by Mary Daheim
He drummed his fingers on the desk, then nodded slowly to himself. Yes, personal and political matters both weighed in favor of mercy. Morgan was definitely a useful pawn. He could present a fine argument to the King in support of his decision. At last satisfied, he looked up as a page entered, announcing that Morgan Todd was waiting outside the door.
She came slowly into the room, a subdued, dispirited version of the Morgan Todd her uncle had come to know.
“Good morning, niece,” greeted Cromwell, trying to be kind. He motioned for her to be seated. “Now,” he began, “you must realize the deep shock I feel over the O’Connor affair. I cannot understand how you could have been witless enough to get involved. This is a matter of the utmost seriousness ….”
Morgan barely heard her uncle drone on. The sunshine through the leaded windowpanes made her feel sleepy; besides, her mind hadn’t seemed to function properly since Richard Griffin had dragged her from the river five days earlier. Still, Sean’s image beat like a death drum on her heart, and there was no help, no succor for it.
At last Cromwell seemed to be drawing to a conclusion. Morgan forced herself to focus on his words.
“So tomorrow morning you will leave for Belford. It’s best that you go before any more scandal is spread. And it’s most fortuitous that Francis Sinclair returned from Woodstock only a few days ago. At the moment, I am seeing to it that as little information as possible about your part in this affair is mentioned ….”
Morgan again lost track of what Cromwell was saying. Belford … tomorrow … Sean … dead … murder … my uncle is a murderer …. Yet somehow her mind could not accept that awful, horrendous fact—that the man who sat before her spewing endless familial advice had actually sent her love to his death.
“Morgan!” Cromwell spoke sharply, then checked his temper. “I know you’re distraught. But I’m saying something very important to you.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. “This is the Oath of Supremacy. Will you sign?”
Somewhere on the fuzzy edges of her mind she heard Sean warning her about how the Act of Succession would lead to further destruction of the Church, how even Francis Sinclair had foretold a dire fate for the old ways. She gave herself a shake, ignoring Cromwell’s questioning gaze. What difference did it make, all this religious controversy and ghastly violence? What had the Pope done to save Sean? What had God himself done to spare a young man’s life? She had signed the act. Now she would affix her signature to the oath as well. A pox on Popes and Kings and all their minions.
She picked up the quill Cromwell proffered her. With swift, almost reckless strokes, she signed her name.
“You’ve shown great wisdom,” Cromwell said with a smile. “I will tell the King that you have learned your lesson.”
Morgan looked out at him from bitter, ironic eyes. She dared not speak. Cromwell stood up, his shrewd mind plumbing her thoughts. “You’d best start packing. I believe Francis Sinclair has made some purchases for you.”
Morgan stood up, too. She stared dumbly at the wall as Cromwell awkwardly cleared his throat. “Godspeed, Morgan,” he said at last. She didn’t look at him but turned and left the room without having said a single word.
Wrapped in her riding cloak, Morgan sat by the window as the first rays of morning sun challenged the darkness. She concentrated on the details of her leave-taking, rather than on what lay ahead or had gone before. Everything was in order—the trunks and two extra boxes, which the serving people had already removed to the courtyard.
She had been waiting for almost ten minutes when a heavy knock sounded at the door. Francis. She sighed and got up to let him in.
But it was Tom Seymour, not Francis Sinclair, who came through the door. Morgan cried out his name and flew into his arms.
“Muffet, my poor muffet,” soothed Tom, as he felt Morgan’s body begin to shake with convulsive sobs. “I am so very, very sorry.”
She clung desperately to him, the pent-up grief released in a terrible torrent. Tom held her close, saying nothing. He knew that she must let her tears assuage her sorrow or her heart would surely break. He had returned from the Low Countries only the night before; Ned, one of the few people at court who knew the whole story about Sean, had recounted it to Tom.
When at last the tears stopped flowing and the shaking ceased, Tom took her face in his hands. “Morgan, you won’t believe or accept what I’m going to say—at least not now. But you are young, so very young. You have many years ahead of you. A girl, a woman like you will fall in love again.” He shook his head, aware that his words were in vain, that Morgan would have to live that lesson to learn it.
Morgan tried to speak but the tears started again. Tom pulled her against his chest and kissed her forehead. “The sun is up, muffet. Sinclair will be here any moment.” He released her and moved toward the door but stopped with his hand on the latch. “One other thing, Morgan—Sean O’Connor didn’t die on the rack. He died the day King Henry defied the Pope. The man you loved—the real man—could never have survived in this new world his monarch has created. I swear to you, Sean must have welcomed his second death.”
The Great North Road, England’s main artery, was still muddy from the spring rains. The wagon carrying Morgan’s belongings bumped along precariously at the end of the little caravan. Still, the travelers maintained a steady pace, for Francis Sinclair was anxious to reach Belford lest more rain cause flooding.
The party included two Sinclair retainers, and two serving women sent by James Sinclair for his bride-to-be. Francis led the way, with Morgan following; the two scarcely spoke the first day. They reached Kettering that night, where Morgan, her spirit more weary than her body, toyed with her food and wished she had insisted upon eating alone in her room.
“I know you don’t want to discuss it with me,” Francis said without preamble as he cut a huge chunk from a leg of mutton, “but I’m sorry about what happened to Sean O’Connor.”
Morgan stared at him, wondering at first if he was being sarcastic. But Francis was regarding her with an open, candid expression. He knew more than she wished he did, but her ties with Sean had been no secret at court. Cromwell would play down her involvement, of course, but Francis was not easily deceived.
“Sean’s dead. It’s over.” Morgan dropped a chunk of dark bread into the congealing gravy. It wasn’t over for her, it never would be, but she had vowed that no one ever again would guess what was in her heart.
“On the contrary,” Francis contradicted, piling boiled potatoes into his trencher, “it’s just begun.” He saw the question form on her lips and waved his empty whiskey cup at her. “I don’t mean O’Connor, I mean the entire religious issue.”
“You were right from the start,” Morgan commented in a peevish voice. “But I don’t want to discuss it.”
Francis nodded. “Indeed. Yet it’s only fitting that I tell you I have no intention of bringing tales home to James.”
In her desolation, that possibility had never occurred to Morgan. If her future husband knew his betrothed had been even remotely implicated in a Papist plot to free Sir Thomas More, he might denounce her and try to extricate himself from the marriage contract. Not that she would care—but she found it curious that Francis Sinclair, so concerned about his family’s honor, had not taken it upon himself at least to delay the wedding until he had more time to consult with his brother.
She would not pose such a question, however. Instead, she remained silent, her own food growing cold while Francis ate with gusto. Now that he had said his piece, he seemed to have forgotten about Morgan’s presence. She studied him covertly, noting the big, rather bony hands; the long, clean-shaven face; the broad, slightly sloping shoulders; and the fine lines of laughter around his gray eyes. He must laugh more than I realize, she thought idly. But then, they had hardly found themselves in mirth-provoking situations; maybe at Belford he would be different. More to the point, James might be different, too, the kind and gentle man Francis had described.
For some reason her gaze kept straying back to Francis’s hands. It’s because I’m avoiding his eyes, she told herself, and watched him skewer one last piece of mutton with his dagger.
The next day was the warmest of the spring thus far. Morgan’s dark blue riding costume grew uncomfortable and the silk blouse stuck to her back. But she made no mention of her discomfort to Francis. She kept silent, watching his broad back in front of her as he doggedly pointed his gray gelding toward their second stop, Nottingham.
On the third day the weather turned cool again, with a hint of rain. They moved now out of the rolling hills and quiet forests into the flat farm country. The fields were scenes of activity, with whole families working on the spring crops. Morgan was beginning to take notice of her surroundings, suddenly realizing that London and Faux Hall had been left far behind. Events had moved too swiftly during the last few days for her to know how she really felt. Now it occurred to her that she would miss her family, that she would miss Tom Seymour, that she would even miss life at court—though all its intrigues seemed unbearable to her now.
They entered York through one of the ancient Roman gates. The walls seemed remarkably intact, causing Morgan to marvel at the conquerors’ building prowess. Inside the city, tradesmen, farmers, and merchants were busily engaged in making the last profits for the day.
The little party wound through the narrow streets, slowly making its way among the hawkers and housewives, beggars and strumpets, priests and yeomen. Francis finally reined in at The Cock and Kettle, a small but respectable inn.
Francis helped Morgan dismount, and the retainers led the animals away. “Do you want to go to the minster now?” Francis asked.
“I’d rather eat supper first,” Morgan answered, genuinely hungry for the first time since Sean had left her at the Convent of St. Ursula.
Francis shrugged. “It makes no difference. It should still be light by then.” He led the way into the inn, the serving women following Morgan at a respectful distance.
Morgan ate in her room, as she had done since the first night out. After Kettering she had wondered why Francis seemed so unconcerned about leaving her alone. But one glance at Peg and Polly, the sturdy serving wenches, made her realize that they were her keepers as well as her servants. Still, they seemed pleasant enough, especially Polly, the older of the two. Morgan felt no resentment toward either of them and decided she might eventually try to win them over. Loyal servants, she had learned at court, often were more valuable than pure gold.
She began to grow impatient when Francis hadn’t appeared after over an hour. It was beginning to get dark, although the rain had stopped. She paced the length of the room, stopping every so often to glance out the small window. Finally, as the church bells struck seven, a loud knock sounded on the door. Polly hurried to answer it.
“Ready?” was Francis’s only greeting.
Morgan looked at him swiftly, noting that he nearly filled the door. She nodded and picked up her cloak, which Peg helped put over her shoulders. Francis held the door open as she swept past him into the passageway.
“How was your supper?” Francis asked amiably, as they made their way through the crooked street leading to the minster’s east entrance.
“Well enough,” Morgan answered, wondering if Francis’s good humor had been caused by her effort to break the barrier of silence between them.
They reached the outside of the great church, stopping to stare up at the three great towers. Morgan peered upwards for a long time, awed by the minster’s massive beauty.
“The tower to the west is over two hundred feet high,” Francis told her. “See the great window? There are two thousand square feet of glass in it.” He watched Morgan’s eyes widen with amazement. “Still,” he went on, “the Five Sisters window on the other side is even more beautiful.”
They went inside where Morgan gasped with wonder. The vaulted ceiling soared heavenward, with both the length and width of the church contributing to a spiritual and temporal vastness. Then Morgan saw the Five Sisters, an immense but infinitely delicate window of rainbow colors. Each of the five panes, Francis explained, represented a different saint. Morgan kept staring upwards, her dark eyes marveling at the intricate craftsmanship.
“You told me how lovely it was,” she murmured, “but I don’t believe anyone could truly describe it.”
Francis moved away toward the choir stalls. “The needlework is superb, too. Come see the intricacy of design here.”
Morgan followed obediently and marveled at the even stitches, the use of color, and most of all, the hours of dedication it must have taken to create such masterworks. Her own efforts seemed more than just amateurish, they seemed pathetic.
At last they left the minster, heading back for The Cock and Kettle in a very fine mist. Francis was now the one who was silent, though Morgan tried to ask him questions about the ancient city, particularly the narrow street called The Shambles. But he answered tersely: Yes, the original walls had been built by Romans; yes, it was still one of the most strongly fortified cities in England; yes, The Shambles, so narrow that the roofs almost abutted across the lane, had originally been the local butchering area.
Back at the inn, Francis bade Morgan a curt good evening and headed for his own room. Morgan sat by the fire in virtual silence, though Peg and Polly exchanged scraps of conversation. Just as a buck-toothed serving wench arrived with hot water for bathing, Francis appeared again in the doorway.
With an abrupt motion of his hand, Francis gestured for Peg and Polly to leave. Morgan frowned at him after the serving women left; he was standing with his back to the door, the bushy brows drawn together,
“We are only two days’ ride from Belford now,” he declared, moving more slowly than usual to the roughhewn table where Morgan still sat. “Once we are at the castle you and I must not engage in physical contact.”
“I should think not!” Morgan all but shrieked. “I never wanted to—what did you just say?—‘engage in physical contact’ with you in the first place!”
Francis impatiently waved a big hand at her. “You haven’t the remotest notion what you really want. You want a knight in shining armor to praise your charms with well-measured verse.”
Morgan was on her feet, glaring up at Francis. “That’s not what I wanted; I wanted Sean O’Connor!”
“You did not want Sean O’Connor, you merely wanted to be in love with Sean O’Connor.” His tone suddenly turned softer: “Oh, you may well have been in love with him, though I doubt it. Never mind. You are ready to argue that forever, but at this late date, it scarcely matters. What does matter is that you and I have wasted our opportunities until now. Of course, I knew you would not be ready to bed with me right away, but our time together is almost over and soon you will be married to James.”
Morgan was so astounded and angry that she could hardly speak. “You’re talking rot, Francis Sinclair,” she spat out at last. “I want no time with you. I never have!”
“Hmmm.” There was a twinkle in the gray eyes, which Morgan could not believe she had actually seen. “I’ve just taken a too-hasty approach with you before, that’s all. You wish to be wooed? Very well, I can woo as well as the next one.”
“Don’t woo me; don’t touch me!” Morgan backed away from him, colliding with a chair.
Francis put his hands on her shoulders, a firm but painless grip. Now he was smiling, that whimsical, satyr-like expression that made him seem strangely guileless. His mouth brushed hers, and then he paused, waiting for her reaction. “What? No clawing, biting, kicking? Have you so lost your spirit that you will not even try to defend your honor?”
“I left my honor in the orchard at Faux Hall—and my heart on the bank of the Thames,” Morgan replied faintly. “Have your way. You will, no matter what I do.”
Francis searched her face for a long moment. “That isn’t what I intended this time.”
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter. Though it ought to matter
to you. What will Peg and Polly think?”
He shrugged. “Our servants are as loyal as they are discreet, even—perhaps especially—within the family circle. They are well treated and well imbursed.”
Morgan did not reply. Francis continued studying her, his hands still on her shoulders. She knew that he was arguing with himself, trying to calculate whether or not a totally unresponsive female was worth the trouble. She also knew that he would have preferred that she respond with either ardor or anger—but that her inanimate, indifferent attitude must dampen his desire considerably. It was an instinctive reaction on her part and she was suddenly very pleased with her innate sense of what would thwart Francis Sinclair’s unwelcome advances.
But she was wrong. Francis pulled her to him again and this time his kiss was hard and demanding. She felt his tongue probing against her teeth, felt his hands move to caress her buttocks, felt the strength of him pressing against her, forcing her backwards toward the bed. Despite her vow to remain unmoved and unresponsive, Morgan struggled in his arms. He was pushing her down, his weight on top of her, his tongue now roving at will inside her mouth, his hands moving to the ties of her blue silk traveling blouse.
“Whoever invented these damnable lacings?” he growled, but there was a humorous undertone in his voice. Clumsily, he undid the ties with one hand while the other pushed the heavy tawny hair from her forehead. Morgan felt her heart beating very rapidly and wondered if she ought to renew her struggles. But he had finished unlacing her blouse and parted the fabric to reveal her full, white breasts. As if by reflex she attempted to shove his hands away; her gesture was futile, and he took a nipple between each thumb and forefinger, grinning at the almost instantaneous rigidity.
