by Mary Daheim
“I’ve seen him watch you; he’s intrigued enough. But the point is, no one knows better than I how to hold Henry at bay. God knows I managed it for seven years. I can school you in that art, and meanwhile, Henry will remain fascinated but unsatisfied and turn to me so that I can become pregnant again. You, on the other hand, will certainly not be permitted to marry James Sinclair since the King will insist that you remain at court.” Anne lay back against the pillows, suddenly looking well pleased with her scheme.
“Oh, Jesu.” Morgan rubbed at the place between her eyebrows. “Truly, I don’t think I can manage it.”
Anne leaned forward and grasped Morgan by the wrist. The almond-slanted eyes burned, as if she were imposing her own will on Morgan’s. “You will. You must. For both of us.”
Morgan did not like falcons. The hooded creature that sat on her wrist did not seem to like her much either. It was a clear, cold February day, the ground still hard from the heavy frost of the previous night. The horses were skittish and the courtiers were lighthearted as the King led the way through the park at St. James.
Morgan found herself riding close to the King and Queen. Anne Boleyn had used every opportunity in the last month to see that Henry should take notice of her tawny-haired lady-in-waiting.
“We will release the falcons just before we reach that copse,” Henry declared, pointing with a pudgy finger toward a stand of larch trees. He turned to Morgan. “Do you know how to remove the hood?”
“I think so. Francis Weston taught me,” she replied, and tried to remember to flutter her eyelashes demurely.
“Yours is a falcon-gentle,” the King said, “though the name does not necessarily describe her temperament.” He regarded the bird with amusement. “I would like to know, however, if it describes the lady?”
“I am not a hunter, Your Grace,” Morgan answered, “but I can be gentle.”
He patted her shoulder with his gloved hand. “Charming. But gentleness is only one facet of a lady’s personality. Indeed, one might equate ‘gentle’ with ‘tame.’ ”
“One might,” Morgan said, and attempted looking enigmatic. She caught Richard Griffin’s eye and saw him watching her with a puzzled expression. At that moment, Henry signaled for the falcons to be let loose. Morgan fumbled with the hood, jerked back as the bird flapped her wings, and felt her horse paw nervously at the ground. She finally got the hood off, but the ill-tempered falcon did not seem inclined to fly. The King had taken notice of her difficulties and was about to come to the rescue when the bird finally soared into the air—but not before Morgan’s horse shied and took off at a gallop for the copse.
“Jesu!” Morgan cried, and could not remember her horse’s name. Valiant—Valor—Victory—it was all a terrifying daze as Morgan desperately tried to slow the animal. But the horse had his head now and was into the trees, still heedless of Morgan’s frantic sawing on the reins. It seemed very dark among the stand of evergreens, and Morgan felt branches slap at her face and tear at her rust-colored riding habit. She prayed, she cursed, she cried out in fright as she narrowly missed riding headlong into a large limb. Still the animal did not slacken its pace and Morgan clung to his neck for her very life.
She did not remember how the accident actually happened. Possibly the horse stumbled over a fallen branch or stepped in a rabbit hole. All Morgan knew for certain was that she was lying on a thick pile of larch needles, the horse was nowhere in sight, and she hurt all over.
For several minutes, she stayed as she was, trying to get her mind functioning properly. She must have been knocked unconscious at least briefly. Sure enough, already a large swelling was appearing just at the hairline. Her riding hat was several feet away, upside down but unscathed. Gingerly, she tested her arms and legs—they ached but she could move them. She was just attempting to stand when she heard a noise nearby.
Mounted on a black stallion, Richard Griffin appeared between the trees and looked enormously relieved to see Morgan. “Good Christ, I was sure your neck would be broken!” He jumped from his horse and hurried to her side. “The King’s Master of the Horse should never have given you Viking,” he said angrily. “Is anything broken?”
“The horse apparently wasn’t,” Morgan replied testily. “I’m just bruised and sore. And frightened.” She made a tentative attempt to get up but Richard’s firm hand kept her on the larch-strewn ground.
“Give yourself a chance to recover your nerves,” Richard insisted. He was sitting beside her, heedless of what the larch needles and dirt might do to his modish dark green hunting costume. “Here,” he said, taking her hand, “let’s be absolutely certain nothing is seriously damaged.” Gingerly he fingered her right arm, then her left. “Well enough. Can you move your head from side to side?”
Morgan did so with only minimal pain between her shoulders. But Richard’s solemn, conscientious manner amused her. “You should have been a physician. You actually seem to know what you’re doing.”
He was watching the topaz eyes very closely. “Hmmmmm. I would have been had I not been born a gentleman. What we call medicine is mainly superstitious rot. A tragedy, since there was a time when man knew far more about disease and cures than we do now. Perhaps one day ….” He stopped and grinned, the gap-tooth grin that suddenly looked both charming and sheepish. “I’m fulsome with opinion, while you freeze your delightful backside on the February frost. Let’s see your legs.”
Morgan looked at him questioningly, but his intentions seemed strictly honorable. She lifted the hem of her riding skirt to her knees, revealing long, slim legs encased in dainty Moroccan-tooled boots which came to her ankles.
Richard was still grinning. “Offhand, I’d say there was nothing wrong with your legs. But it won’t hurt to make certain.”
As he started to remove one of the boots, Morgan sensed rather than heard something move behind them. Her horse, she decided, and obeyed when Richard asked her to wiggle her toes for him. He was taking off the other boot when she heard her name cut across the brisk winter air like an icicle. Whirling around, she saw Sean O’Connor just a few yards away, a stunned, disbelieving look on his face.
“Sean!” She breathed his name in fear, knowing at once what he must be thinking, and wondering how in God’s name he had so magically appeared in the park at St. James. Richard had looked up too, and a quiet oath escaped from his lips.
Dark head held high, Sean was astride Morgan’s horse, his furious gaze fixed on Richard: “I pray to the Virgin that you have no dishonorable intentions toward Mistress Todd,” Sean said, his brogue never more pronounced than at that moment. “So, Richard Griffin of Carmarthen, you must swear you have never touched her in an impure manner. Tell me you are not a despoiler of maidens.”
Richard got resignedly to his feet, brushing the larch needles from his hunting costume. “Dismount, Sean O’Connor, and ask me once more.” He spoke evenly, but the green eyes were menacing.
Sean got down from his horse. “Once is enough. Defend yourself, if you will not answer.” His jaw set as he planted his feet firmly on the ground. Irishman and Welshman faced each other with savage stares.
Morgan, at last getting shakily to her feet, spoke sharply through her rising terror. “Hold, Sean. It’s not what you think. I fell from my horse ….”
Sean signaled her to be silent. Neither man even looked at her. They faced each other as the tension cut through the clean winter air. Richard was three inches taller and four stone heavier than Sean. He had an oft-repeated reputation for being an excellent wrestler in bouts at court.
But it was Sean who made the first move, lunging at Richard, who kept his balance as they grappled. Sean went down but his knees came up, catching Richard in the stomach. He rolled onto the ground, momentarily out of breath. They both stood up. Sean landed a hard fist on Richard’s jaw. A second blow glanced off Richard’s shoulder as he ducked and caught Sean in the face with his left fist. A thin trickle of blood crept from Sean’s mouth. He staggered slightly. Richa
rd hit him again, this time catching him square on the jaw.
“Stop it!” Morgan screamed, flying at Richard. She grabbed at his arm but he pushed her away. Stumbling, she fell back against a tree.
The distraction had given Sean time to steady himself. Now he leaped on Griffin, his fury reinforcing his strength. Again the two men toppled to the ground. First Sean was on top, then Richard, then Sean again.
Morgan watched helplessly, one hand against her mouth. She had nearly bitten through her kidskin riding glove. Suddenly she looked beyond the two struggling men and saw three riders cantering into the clearing.
“God’s body!” cried Harry Norris, who quickly dismounted. “No more! You’ll kill each other.”
Ned Seymour and the Earl of Surrey followed him. The three of them managed at last to pull Sean and Richard apart. Mud, dirt, and blood covered them both.
“What is all this?” asked Ned Seymour, more angry than worried.
The two combatants were too breathless to speak. Morgan tried to answer for them, appealing directly to Ned. “Truly, it was all a misunderstanding. I fell from my horse and Richard came along to see if I was hurt. Then Sean rode into the clearing and he thought ….”
Ned was neither willing nor able to keep up with the tumble of words. He waved his hand at Morgan. “I’m sure your excuse is excellent.” He ignored her wince. “But we must take these men some place where they can get some clean clothes and a bit of ale.”
Surrey offered to share his horse with Sean, who needed help mounting the animal; Richard managed alone, but it was obvious that it cost him something to sit erect on his black stallion. Norris asked Morgan if she wanted to ride her own horse back to the palace. Reluctantly, she said she would; it hardly seemed the time to complain of her own pains. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she let Norris hand her into the saddle. The little group started out of the thicket, riding in silence until they reached the postern gate.
King Henry presided over a gay supper that evening, but Sean O’Connor was not among the guests. Morgan, trying to avoid the swollen face and laughing eyes of Richard Griffin, kept watching the door. Now it all seemed a great joke to Richard—she could tell that from his attitude. Occasionally she would see Will Brereton or George Boleyn or some other courtier stop by Richard’s chair to make a witty remark and then glance in her direction. She sat tight-faced between Francis Weston and Surrey, scarcely exchanging a word with either of them during the long meal.
Finally the last plates were removed and Morgan got up to ask the Queen’s permission to leave. Anne, pleased that Henry seemed in a good mood again, granted Morgan’s request with a wave of the hand. Morgan left the hall as inconspicuously as possible. She headed for the west end of the palace, to the improvised studio where intuition told her she would find Sean.
She entered without knocking. He was there, his back to the door, working with fierce concentration on a sketch which appeared to be Sir Thomas More.
“Sean?” She called his name softly, tremulously.
His head came up slowly as the muscles in his shoulders seemed to tense under the brown smock. He did not turn around.
Morgan took a deep breath. “I love you, Sean.” She closed her eyes, as if afraid of his reaction.
He came across the room in an instant and took her in his arms. “Oh, Morgan—what a fool I was! I didn’t realize until today how much I love you! I went mad with jealousy—and love!” He held her even closer, his lips seeking hers with an uncharacteristic hunger. She felt him straining against her, and the studio seemed to whirl about them. At last he released her and smiled in a forlorn, apologetic manner. “I’ll get paint on your gown,” he said.
“I don’t care. But, Sean, please tell me how you happen to be here in the first place!” Morgan was out of breath, leaning against an empty easel, one hand on her heart.
Sean picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “I thought you might tell me that.” He looked at her quizzically, but when he saw her blank expression, he went on. “I received a message, borne by two seamen from the Royal Navy who had sailed into Dundalk. It invited me back to court, at the Queen’s command, to resume my duties as ’prentice to Master Holbein. I wanted to tear it up at first, spit in the men’s faces, send them away.” He put the rag down, examined his hands with the fine, sensitive artist’s fingers, and smiled again at Morgan. “But I thought of you, and the letter you had sent when my sire lay dying. If ever I were to see you before your marriage with that man from Northumberland, this was my chance. So I took ship at the end of the month and arrived in Portsmouth two days ago. The journey up to London was not difficult though it was very late when I got here last night. Too late, in fact, to see you or anyone else, save Surrey.”
Morgan was frowning. “The Queen sent for you?”
“Aye, I thought it might be trickery. I was sure of it this morning when I found you with Richard Griffin in the copse. I had gone out walking until the royal hunting party returned. I found a riderless horse by a stream and knew someone had had an accident. I know horseflesh well,” he continued diffidently, “so I quieted the animal down and let him lead me back to you.”
“I see.” Morgan was beginning to see more than Sean realized. The Queen had sent for him—her reward to Morgan for leading the King on. But Morgan dared not allude to Anne Boleyn’s scheme. She went to Sean and put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m just so glad you’re here—though I hope your presence will not bring you to grief.”
Sean held her close for a moment before he spoke. “Yet I am aggrieved. First, the Act of Succession; now the Oath of Supremacy, which makes Henry head of the Church in England. That’s diabolical heresy.”
Morgan searched in vain for some argument to soften Sean’s indictment. But he was right, the King was indeed putting himself above the Pope’s jurisdiction. Henry had formed his own church, and it was not the Church of Rome. “If only we dared flee to Ireland and were married, would the King’s acts and oaths and such matter?” she asked, wishing he would look at her instead of turning away to fidget with his paintbrushes.
“It would be disobedient. Disloyal.” He rearranged a half-dozen brushes and turned to gaze at Morgan. “But to the King—not to the Pope, who is more important in God’s eyes.”
“Sir Thomas More agrees—and he lies in the Tower.”
His dark brows drew close together. “So he does. And Fisher, too.” Sean abruptly pushed the brushes away and began to pull the brown smock over his head. “Come, Morgan,” he urged, taking her arm, “let’s walk as far from this place as we can. Everyone at court is mad.”
Morgan gave him a sidelong glance as they started out into the darkened corridor. “Like ourselves?”
He gave a short laugh. “Aye. Like ourselves.”
The following week Morgan and Sean planned to visit Moorfields and watch the Londoners gather for gossip and recreation on the partially drained area at the city walls. But despite several days of mild weather presaging an early spring, it rained that afternoon and they postponed their outing. Morgan spent an hour or more watching Sean touch up a portrait of a wealthy burgher. They had not talked much, since Sean didn’t like to be distracted from his work, but now and then they exchanged a few words, mostly about the shadings in the painting and if the eyes looked sufficiently shrewd, but not insultingly avaricious.
By noon, Sean had all but finished the portrait and wanted to seek Master Holbein’s counsel. Morgan left the studio to return to her own rooms. She had no duties with the Queen that day and thought perhaps she might write a letter home. To her surprise, there was a note on her dressing table from Madge Shelton, written in a very unpracticed hand. Madge had moved to other quarters, it said; Morgan would now share her chambers with Margaret Howard, a cousin of Surrey’s. She was a tall, willowy blonde with perfect features and little wit. Neither Madge nor Margaret were ideal companions, but at least the Howard girl would be more quiet. Morgan reread the note and started to throw it into the fire
place when she noticed that Madge had scrawled another message on the back of the page. It was difficult to read at first, but finally Morgan got the gist of it and sank down on the bed in horror: Francis Sinclair was at St. James Palace.
Morgan was still sitting on the bed with the note clutched in her hand when someone knocked loudly on the door. The sound was so demanding and importunate that Morgan knew instantly it must be Francis. She considered ignoring the knock but knew he would eventually seek her out.
“Well,” he said in greeting, almost filling the door with his great height and heavy riding cape. “You aren’t sparkling with welcome, I see.”
“You’re all wet,” Morgan countered, standing aside to let him in.
“So I am. When I discovered you were with your artist friend I went for a canter in the park.” He took off his cloak and shook it out, the droplets of water falling onto the rushes.
“Did you just arrive?” Morgan eyed him with distaste as he put one muddy boot on a damask footstool.
“Last night. It was too late to call on you.” He was eyeing her speculatively, the bushy blond brows drawn together, the gray eyes missing nothing. “I rode hard this morning. I certainly would like a drink. Whiskey, if you have it. I’m no ale man.”
Morgan gestured toward a chair near the sputtering fire. She went to the cabinet and got down two pewter cups and the bottle of whiskey Madge had kept for her male visitors. She poured red wine for herself, gave Francis his whiskey, and sat down in the armchair opposite him.
“Your efforts at hospitality are improving,” he remarked, taking a deep draught of whiskey. “You haven’t screamed at me once so far.”
“I’m not even sure I want to talk to you,” Morgan retorted. “As for hospitality, you certainly repaid my family poorly when our stable boys took care of your horse.”
