by Mary Daheim
If James ever wondered how his innocent bride was so adept at arousing him and had gone about it so boldly, he never let on. Morgan was puzzled by this at first, but it occurred to her after a few days that in his pride at finally having taken possession of a woman, he was far less concerned about how she had behaved than how he had performed. And her pained reaction had told him all he needed to know about her virginity. Morgan blessed all the saints, fates, and whomever else she could think of that James was not only inexperienced but self-absorbed as well.
Yet in the weeks that followed, his demands upon her body were not frequent; he made love to her every four or five nights, and though he became somewhat more imaginative in the exploration of his bride, he did not seem to notice that she was less responsive than she might have been.
If Morgan had to force herself to let James touch her, she also had to be fair. She now felt queasy a great deal of the time and it was a strain on her nerves to conceal the bouts of nausea from her husband. Wordlessly, Polly conspired to help Morgan with her deception. Virtually every morning the servingwoman would rouse them early, and as James preferred to begin his daily rounds as soon as possible, he was always gone before Morgan had to cry out for the basin.
Her first private conversation with the Dowager Countess had gone well, however, and that exchange was one of the brighter sides of Morgan’s new life thus far. The older woman confided that she was not in good health and that her husband’s death had made her less inclined than ever to play out her role as chatelaine.
“In truth,” she had said, with a wan smile, “I’m relieved that you are here. Lucy is wonderful with our people, but her pregnancies are quite difficult and before long she will be able to do very little. So it’s a blessing that you can act in my stead and hers as well.”
Morgan had been pleased at the Dowager Countess’s kindly words, though she wondered how long she herself would be able to keep up any heavy burden of responsibilities. Still, she would do her best, and began by visiting each tenant farmer and his family, nervously making conversation at first, then growing more at ease as she discovered the men and women of Belford had more in common with their Countess than she had expected.
“I never really talked to our people at Faux Hall,” she confessed to Lucy one late-June afternoon as they sat out on the terrace, watching the tide come in to completely cut off the Holy Isle and its abandoned monastery. “I’d greet them and exchange a few words, but even though I had known most of our people since I was a child, I never really learned what they were like.”
Lucy reached down to pat the mastiff, who had been roused from his nap by a pesky bee. “They are not so different, really,” Lucy remarked with her gentle smile. “They have their happy times and their sorrows, just as we do. They love and they hate, they beget children and live and die.” She paused, staring out at the breakers. “We are, after all, human beings, each with his or her own weaknesses and virtues.”
Morgan was about to remark that she could not imagine Lucy having any weaknesses or ever hating anyone, but saw her sister-in-law suddenly give a start, put her hand to her curving abdomen, and look at Morgan with an expression of surprised delight. “Oh,” she cried, “I felt the baby move! It’s the first time!”
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Morgan, and she wondered why the words sounded so hollow. Her own nausea had lessened, and so far she had not begun to show except for a general ripening of her body. But she actually felt vaguely ill at the thought of both her and Lucy carrying Francis’s babes. Indeed, she had avoided Lucy the last few weeks, since the other woman could talk of little but her expected child and the conversations overwhelmed Morgan with guilt. Luckily, she had managed to keep away from Francis almost entirely, since he was gone a great deal, sometimes with James, but more often alone.
Yet it was Francis who now came through the open terrace doors, his son and daughter at his side. Morgan still found the sight of the arrogant giant of a man with his two small children quite incongruous, but he appeared to be an extremely patient and even indulgent father. “We’ve just come from the village,” he announced, kissing Lucy’s cheek and nodding abruptly to Morgan. “Mary wants a certain necklace for her birthday and Geoffrey got into a squabble with the smithy’s son.”
“Why, he’s twice Geoffrey’s age!” Lucy cried, but seeing that her son bore no visible signs of being mishandled, she glanced up at her husband. “Who won?”
“I did,” said Francis with a grin, patting the boy’s fair head. “They’re both a pair of scamps.”
“Francis, guess what?” Lucy got to her feet and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Her hazel eyes glowed as she looked up into his face, and Morgan averted her gaze, watching Mary pull the mastiff’s ears. “I just felt life! Perhaps the baby will come sooner than we thought!” Francis ruffled her brown hair and bestowed an affectionate smile on his wife. “I’m pleased. But you know what that means, wife. You must rest more or Dr. Wimble will start his lectures.”
“Oh, I will, I will. In fact, I think I’ll go lie down now. It’s warm out here in spite of the breeze, and the children should nap, too.” Lucy picked up her sewing basket and told the children to follow her back into the castle. Mary balked, but a single word from her father sent her trudging behind her mother and brother. The mastiff seemed to sigh with relief as he settled back down to sleep in peace.
Francis stood by the railing of the terrace, his gaze apparently transfixed by the Holy Isle. “There are relics of St. Aidan and St. Cuthbert there, you know,” he said at last, turning to face Morgan, who was trying to concentrate on her volume of French sonnets. “At one time the island was actually connected to the mainland.”
“Yes. James told me.” She cleared her throat and had to squint at Francis for the sun was very bright. “He said we would go there some fine day when the tide was low enough to walk.”
“It’s still very damp going,” said Francis. “You’d best wear boots.” Neither spoke for several moments, Morgan fidgeting with the thin gold chain she wore at her waist, Francis examining one of the two stone lions which guarded the terrace doors. “You are feeling better now?” he asked at last.
“A bit.” Morgan still avoided his gaze.
“You will have to tell James soon,” he said, moving to stand by her chair.
“Yes. Another fortnight, I should think.” Suddenly her composure broke, and all the tension of the past few weeks seemed to explode at once. “Oh, Francis,” she gasped, trying to keep her voice low, “he’ll know! If the baby comes in December and I’m already showing in a few weeks, he can’t help but realize the truth!”
Francis stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his sandy brows drawn together. “No—I told you, he himself was premature. He’ll be so delighted to have produced an heir to Belford, he won’t be able to think of more than his own virility.”
But Morgan was not appeased. It was well and good for Francis to be so certain of his brother’s reaction; he would not have to bear the brunt of James’s wrath should the ruse fail. “I’m frightened,” she said in a voice that verged on tears. “It’s terrifying enough to bear a babe, but to carry the burden of deceit along with the child ….” She broke off, too distraught to continue.
“Oh, paugh,” snorted Francis. “You wouldn’t have thought twice about deceiving my family by dallying with the King or marrying Sean O’Connor instead. You would gladly have hoodwinked Henry Tudor, Thomas Cromwell, and half of England to have your way. Now quit whimpering about what is essentially a trivial matter.”
“Trivial!” Morgan leapt to her feet, all but shouted, and clamped her mouth shut tight lest someone overhear her. “You’re not the one having this baby! Or Lucy’s! What do you do, just lope about, getting women pregnant?”
Francis’s attempt at looking puzzled did not faze Morgan, and before he could reply, she spoke again in anger though in whispered tones: “Perhaps you intended this all along. Perhaps you are sure I’ll bear a boy
and your son will inherit Belford!”
Francis froze; the gray eyes turned chilly as the North Sea itself. For one instant, Morgan thought he would strike her, but the hand he had half raised dropped stiffly to his side. “You fool,” he growled, and turned on his heel to stride rapidly down the terrace toward the path which led to the sea.
The fair weather of June changed abruptly the first week of July. James had taken Morgan on an extensive tour of the Sinclair lands, pointing with pride to the fields of rye, beans, and farther inland, wheat. Great flocks of geese roamed among the crops, pecking for insects and growing fat for the markets of Alnwick.
But in the late afternoon, as they returned to the castle through the village, rain began to pelt down from a glowering gray sky. Morgan thought perhaps they would spend a cozy hour by the fire and she could tell him about the babe at last. But James had gone directly to make his rounds of the castle and she did not see him again until evening. Even then, he was still hard at work.
James had opened the ledger and set it down on the dressing table. “I’m perplexed over the amount we spent on casks this spring. The cooper is an honest man, yet the dozen we purchased for the new wine come to at least one-sixth more than we paid last year.”
In her role as wife and Countess, Morgan had tried very hard to take an interest in all matters pertaining to Belford and the Sinclair properties. However, it was often an effort to exude enthusiasm over details that bored her. “How many did you purchase last year?” she asked patiently.
“Only six,” James answered, frowning down at the precisely written figures. “But based upon that number and the price then as opposed to what we paid this time, there’s definitely an increase of two shillings per cask.”
Morgan vainly tried to think of some plausible explanation, failed, and climbed into bed. James continued to mull over the columns until his face suddenly lit up. “I remember! Francis suggested that the cooper use a new type of stave, which was more expensive. I’d forgotten. I suppose it was because the casks were delivered about the time my father died.”
“No doubt,” Morgan remarked, hoping she didn’t sound sarcastic; since the Earl had passed on while James was awaiting his new bride, it occurred to Morgan that her husband just might have been equally distracted by that event as well.
James closed the ledger and smiled with satisfaction. “That’s a great relief,” he declared, snuffing out the candles and coming to join Morgan in bed. “It’s very trying work to keep the accounts straight, but fortunately my father made certain I knew how from the time I was sixteen.”
“How wise of him,” Morgan murmured against her husband’s shoulder. “James, I’m going to have a baby.”
James neither moved nor spoke for some time. At last, he took Morgan’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m—very glad, Morgan,” he declared. “Our efforts have been rewarded.”
Morgan was glad that the stormy night made the bedchamber so dark that James could not see the resentful expression which crossed her face. She held her tongue for a few moments, lest she say something tactless, even angry. Efforts, indeed! She had thought that at least he seemed to enjoy making love to her, even if she found no fulfillment in his embrace.
“The child will probably arrive early in the new year,” she finally said, hoping the statement would be sufficiently ambiguous.
“Dr. Wimble must visit you at once,” James said, suddenly sounding very businesslike. “He’s very competent and has taken excellent care of Lucy, despite her delicacy. I would think, in fact, that we ought to follow Lucy and Francis’s example and refrain from, uh, our conjugal duties until after the child is born.”
Morgan’s eyes widened in the darkness. To be honest, she didn’t really care if James ever laid a hand on her again. But his decision had enlightened her about several things: James did not desire her so much as he wanted an heir; Lucy’s health was apparently more fragile than Morgan realized; and Francis’s enforced abstinence might explain his adulterous conduct. But it didn’t excuse him, she thought savagely, feeling far more sorry for Lucy than for Francis. But most of all, as the rain pummeled the windowpanes and James bade her a rather formal good-night, Morgan felt sorry for herself.
Chapter 9
The promise of a fine harvest was dimmed considerably by the relentless rains. Both James and Francis cursed the foul weather and bemoaned the probable failure while trying to buoy up their tenants’ drooping spirits. It was a miserable summer for Morgan, pent up in the castle, drawing comfort only from her visits with the Dowager Countess and Lucy and occasional romps with the children. But her depression plunged into despair when she received a letter from Faux Hall informing her that Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher had both been executed. “Sir Thomas went bravely to his death,” Sir Edmund wrote, “making jests all the way. His head was placed on London Bridge, but his poor daughter, Meg, came in the night to take it away and bury it decently.”
Morgan had cried for an hour when she learned this terrible news; she cried not just for Sir Thomas More, but for Sean and Bishop Fisher—and for herself. While they ate their noonday meal, she told James what had happened, but he merely shook his head.
“It was most unwise of More and Fisher to blatantly defy their King. Fisher was old, of course, but More could have given many more years of great service to this realm.”
Morgan was too appalled to reply; while she had mixed feelings about the religious controversy which had taken Sean’s life, she could not understand her husband’s cold, practical view of More’s martyrdom. She was still wrought up later in the day, and on impulse, sought out Francis in his library.
She had only been inside the little room once, when Lucy had taken her through the castle the day after Morgan had arrived at Belford. Every available space was taken up with books, and while Francis might be untidy about other things, he seemed to maintain a certain order where his reading materials were concerned.
The gray eyes looked up in surprise when Morgan entered the room. Except in the presence of others, they had not spoken since that afternoon on the terrace in June. “Well?” was Francis’s greeting, and his tone was brusque.
Morgan was unsettled as it was, and the glowering stare made her knees feel weak. Unbidden, she collapsed in the armchair across from his desk. “My father has some wonderful books and maps and nautical charts,” she babbled, and didn’t wonder that Francis was looking faintly bewildered.
“I’m sure he does. What’s the next topic, crop failure?”
Morgan twisted her hands nervously in her lap, touching the growing mound of her abdomen with trembling fingers. “Well, I know that’s very serious. Is it true that if there is famine in Scotland, the borderers may attack?”
Francis closed the volume he had been reading with an impatient gesture. “They used to. But if we have nothing to offer, they’ll stay on their side of the Tweed.” He looked at her more closely, noted the tears which were brimming in the topaz eyes, and let out a resigned sigh. “All right, you’ve not come here to discuss nautical charts and rain-soaked rye. What is it, then?”
“It’s Sir Thomas More,” she said in a gulp. “Have you heard?”
Francis’s shoulders seemed to slump in relief. “Of course, James told me. Good God, I thought from the look of you he’d managed to figure out your little game after all.”
“Oh!” Morgan rubbed at her forehead in an anguished motion and shook her head. “No, no, I’m just so upset—and James is not.”
“I know.” Francis’s tone softened. “I was greatly distressed myself. Somehow, I could not quite believe that Henry would actually have More killed. Fisher, perhaps, but not Sir Thomas. It’s a horrendous tragedy.”
Morgan suddenly relaxed and felt herself go limp. For one long, dizzy moment she thought she was falling into space and was only aware of reality when she realized Francis was kneeling next to her with his arms around her shoulders. “What happened?” she whispered faintly.
“
Not much. You just had a mild reaction to the shock you received. It’s all right. Here, I’ll get you some brandy.”
“No—I mean, please wait. I—I just want to stay still for a bit.” Their faces were almost touching and Morgan felt strangely safe in Francis’s arms. He held her in silence for some time and then put a big hand on her stomach.
“Whether you believe it or not,” he said in his deep voice, “I try to think this is James’s child. But I don’t succeed.”
“Oh, Francis.” Morgan let her head fall against his chest. “Of course not. It is your child and perhaps it’s just as well.”
He lifted her chin and stared at her, a puzzled, almost angry expression on his long face. “No, you mustn’t think that. At least you shouldn’t.”
“I can’t help what I think,” Morgan said, her voice muffled against Francis’s white cambric shirt.
He sighed on a long, deep note, which seemed to cause him pain. His hands fell away from her and he stood up, looming so tall that Morgan had to crane her neck to look at him from her place in the armchair. “I’ll get us both some brandy,” he said, and turned to a small inlaid cabinet where he found a decanter and two unmatched silver wine cups. Francis managed to spill a bit as he poured, frowned at the spots on the worn carpet from Araby, shrugged, and handed Morgan her cup.
She had never tasted brandy before and choked on the first draught. “You sip it,” Francis informed her, looking half-vexed, half-amused. “You also sniff it. Like this.” He demonstrated, and Morgan followed his example but gave a sudden start.
