounter with the Madden youth. But an uneducated, unprincipled wench such as Bess didn’t give a fig for her virtue, only for momentary pleasures of the flesh. Bess probably wouldn’t know love if she found it, Morgan told herself. Yet the blond giant had taken her not only without love but without even knowing—or caring—who she was. And Morgan could do nothing about what had happened except try to forget. Taking a deep breath, which actually seemed to hurt, she opened the door and walked down the empty hallway to the sewing room.

  “By the Saints, child, that neckline is a disgrace!” Lady Alice folded her arms across her own full bosom. “Either wear something under that or have Grandmother Isabeau see that a row of embroidery is added to it.”

  “There’s no time, Mother,” Morgan replied, sneaking another look in the full-length mirror. Yes, it was perfect, emphasizing the white shoulders and the high, full breasts. She hoped she would be wearing it the first time she saw Sean O’Connor. She also hoped the bruises would have faded by then.

  Lady Alice heaved a sigh born of resignation and the desire to keep peace at the time of parting. “How did you manage to take such a tumble just before you are about to leave? It’s fortunate you didn’t break or sprain anything!”

  Morgan’s tale of trying to remove the thorn from Gambit’s paw and having the dog leap up in pain and cause her to fall against a tree had not been questioned. Accidents involving dogs, horses, cats, and even an occasional dunking in the fishpond were not new with either Morgan or Nan.
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  As Morgan removed the ball gown, she tried to shield her bruises from the others. Grandmother Isabeau was chuckling: “Grace, movement, carriage—I have tried to educate both you girls. Yet still you fall down!” She shook her gray head and motioned for Clemence, her aged serving woman, to take away the pincushion, fabric remnants, and a handful of seed pearls which had been left over. “You will do well, ma petite. As will Nan, when her time comes.” The old woman looked shrewdly at both Lady Alice and Aunt Margaret. “They are alike in some ways, your girls, yet so different from one another. But that is well, for life takes many paths. Nan is tall, like the larch, hair black as the night bird. Morgan, so tawny, so—what is the word? Leonine?” She saw her daughters-in-law both nod. “Like the cat, eh? But the big cat, the one they keep in the Tower of London.”

  “They keep lions in the Tower?” Nan had jumped up, astounded by this piece of news.

  “Well, they used to,” Aunt Margaret said. She had not been to London in twenty years and swore she would never go now—not as long as King Henry rejected the Pope and the Church of Rome.

  “Eh?” Grandmother Isabeau looked quizzically at Aunt Margaret. The old woman was quite deaf, but her wit and intelligence only seemed to wax with age. “Lions, night birds, all are handsome creatures given us by the bon Dieu. And beauty, human or otherwise, comes in all forms.”

  Her kinswomen smiled with affection. Morgan knew that her grandmother spoke from sweet experience: Fifty years ago Isabeau d’Esternay had been one of the most beautiful women in France. William Todd had visited the court of Louis XI where he had taken part in the negotiations for Margaret of Anjou’s ransom. The frightening stare of the miserly French King had been obliterated by the sight of the blue-eyed creature who stood just a few yards away from the royal chair of state. William Todd returned from France with the ransom in his saddlebags and Isabeau d’Esternay in his arms.