by Mary Daheim
“But, Sean, why couldn’t I have waited at Faux Hall?” She clasped her hand over his.
“Your uncle’s men may be watching Faux Hall this very minute. You see, I refused to take the Oath of Supremacy, declaring Henry head of the Church. I had not planned on staying at Faux Hall for more than a day or two anyway”—he made a wry face—“regardless of your father’s limited hospitality. I can’t be seen again in London, either. But most of all, I can’t give you up to a Northumberland heretic.”
“Oh, Sean, this is too dangerous! What of my parents? What if you’re caught in London?” She half stood up, setting the skiff rocking dangerously. Sean spoke sharply and Morgan sat down again on the seat board. She was on the verge of tears. “Dear God, Sean, this is insane!”
Again he let the oars go slack as he leaned forward. “Do you love me?” He saw her give a shaky nod. “Then,” he went on, “I want to hear no more arguments. Not another word until we reach the convent. Very well?”
She nodded again, even more meekly than before. Composing her trembling hands in her lap, she tried to keep her mind on the peaceful countryside as the skiff moved steadily toward Thame.
It was dark when Morgan and Sean pulled onto the bank at the Convent of St. Ursula. The only part of the original building was the chapel, which had been built in the early thirteenth century to commemorate the British princess who had marched on Rome with eleven thousand virgins. Ursula, together with her followers, had been put to death by the Huns. The present convent had been built some hundred and fifty years later with, some said, contributions from Henry the Sixth’s Queen, Margaret of Anjou.
Sean quickly but carefully tied the skiff near some stone steps which led up from the river to a heavy wooden door. He gave Morgan his hand and spoke for the first time since his demand for silence. “The mother superior is a cousin of my mother’s. I haven’t seen her since I was a child, but she’ll know my name.”
Morgan still said nothing. She was very cold and her foot slipped once as they climbed the damp steps. Sean tightened his grip on her arm, releasing it only when they got to the door. He grasped the iron knocker but Morgan suddenly protested:
“Sean—you must promise—before you go back to London, send word to my parents. Not where I am, perhaps, but at least that I’m with you and that … that all is well. If you don’t, they’ll come looking for me, and that could be disastrous, too.”
He bent his dark head and considered her statement. Finally, he nodded. “Yes, you may be right. I shall tell the mother superior to send a message.” He banged the door three times.
It was a full minute before anyone appeared. Then a little hole opened above the knocker and Morgan saw an eye looking out at them. She jumped and grabbed Sean’s arm. The voice that belonged to the eye asked the visitor’s identities.
“I am Sean O’Connor of Armagh, seeking the help of the Lord and the mother superior. She knew me as a child in Ireland. I bring with me a pious young lady who seeks your protection.”
There was no reply from the other side of the door as the eye disappeared and the peephole closed. Morgan asked Sean if he thought they would be admitted.
“I am sure of it,” he answered. “They are still saying prayers for my father’s soul.” He crossed himself, then noticed that Morgan was shivering. “My poor love.” He put both arms around her and held her close. “I know how hard it is for you—not knowing what I plan to do. You will love me, no matter what?”
“Yes,” sighed Morgan, barely able to conceal the apprehension and the weariness in her voice. “I will love you always.”
The door swung open and before them stood a tall, heavy woman in her late fifties. Her white robes made her seem even larger than she was, but the kindness in her face contrasted with the formidability of her size. Sean released Morgan and went down on his knees to kiss the mother superior’s hand.
“Enough of that,” she said with the trace of a smile. “Come inside quickly; the spring air is chilly at night.” She led them down a long corridor and into a small room, which was bare except for two candles, a small desk and prie-dieu, and a magnificent gold crucifix.
“My son,” she said in her low voice, “it has been fifteen years since I saw you. What brings you here?”
Sean put his hand on Morgan’s wrist and brought her forward. “This is Mistress Morgan Todd, Thomas Cromwell’s niece by marriage. She is a follower of the true faith and needs your protection for a few days—until I come back to fetch her.”
At Cromwell’s name the mother superior’s face tightened visibly and her eyes grew wary. When the nun spoke again, her voice seemed to have lost some of its kindness. “You live at Faux Hall?”
“Yes, Reverend Mother,” replied Morgan, attempting to lower her gaze with what she hoped the older woman would take for maidenly modesty.
Sean intervened quickly. “She is hiding neither from her uncle nor her parents. This is all my doing. I must attend to important business in London, the nature of which I can’t disclose. I want Morgan to be assured of safety while I’m gone.”
The mother superior fingered her rosary—Morgan thought the beads looked like real pearls—and glanced away from the young couple. She was obviously loath to get embroiled in what was surely a dangerous court intrigue. “I fear for this sad, sin-filled world of ours.” Her eyes traveled to the crucifix. “Within walls such as these is the only peace this side of heaven. But when disturbing elements from the outside world creep inside our doors, even that peace comes to an end.”
Sean glanced away from the reluctant nun to his exhausted love. Suddenly he went down on his knees. “I beg you, Reverend Mother, in the name of my father’s soul and for the sake of my mother’s memory, help us! I swear that what I must do, I do in the name of Christ, the savior of us all!”
The nun seemed moved by Sean’s fervent plea. She rested her hand on his head for a moment before she spoke, and the kindness returned to her voice. “Very well. Mistress Todd may stay. I must trust any son of Mary O’Connor’s. It is only that fear walks with us all these days. Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher languish in the Tower and they are the two finest men in England. Sometimes I grow weak with the thought of what will happen to us lesser mortals.”
Sean rose and took the mother superior’s hand. “You speak truly, Reverend Mother. I shall remember you in my prayers until I die.” He turned to Morgan. “I must be on my way now.”
The nun protested. “Surely you won’t be starting out so late?”
“Yes,” said Sean, “I must. I will need a horse, though. Do you have one to spare or know of where I could get one? I’ll pay for it, of course.”
The mother superior told Sean of a farmer just down the road who would lend him a mount. She also insisted that he have some supper before he left. He finally agreed and they adjourned to the refectory, where a young nun brought food for Sean and Morgan. During the meal Sean made arrangements for a message to be sent to Morgan’s parents by a trustworthy village boy. And then the mother superior left Morgan and Sean alone for their good-byes.
It was a brief but tender parting. Sean kissed Morgan only once, very gently, and then held her against his chest and said nothing for at least a minute. An almost desperate fear clutched at Morgan, as if he were already parted from her, even though she could still feel him in her arms.
“If only I knew …. It all seems so dangerous …” she ventured when at last he released her.
He shook his head. “You cannot. Just pray for me … and wait.” And he held her close again and then he was gone.
It started to rain the next day, and kept up until the river had risen half a foot. Morgan spent much of her time at the windows, glumly looking out at the wet spring weather. Prayer was some source of consolation. The mother superior was kind but the other nuns kept their distance, and it was a lonely, anguished week for Morgan.
The messenger had returned the day after Morgan’s arrival. All he had told her parents was that she had go
ne away with Sean and that she was safe. She knew they would worry, but for the time being her fate seemed completely out of her hands. But it usually did, she thought vexedly, despite her vows to the contrary.
Seven days, thought Morgan, and then she recounted. It suddenly occurred to her that it was the first day of May—the month her wedding was supposed to take place. She shuddered and said another quick prayer for Sean. She was standing in the small cell the mother superior had assigned her; it was barren except for a chair, a desk, a prie-dieu, and a lumpy pallet.
A bell from the village tolled the noon hour—time for the Angelus, followed by dinner. Morgan adjusted her coif, wishing she had a mirror like the one from Venice she used at court. She considered joining the nuns for their prayers but decided to stay in her cell until mealtime. Just as the dinner bell rang and Morgan turned to leave for the dining hall, she heard hoofbeats in the distance. Her heart fluttered. Sean? But that was the sound of several horses. Had he come with friends? It was possible, but not likely. Unable to contain her curiosity or maintain her decorum, she fled from the cell, racing along the narrow corridor and up the stairs to the main floor.
Down the hall near the main entrance she saw one of the younger nuns heading toward the door. Out of breath, Morgan stopped and tried to hide herself in a narrow wall recess. She could barely hear the nun’s voice and the closed door muffled the sound of whoever was on the other side. Apparently some sort of exchange was going on between the nun and the visitors. Anxiety was turning to disappointment for Morgan—surely if it were Sean, the nun would have let him in at once ….
At last the nun stepped aside to admit the callers. Morgan gathered her skirts around her tightly and tried to peek out into the hall. The day was still dark and only one window admitted any light into the corridor. Morgan peered at the men—three of them, she counted—but all she could make out were forms. From the other end of the hall came the mother superior, who joined the little group. Her voice, though low, carried better than the others, and Morgan strained to hear. She picked up only a fragment of the sentence but it was enough:
“Of course, if it is the King’s wish that Mistress Todd be brought back ….”
Escape—it was the only thought, completely blanking out fear or discretion. Morgan raced back down the steps. She could reach the door to the river by crossing to the other end of the convent. Once outside, she would head for the woods. No, she countermanded herself, they might have dogs with them. The river was the only answer—yes, the river, for Sean had left the boat there. It would be the last place they would look since the mother superior had no inkling how she and Sean had arrived at the convent.
Gasping for breath, she reached the little door, thankful that the nuns were in the refectory. With effort, she pushed open the heavy door, ran down the steps, and untied the skiff. Removing the oars from the oarlocks, she began to row back toward Faux Hall. It was hard going. Morgan hadn’t rowed a boat for years and she was fighting the current and the high waters. Her muscles strained in protest as she struggled with the oars, trying desperately to hold her course.
It was only after she had battled half a mile upstream that her mind began to function normally again. How had she been found? What had happened to Sean? Who had told the King’s Men where she was? Panic overcame her and her hands trembled on the oars. She stopped rowing and attempted to calm herself. Maybe her parents had asked for help in finding her. They could have sent word to Cromwell. And they would have known she might still be in the vicinity ….
She gripped the oars again and began to pull away, now conscious that it was raining once more. Another half mile; the rain had turned into a spring downpour. The little skiff was beginning to fill with water. Morgan stopped for a second time. Could she bail out the boat with only her hands? Or should she go ashore and risk hiding in the woods? Her dress was soaked, the rain was cold, and her arms ached. But she was still only a mile from the convent. She decided to keep rowing until she was forced to abandon the boat.
Each pull on the oars tired her more. Oblivious to everything but her physical effort, she never heard the riders along the bank. It wasn’t until a man jumped into the water that she looked up. Her sharp scream pierced the rainfall as she recognized Richard Griffin swimming toward her.
“Pull in, you little fool!” he cried. “Pull in, or I’ll tip you over!”
Morgan’s eyes flashed; there was just enough strength left for a final defiance. “No! Whoreson!” She plunged the oars back into the river.
Richard was an excellent swimmer and he had only a few yards to go. He reached the skiff in seconds and grabbed the prow with his hands. Morgan lashed out with an oar, just missing the top of his head. With one heave, Richard threw the little skiff over and Morgan splashed into the river. Richard dove under and pulled her to the surface. Morgan limply let him fight the current, hauling her to the riverbank where she slumped onto the ground. She was vaguely aware of Will Brereton and Francis Weston standing by their horses.
Morgan coughed and spat water. The men watched her closely, not speaking until she spoke to them. “How did you find me?” she asked wearily, attempting to stand. It was so miserably cold and wet on the ground that she had to get up.
Richard helped her to her feet. “Your lover told us,” he replied abruptly.
A spark returned to her eyes. “Sean? He didn’t! You lie! Where is he?”
Richard’s voice was low, even, and faintly malicious. “He’s dead. He died on the rack two days ago.”
“No! It’s not true …” Morgan whispered. “No….’’ She screamed once, a piercing shriek that cut through the damp air.
Her shocked reaction disconcerted Richard more than he’d expected. He didn’t reply, and Francis Weston intervened. “Sean didn’t betray you, Morgan. I know that. He was told that if he didn’t tell where you were hiding, you’d be tried for treason. He only talked because he was afraid for you.”
Morgan stood very still, her eyes unseeing, unblinking. “No ….”
“You’ve been a fool, Morgan,” said Richard, his composure regained. “You stand a fine chance of going to the Tower. Your uncle is in a rare fury over this insane plot.”
Morgan’s stare broke. “Plot? Plot for what?”
Weston spoke gently. “Sean was trying to get Sir Thomas More out of the Tower. He was caught and put on the rack. They … they tortured him to find out who his accomplices were. He revealed no names at first, but apparently your parents had already sent a message to your Uncle Thomas asking him if he knew where you were. In their own innocence, they finally admitted that you had fled Faux Hall with Sean. At any rate, the inquisitors asked Sean where you were, he said he didn’t know, and that’s when they told him it would be best for you if you were found at once, to prove you knew nothing of the plot.”
Morgan scarcely heard the last sentence. Her eyes glazed over again and she wandered dazedly toward an oak tree. “Madness … madness … I should have guessed ….” Suddenly she cried out, wildly pounding her fists against the weathered tree trunk. “Why didn’t he tell me? I might have stopped him! I could have saved him! Oh, God, dear God, oh, God!”
Weston took a cautious step toward her, waiting for the cries to die out. “Morgan, did you truly not know of this wild plan?”
She was convulsed by sobs; all she could do was shake her head.
“Then,” Weston went on, “you must convince your uncle. I’m sure he doesn’t want to put his own niece in the Tower.”
“I don’t care!” she shouted at him. “Sean’s dead! I don’t care what happens to me!” She had a sudden urge to race back to the river and plunge into the deepest waters. Sean had chosen martyrdom over her love. What was left except long years of lonely remorse?
Richard spoke out sharply. “God’s eyes! Maybe you don’t care what happens, but I’m like to die of a chill. Come along. We’ve got to head back to the village and get some dry clothes.”
Morgan hesitated, trying to c
ontrol her sobs. Her entire body was convulsed with shock, grief, and terror. Stumbling blindly she went to Francis Weston, who helped her onto his horse and then climbed up behind her. Exhausted, she slumped back against him, and the little party headed back to Thame.
PART TWO
1535-1540
Chapter 8
Thomas Cromwell’s burdens grew by the day. Law, taxes, trade, church and state, foreign affairs, domestic politics, dynastic considerations, all claimed his attention and required the full concentration of his inexhaustible mental energies. He worked harder than ever, longer than usual, those spring days of 1535. And now one more matter was thrust upon him, and a family concern at that.
Morgan, he thought, silently cursing his sister-in-law and her husband for ever letting the little chit stray from the confines of Faux Hall. Here she was, his own niece, involved in a brazen attempt to thwart the King’s justice.
He barely gave a thought to Sean O’Connor. That foolish young man had met a fitting end. But implicating Morgan was a different matter. True, Francis Weston had convinced him that Morgan seemed to know nothing of O’Connor’s intentions. And O’Connor, even in agony on the rack, had denied that she knew anything about his single-handed effort to free Sir Thomas More.
Shoving some papers distractedly around his desk, Cromwell considered his next move. He was a practical man who understood people very well; Morgan’s guilt was not for political treachery but for love, a love which Cromwell himself had tried to snuff out. More important, it was Morgan’s family that had given him the respectability he had needed so desperately to make his way in the world. To have any of his kin locked in the Tower—or worse—would surely not reflect well.
And then there was the Sinclair marriage. Belford was an important link in the chain Cromwell was drawing around the Catholic Church. The North was predominantly of the old faith—Lord Dacre had been evidence of that. Cromwell and his King might one day need a loyal lord upon whom to rely in time of trouble, especially since the Earl of Northumberland seemed to grow more weak-kneed all the time. What better man to bind to the crown than one married to Cromwell’s own niece?
