Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “Christ,” he growled, his sandy hair disheveled, the thick brows drawn together, “you make a man want to either strangle you or make love to you. Why couldn’t you have been—bland?”

  His choice of words made Morgan laugh, a choked, shaken little sound that was almost a hiccough. “All I wanted was the fox-trimmed cape,” she said in a voice that shook.

  “Mmmmmm.” He started to release her, then pulled her back against his chest. “You will cause me more problems than fox and sable, Morgan Todd,” he said in his gruffest voice over the top of her head. “Why don’t you run away with that Irishman?”

  She wondered if he were serious. If only he were, he could help her and Sean …. Morgan looked up at him, attempting an innocent gaze through her tawny lashes. “It might be all for the best, you know. I don’t think your brother likes me.”

  Francis broke away and stomped, about the furrier’s shop, his riding cloak billowing behind him like a huge banner of war. “It’s not my brother I’m thinking of.” He continued storming about the shop for at least another full minute, knocking over a bolt of cloth, cursing at a mouse that crept out from its hiding place, and visibly frightening two young men who made a very tentative entrance through the door just as the furrier emerged from the recesses of his establishment.

  “Here,” Francis called to the man, “we’ll take these.” With one swooping gesture he scooped up both capes and all but threw them in the furrier’s face. Francis did not even question the amount, which was exorbitant, but merely dumped a large pile of gold sovereigns on the counter. “Send them to Whitehall,” he called over his shoulder as he grasped Morgan by the arm and dragged her out of the shop.

  Chapter 6

  Morgan did not see Francis Sinclair during the next few days. They had returned to Whitehall in virtual silence, Francis scowling and Morgan disturbed. Obviously, Francis had not been serious about her marriage to Sean. But she herself was confused by Francis’s behavior; until that moment in the furrier’s he had seemed not only unconcerned about his ravishment of her at Faux Hall, but indifferent to the episode and herself as well. She could not understand what had made him act so strangely. Nor could she determine the cause of her reaction to him. Why on earth did she experience that throbbing ache in the core of her being when she was with Francis Sinclair? Sean’s embrace made her feel cherished and happy; Richard Griffin’s caresses had been exciting. What was it then, Morgan wondered, about that gruff, infuriating giant with his rumpled clothes and disregard for etiquette of any sort that made her feel so … what? She could not even describe her reaction except that it was pleasurable in a mysterious, unfamiliar way.

  She was anxious to talk to someone about it, but the only person she felt free to confide in was Grandmother Isabeau. Still, if Morgan’s plans worked out she would be at Faux Hall within a fortnight.

  Meanwhile, she and Sean spent as much time as they could together and she longed to tell him about her dilemma. His reaction to Francis Sinclair’s arrival at court had struck Morgan as odd: Sean appeared upset, even angry, but had made no overt attempt of his own to forestall her marriage plans. On the other hand, he was very much absorbed in his painting since Master Holbein had lavished praise on the burgher’s portrait, and the burgher himself had offered even more money for it than the original amount.

  But there were other matters to consider as well. After only ten days at Whitehall, Henry ordered the royal barges to move the court to Greenwich. The King was very restless, and the Lenten season put a damper on much of the court’s usual activities.

  Despite the seasonal ban on undue ostentation and revelry, Anne Boleyn decided to stage a masque just three days after their arrival at Greenwich. To placate those who might criticize her, the Queen ordered that decorations should be kept to a minimum, the costumes would be plain if elegant, the spectacle itself comparatively brief. Privately, she confided to her ladies that if she did not think of new ways to divert the King, great troubles might fall upon them all.

  The theme was Orpheus, and the setting was simple enough by court standards—a miniature River Styx, which flowed from one side of the banquet hall to the other. Had it not been Lent, no doubt a giant shimmering cavern would have been erected and the river would have flowed with wine instead of water. George Boleyn portrayed Orpheus and Anne was Euridice. The Queen cast Morgan as Amor, clad in thin, clinging flesh-colored silk, an ingeniously contrived costume all of a piece with the undergarments stitched into the dress and of a slightly darker, heavier silk.

  The performance, despite Morgan’s nervous portrayal, was a great success. Henry led the applause himself as Orpheus and Euridice embraced and began their journey from the dark realm of Pluto into the outer world.

  After taking her bow with the others, Morgan joined Tom Seymour, Margaret Howard and Will Brereton. They complimented her lavishly, but Morgan only laughed in relief that the performance was over.

  “I marveled at how you spoke your lines,” Margaret Howard said with awe. The sleekly beautiful blonde rarely said much at all, though so far Morgan had found her kind-hearted and gentle.

  “I forgot once, but George Boleyn prompted me. Now I must change into another gown,” she told them. “It’s chilly away from the fire and there’s not much substance to this costume.”

  “I’ve noticed,” drawled Tom. “I’ve always had a lively imagination, but I don’t need to tax it tonight.”

  Morgan blushed, started to glare at Tom, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re outrageous! I don’t know who’s worse—you or Richard Griffin.”

  “There’s a decided difference between us,” Tom said, the blue eyes suddenly serious. “I’d never seduce you and walk away without giving a damn. Richard Griffin would.” Morgan frowned, but of course Tom was right; Richard was just a shallow if charming rake. As the musicians struck up a cheery tune, she glanced around the room, looking in vain for Sean. Morgan was relieved that he was not present, for she was certain he would have disapproved of the role she had taken in the festivities—and, of course, of her revealing costume. No doubt he disapproved of such joyousness during the solemn Lenten season.

  Perhaps she should excuse herself to change her dress and seek out Sean. But before she could slip away, the King was at her side.

  “Lovely, utterly lovely,” murmured Henry, taking in every detail of her face and body. “You made young men sigh and old men cry tonight, Morgan Todd. And those of us in between ….” He held up his hands and let his eyes roll back. “Ah! That I could exchange the Thames for the River Styx!”

  Morgan edged a little closer to Tom, who was grinning at Henry. “You didn’t know that Mistress Todd had such hidden talents, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “I suspected as much, Tom,” Henry answered, looking straight at the generous curve of Morgan’s breasts, “but not so hidden tonight, either. Won’t you dance with me, lovely Amor?”

  “I’d be honored,” Morgan replied, struggling for composure. The voice sounded like her own, but she hadn’t been sure that she could speak. She let the King take her hand as he led her onto the dance floor. Morgan was vaguely aware of a murmuring among the courtiers. She mustered a smile for her royal partner as they stepped together in time to the music.

  Henry danced very well, with masculine grace and an innate sense of rhythm. He seemed quite absorbed by the music as he hummed softly to himself. His hold on Morgan was firm but scarcely improper. She tried to relax, tried to concentrate not on the King but the dance itself. Surely if Henry were bedding Madge Shelton he would not be interested in pursuing Morgan at the same time. Yet only his continued interest could forestall her marriage to James Sinclair. Morgan felt as trapped by her dilemma as she was by the King’s arms.

  The musicians ended their tune. Henry bowed his thanks to Morgan, then took her arm and guided her back in the direction of Tom Seymour, who was talking to Thomas Wyatt.

  At least she could say something, she thought desperately, her sense of inadequacy
rising. “Your Grace dances wonderfully well,” she declared. True as it was, the statement sounded vapid.

  Henry seemed not to hear. He walked straight ahead, looking neither right nor left. A whisper came from lips that never moved: “I want to show you the gardens—join me by the sundial in a few minutes.”

  Morgan’s step faltered but she kept her face composed. Tom Seymour grinned broadly at them.

  “Dancing with Mistress Todd is a pleasure,” Henry said aloud. Kissing Morgan’s hand and nodding to Tom, he moved back into the circle of courtiers gathered near the royal dais.

  More than ever, Morgan wanted to seek the sanctuary of Sean’s arms. But she dared not. She danced next with Tom, barely hearing his teasing remarks about her captivation of the King. Somehow, Tom seemed to understand her preoccupation and offered to bring her a glass of wine. She waited for him by the fire, trying to warm herself.

  “The Griffins are as Welsh as the Tudors,” said Richard, coming to stand beside her. “Won’t you dance with me, too?”

  Morgan looked up into Richard’s taunting green eyes. “I think not,” she replied, but couldn’t hold back a smile.

  Richard shook his head in feigned sadness. “So I’m still to be rejected, eh, Morgan? I must be losing my charm. Surely you aren’t saving that delectable body of yours for a man you hardly know? Or is it reserved only for that wild-eyed Irishman?”

  “Whoever it’s for is no concern of yours,” Morgan snapped, her amusement with him fading fast.

  Richard shrugged. “Perhaps. But remember one thing: What you give to a knave you can’t save for a King—and the reverse is just as true.” He strode off, his broad-shouldered shadow cast by the fire disappearing rapidly across the stone floor.

  The King stood alone, half-hidden by the shrubbery which encircled the arbor. An impatient man, he had spent almost five minutes restlessly pacing the ground around the sundial. A noise on the path made him turn quickly, his short fur-trimmed coat swinging. She had come. Finally.

  “I was afraid you’d lost your way,” Henry said by way of greeting. His tone was jovial but it did nothing to dispel Morgan’s fear. “Sit here—on this bench with me.” He patted the marble and sat down. Morgan joined him obediently, but her apprehension, coupled with the chilly night, made her shiver.

  “Poor sweetheart,” said Henry. “That dress does justice to your charms but not to your health.” He took off his coat and put it over Morgan’s shoulders. “Better?” he asked, moving closer.

  Morgan answered the ambiguous question with an undecipherable murmur. She felt the royal arm slip around her back. He leaned closer, the red beard brushing her cheek.

  “Forgive my impulsiveness, Morgan,” he said softly, “but I’m only a man, after all. And you are a woman—a very desirable one. You mustn’t be afraid of me.”

  “But I am afraid of you,” Morgan confessed. “More as a man than as a King.” She tried to avoid the hungry look in his small eyes but it was difficult. Was it just his size that made him so overwhelming? No, it was not his big body nor his great strength that demanded submission; rather, it was the sense of sheer will which he exuded, overpowering men and devastating women.

  “No, no fears,” murmured Henry, his mouth coming down on hers. Morgan remained motionless, neither resisting nor responding. She felt as if she were playing a part in another masque, a farce this time. He held her close, his hands fondling her body. Despite his nearness and the warmth from his coat, she began to tremble violently.

  His lips claimed hers again as his embrace grew so tight that her ribs and breasts ached. She moved away slightly but his arms pulled her back. One hand caressed her buttocks while the other imprisoned her against his chest.

  “Don’t fret so, sweetheart,” Henry whispered hoarsely. “I want you, as any man wants a maid. That shouldn’t frighten you.”

  A sound close by stopped Morgan’s answer. She craned her head over her shoulder; there was someone just outside the arbor.

  “Your Grace, somebody is spying on us,” she whispered.

  Henry quickly loosened his grasp. He was the King of England and not about to be discovered like some peasant making illicit love to a dairymaid. “There’ll be another time, sweetheart,” he said, his voice very low. But Morgan had already gotten up and was racing out of the arbor.

  Whoever had made the noise was no longer in sight. Morgan started back for the palace at a run. She paused only when the gallery doors were just ahead, trying to get her wind back. She was looking behind her to see if Henry was anywhere in sight when a big hand went over her mouth and a strong arm pulled her off the path. Terrified, Morgan struggled impotently. She was aware that her assailant was using only a small portion of his strength to hold her.

  Her feet scraped along the ground as he dragged her behind a row of tall hedges. Morgan could no longer see the lights of the palace. She squirmed around, trying to catch a glimpse of her captor’s face, but the hand he had clamped over her mouth kept her head turned away.

  “You’d entice a King to thwart my brother, you silly slut!” The words were gruff and fierce, and she recognized the voice of Francis Sinclair.

  “You! You, who ravished me in the first place! How dare you meddle with the King’s business!” Morgan had broken free, her hair streaming around her face, the King’s short cape lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.

  Francis waved a long finger in her face. “We agreed to talk no more of what happened last spring! That is our secret. But what happens between you and Henry will be fodder for every tongue in England!”

  Morgan was shivering from anger as much as from the chill night air. “Were you following me?”

  “I came to meet a certain young lady,” Francis said defensively. “She seemed willing enough, but I must have been too rough. That’s beside the point. I have my family name to protect.”

  “Oh!” Morgan flew at him, fingers reaching out to rake his face. “I hate you! I hate your brother! Pox on your family name!” She spat at Francis as her nails just missed his skin. He grabbed her wrists and growled out an angry, vile curse. With one swift motion, he scooped Morgan off her feet and threw her over his shoulder. She hung with her head down, the long hair almost trailing in the dirt as he stalked back toward the palace. Morgan kicked with her feet and pounded at his back with her fists. The silver sandals fell off and her bracelet became unfastened, clattering onto a stepping-stone. Francis seemed not even to notice her feeble efforts and angrily kicked open a side door which led into a narrow hallway. A single torch illuminated the passageway, and compared to the laughter and chatter of the banquet hall, the silence seemed eerie.

  They had gone about fifty yards when Francis kicked open another door, slammed it shut, and dumped Morgan onto a bed in a completely darkened room. Stunned, she lay as if paralyzed and suddenly blinked as Francis struck a piece of flint and lighted a short, stubby candle.

  “You even look like a whore in that God-awful gown,” he growled, standing by the bed with his tall figure casting a shadow which reached the farthest corners of the room. It was a small room, Morgan noted somewhere in the recesses of her befuddled mind, with few but finely wrought furnishings. Obviously, judging from the disarray of boots, cloaks, and other articles of clothing strewn about, it was Francis’s private chamber.

  Morgan started to get up, but one rough hand pushed her back on the bed. “Women who play the whore should be treated as such,” he declared fiercely, and with one swift motion bent down to rip the thin silk from shoulder to hem. Morgan shrieked in horror and vainly tried to cover herself with her hands. Francis, however, had not moved to touch her again. He still loomed over her, unfastening his short, undecorated cape of serge and removing the doublet with its subdued silver slashings. “You can yell your empty head off,” he said in a more amicable tone as he sat down on a wooden bench to pull off his boots. “Only a handful of visitors to the court reside in this wing and I’m quite certain they are all still drinking themselves
into a Lenten stupor.”

  Morgan felt utterly helpless and totally terrified. She rolled over onto her stomach and whimpered into the counterpane as she heard the rest of Francis’s clothes fall to the floor.

  “You have a charming backside, too,” he remarked in a voice that was now downright agreeable. “I didn’t get much of a look before.”

  “Oh, don’t!” she cried in a muffled voice. “Just leave me be!” His response was to put a heavy hand on her buttocks and squeeze hard. Morgan’s reaction was to jerk her legs up under her, unconscious of the fact that she was revealing even more of herself than before. Francis was sitting on the bed now, and his hand slipped into the crevice of her buttocks, the long fingers finding the intimate recesses and exploring them with a sure, probing touch. She pulled away furiously and banged her forehead on the bedpost. Francis laughed; Morgan reached out for the candle on the nightstand and flung it at him. The pewter holder grazed his temple and he cursed. As the candle fell against a chest of drawers, it sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness once more.

  Morgan took advantage of his momentary surprise by leaping off the bed, praying frantically that she could remember where she had seen one of the two long cloaks. If only she could snatch it up and run to the door ….

  But Francis grabbed her, catching her around the waist and hurling her face down onto the wooden bench. Morgan cried out in pain and shock, feeling the breath go out of her. The edge of the bench had hit her just below her breasts and she hung with half her torso dangling toward the floor. Francis sat on her thighs, imprisoning her in that awkward position, and now his tone had changed again: “You damned near brained me with that candle holder and might have set the place afire,” he said angrily. “I warned you, Morgan, you have a lesson to learn.” He grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her, moving just enough so that he could entrap them under his legs. She writhed beneath him but knew her movements were completely futile. His hands reached ’round to grasp her breasts, kneading them roughly, tugging at the nipples, bruising the tender flesh. She begged him to stop—he was hurting her, he was crushing her, causing her almost unbearable physical and mental anguish.