Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  Morgan’s gaze shifted from her grandmother to Nan, who was peering out the mullioned window. “Someone’s riding up,” Nan called, throwing open the casement. “It’s Tom Seymour! I’m going down to meet him.” She ran out of the room, her long, colt-like legs visible beneath the fluttering hem.

  Morgan helped her grandmother walk from the sewing room as Lady Alice and Aunt Margaret preceded them. Like Nan, Morgan was delighted to have Tom Seymour visit. They had always looked up to Tom as the big brother neither had ever had. During Sir Edmund’s last years in the Royal Navy, Tom had been his protégé. Although Sir Edmund had been retired for almost two years, he still received vicarious pleasure from listening to Tom relate his own exploits.

  Sir Edmund had been the first to greet Seymour. As Morgan descended the curved flight of stairs and gently steered her grandmother toward the entrance hall, she watched Tom as he talked to her father and Nan. Tom was gesturing with a wide eagle-sweep of his big hand. His laugh filled the room.

  “Ah, Saint-Maur!” called Grandmother Isabeau, using the ancient origins of Tom’s surname as she always did to tease him. If any man ever had a less than saintly reputation, particularly where women were concerned, it was Tom Seymour—and Grandmother Isabeau’s Gallic background appreciated his flair.

  “La Belle Isabeau!” Tom’s bow was as courtly as if the old woman had been the grandest and most beautiful woman in Christendom. Indeed, there was still an aura of beauty about her, akin to the last fading rays of a glorious sunset. “No, I have not found you another husband, alas,” Tom said in mock despair. It was an old jest between them, with Tom always reporting that he could never find any man who was match enough for Isabeau.

  Morgan’s grandmother gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, but you must hurry, Saint-Maur! One day I shall be too old to care!”

  Lady Alice and Aunt Margaret exchanged swift, familiar glances. Naturally, they had grown used to the older woman’s frank tongue. But occasionally they wished she would temper her remarks in front of her two impressionable, innocent granddaughters. And Morgan suddenly regarded her grandmother with something other than the usual amusement; until this very day, she had given little thought as to why the old woman talked about wanting another husband. Lonely, Morgan had always decided, and dismissed the comments from her mind. But now she realized that the undertones of Grandmother Isabeau’s repartee with Tom—and occasionally others—had a different, less sentimental origin. Morgan’s grandmother didn’t want a man just to sit by the fire and talk to on rainy winter nights; she actually wanted a man to love her, to caress her, to do with her what the tall blond stranger had done to Morgan herself that very afternoon. It was a powerful insight, frightening at first, until Morgan realized there was comfort in the revelation. Whatever she had felt, assuming it had been a sensation of pleasure or fulfillment or whatever—that was not unnatural in itself. At least for women such as Isabeau d’Esternay. As Morgan half listened to the conversation flowing around her, she wondered how much she was like her grandmother.

  Such speculation was interrupted when Tom finally came to take Morgan’s hand, his white teeth flashing in his red beard. “By God’s eyes, Morgan, I swear you’ve gotten three inches taller since I last saw you six months ago!”

  “Nay, Tom,” Morgan laughed, looking up at his own splendid height. “You know I haven’t grown a jot since I was thirteen.”

  “She seems taller because she’s suddenly a young lady and leaving for court,” Sir Edmund said. He smiled at Tom and then at Morgan, who put an arm through her father’s.

  “Court?” Tom cocked his head at Morgan. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting?” Morgan was almost dancing with anticipation. Her fears, her anxieties, even the blond stranger were momentarily forgotten.

  “Tomorrow! Why, muffet, even now I’m headed for court. Might I have the honor of escorting you to Whitehall?” He grinned at Morgan and then turned to Sir Edmund. “If I may, sir.”

  Sir Edmund rubbed at his graying temples and glanced at his wife. He and his brother’s widow had at least one thing in common—neither cared for London, and Sir Edmund positively loathed court life. “Well—I don’t see why not. If Morgan doesn’t mind that I don’t take her myself ….”

  “Oh, Edmund, I’m not sure if we should presume upon Tom,” Lady Alice protested.

  But her husband’s puckish smile silenced her. “You’re not sure my absence won’t offend the King—and that odious Cromwell relation of yours who has assumed such almighty powers.” He squeezed his wife’s plump shoulder and looked directly at Tom from clear, keen eyes not unlike his daughter’s. “Nay, they won’t miss me, any of them. I’ve not been too popular in royal circles since I told King Henry to scrap all that decoration he insisted on putting on the fleet’s flagship. And that damned gold telescope he carries around. I don’t think he can see farther than his foot with the bloody thing!”

  “Now, Edmund,” said Lady Alice in a soothing voice, knowing that once her husband was launched on a favorite opinion he would lecture them all until suppertime.

  “Well,” Sir Edmund declared, glancing at Tom as if for masculine reassurance, “you know they like me as little as I like them. It’s only a two-day ride, and one of the Madden twins can follow with Morgan’s belongings.”

  Lady Alice flicked her tongue over her lips. There was no use arguing with her husband once his mind was made up. In fact, Lady Alice half suspected that her husband had asked Tom to take his place in escorting Morgan to London. Tom’s reputation as a womanizer didn’t perturb either Lady Alice or Sir Edmund; his demeanor within the Todd family circle had always been above reproach. His own particular code of honor, his outgoing nature, and his generosity of spirit had won him firm favor in the hearts of both Sir Edmund and Lady Alice. They would entrust their only child’s safekeeping to Tom without the slightest qualm.

  So it was decided: Morgan and Tom would leave for London early the next morning. Meanwhile, there was still packing to be done, supper to be served, and last-minute lectures from both parents, Aunt Margaret, and Grandmother Isabeau. Morgan listened dutifully to the first three, but it was her grandmother whose words captured her real attention:

  “Half a century ago, a lifetime in truth, I was young and at court, a different court, Paris, King Louis, Queen Anne of Brittany …” The faded blue eyes held a far-off look as the old woman paused. “But pay no heed, ’tis all the same. La même chose, n’est-ce pas? So I was young and comely, not in the same way you are, though there is a likeness of spirit if not of features.” Grandmother Isabeau had paused again, this time to nod as if in approval. “Many men paid me suit, some were rich, some were handsome. Of course some were ugly and some were poor.” She shrugged in that still-graceful manner and laughed. “But they all swore they loved me greatly—and maybe some of them did. Yet young as I was, I knew what love was not. When I met your grandfather, my Sweet William as I came to call him after we went to England, when I met that man I knew. I see you smiling, ma petite, but you are smiling for the wrong reason. You think you will know, too. But you may not. I was fortunate, very fortunate, and why I cannot say. It is not always easy to know love, real love, when you find it. I give you no other advice, no words on manners or modesty or even to remind you to walk with your head held high. I give you only this—and my blessing.”

  Morgan and her grandmother had embraced for a long, silent time. And that night, as she lay sleepless, Morgan pondered her grandmother’s words, tried to conjure up the image of Sean O’Connor once more, failed, and instead saw the tall, lanky outline of the sandy-haired stranger in the orchard.

  Chapter 2

  Morgan had expected loneliness, tension, excitement, delight—but not boredom and disappointment. She had been at court a week, and except for Tom and his gentle sister, Jane, Morgan had seen no one of importance. The King and Queen were on a royal progress throughout the Midlands, and virtually all the courtiers except Morgan’s ever-diligent
uncle, Thomas Cromwell, had accompanied the royal couple. Morgan had not yet met her uncle, but that was of small importance compared to the fact that Sean O’Connor was not at court.

  No, Jane had told Morgan, he was not on progress, either. He was not even in England, but had fled to France after speaking out too freely against King Henry’s rejection of Catherine of Aragon.

  “It was not just that,” Jane explained patiently for at least the third time since Morgan’s arrival. “Sean is such an ardent adherent of the Pope that he could not hold his tongue about our sovereign’s quarrel with Rome.”

  Morgan sighed; all this political and religious turmoil confused her. It was one thing to hear such matters discussed in the relative sanctuary of Faux Hall. It was quite different to be in London where the intricacies of state affairs were acted out on a daily basis. Morgan knew that Henry and Catherine’s marriage had been annulled, not by the Pope, but by Bishop Cranmer. When the Pope refused Henry an annulment, the thwarted, impassioned monarch had defied papal edict and set himself up as the head of the Church of England.

  “Somehow these things never mattered much at home,” Morgan remarked as the two young women strolled through the almost-empty corridors of Whitehall. “But here, it seems—menacing.” Indeed, Morgan noted, there were reminders of Henry’s iron will everywhere, even on the bay windows of Whitehall. The palace had belonged to the once-powerful Cardinal Wolsey. York Place it had been called then, but Wolsey had failed to secure a papal annulment and had fallen from favor. Henry had confiscated York Place, and now his badge and the King’s arms under the crowns imperial adorned every window, gate, and fireplace mantel.

  Jane shrugged her slim shoulders. She was somewhat older than Morgan, fair-haired, and if not pretty, had a pleasant, composed countenance. “Life at court is only menacing if one opposes His Grace’s will.” The words were spoken matter-of-factly, as if such opposition were so mad as to be unthinkable.

  “But Sean wasn’t formally banished,” Morgan hurried to point out. “He could come back if some influential person were to put in a kind word for him.”

  A slight smile lifted the corners of Jane’s thin mouth. The two young women were heading out into the courtyard, toward the cockpit. It was a late April day, with sun and rain fighting for dominance. At present, the sun had won out and the young women needed no cloaks to stroll the palace precincts. “If you refer to your uncle, think again. He’s a man who takes no chances.”

  Morgan’s long, gold-tipped lashes drooped in renewed disappointment. No Sean, no courtiers, no banquets or balls—Faux Hall seemed exciting by comparison. “I wish I’d never come,” she grumbled, and kicked angrily at a small stone that lay in her path.

  “Nay, Morgan,” Jane chided with a little laugh. “You’ll change your mind when the court is back in residence tomorrow. Change is the byword here these days.” She looked back at the palace and gestured with a tapering hand. “When His Grace moved into Whitehall, Anne Boleyn’s father, the Earl of Wiltshire, was given the first suite of rooms. If Cardinal Wolsey knew how the King had set the Boleyns up in such grand style, he would turn in his grave.”

  Morgan was surprised at Jane’s candor. “Aren’t you afraid of being overheard?”

  Jane shrugged again. “There is scarcely anyone around, not even the Queen’s spies. And,” she added, leading them through the cockpit entrance, “it’s not as dangerous as it once was to criticize the Boleyns.”

  Morgan had stopped at the top tier of wooden benches. “Jane—you think the King no longer dotes on Anne?” The older girl’s glance was enigmatic. She pulled her simple gray skirt up to reveal white-stockinged ankles. “I think a great many things. Come, see where the cocks tear each other to pieces, here in this ring.” She put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “It’s a savage sport—not unlike the court itself. The most spectacularly colored cocks are always chosen to compete in killing each other.” Jane paused to smooth her somber skirts. “Sometimes I think only the birds of muted plumage survive.”

  Morgan would be presented to the King and Queen at the May Eve ball the following night. She sat alone on a marble bench in the palace gardens, brooding over the introduction, hoping she would do and say the proper things. The courtiers had ridden into Whitehall before noon; Morgan had glimpsed the tall, imposing King and his dark-haired, graceful consort. But when Morgan had called Jane to join her at the window, the other girl had merely smiled in a kindly but disinterested manner.

  Now, several hours later, Morgan could hear the sound of masculine voices raised in high spirits from another part of the garden. Some contest or other, she thought vaguely, knowing that sports, games, and all types of competition were very much a part of court life. Jane had been teaching her some of the newer card games, and Morgan already played shuttlecock and tennis. She rode well enough and was a passable dancer, but had scant knowledge of musical instruments, and even her mother admitted that Morgan could not sing a note.

  She was dwelling on her successes and failures when an object hurtled just inches away from her head and landed with a loud thud only a scant distance from her hem. She jumped up and whirled around but saw only a small grove of ornamental yews. Suddenly a head poked out through the evergreen branches.

  “Perhaps you’ve seen my bowling ball?”

  “Bowling ball!” Morgan exploded. “More like a cannonball! It nearly decapitated me!”

  A broad-shouldered young man who moved with assured masculine grace came through the yews. Though his mouth was solemn, the twinkling green eyes betrayed him. “I am sorry, mistress. I had no idea anyone was sitting here.” He made an unnecessarily low bow. “And I’m doubly sorry that I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting the fair lady I almost decapitated.”

  Morgan’s initial fright had been replaced by anger. “I’m Morgan Todd of Faux Hall and you’re extremely careless!”

  “Don’t scold me, Morgan Todd.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m Richard Griffin and you are lovely.”

  Morgan snatched her hand away. “Nonsense. You’re trying to disconcert me.”

  The twinkle in the green eyes faded. “See here, Morgan, I am sorry. It was an accident; it was careless. Will Brereton and Francis Weston and I were practicing at bowls and I tossed my ball up in the air and Will batted it with a very big board and … well, at least now we’ve met.” Richard grinned again and Morgan thought he looked very pleased with himself.

  “Very well.” Morgan tucked her hands up her long oversleeves, lest Richard make another grab for them. Her ire had cooled; there was something infectiously good-humored about Richard Griffin. “But it sounds like foolishness for men of your age.”

  “Twenty-four is a good age to be foolish. Besides, we’ve just returned from a progress. Such royal sojourns are very confining.” Richard turned as voices from behind the yews called out his name. “I must take my ball and run. Just to make sure I’m forgiven, will you dance the first measure with me at the May Eve festivities?”

  Morgan wasn’t looking directly at Richard; her topaz eyes were fastened on the narrow band of lace trim at the cuffs of her undersleeves. Would he think her too eager if she accepted? But except for Tom, who would doubtless be pursued by half the court ladies, she knew no other men at Whitehall. “Yes,” she said at last, and now her eyes were turned up to meet his smiling gaze. “Forgiveness, after all, is our Christian duty.”

  The solemn words made Richard smile even wider. Morgan noted that he seemed to have a great many teeth and there was a slight gap between the two in front. But instead of detracting from his appearance, the minute flaw only seemed to add to his charm. “I’m enchanted,” he declared, and grasped her wrist firmly in his hand. He kissed her fingertips, picked up his bowling ball, and dashed back through the trees. Morgan remained standing by the marble bench, aware that she was blushing. But it was not entirely because of Richard’s breezy boldness. He had said he was “enchanted,” and the word echoed the blond stranger who had cal
led Morgan “enchanting.” She had been trying to forget him, to forget what he had done to her. But it was difficult. Small reminders such as this kept forcing her to relive that afternoon in the orchard and to remember the gruff-voiced man who had captured her body.

  Jane Seymour tipped her head to one side, critically eyeing Morgan’s final preparations for the ball. “I’ve never seen a green that color,” she told her young friend. “It’s quite lovely, but are you certain the neckline is right?”

  “My grandmother supervised the making of it,” Morgan replied defensively. “She is French, you know, and very aware of fashion.”

  Jane was silent. Her own pale blue gown was simply cut, with a white underskirt, the oversleeves trimmed with silver, and the neckline discreetly fashioned to set off Jane’s long white throat.

  When Jane said nothing, Morgan cast another quick glance in the mirror: The green gown was not only “right,” it was perfect. The vivid shade highlighted Morgan’s tawny hair and caught the gold glints in her topaz eyes. The seed-pearl pattern of wild roses was retraced in the brocade underskirt. Morgan’s coif was also adorned with seed pearls, and the veil that hung from it was made of the same material as her gown. As for the neckline, well, it was revealing, as both her mother and Jane had said, but it was also very flattering, showing off the curve of her full breasts and just an intriguing hint of the deep valley between them. Morgan glanced at Jane’s almost boyish figure and suppressed a smile. If Jane had been more voluptuous, she, too, would have chosen such a dress, and it was difficult for Morgan not to say so. Jane’s quiet, kindly, but incessant critiques were becoming a bit tiresome.

  But Morgan grew increasingly nervous as the ball drew closer. To make matters worse, Jane had to attend the Queen and leave Morgan alone. Morgan sat by herself at the dressing table, examining her nails, refastening her pearl eardrops, making sure she had added enough color to her lips.