by Mary Daheim
“Are you able to remain for the offerings?” James whispered as Lucy rocked a now-fractious Robbie in her arms. But Morgan assured her husband that since she would be seated for the children’s homage, all would be well. And then another idea came to her:
“James, let’s put Robbie in the crèche. The straw is clean, he’s well wrapped, and the children will enjoy that very much.”
Her husband hesitated; he had not been overly keen on bringing the babe out in the evening air, but when the weather had held, he had given in to Morgan’s pleas. “Very well,” he agreed, and watched Lucy lay the infant in the makeshift manger.
Morgan smiled with pleasure as she held out the old wicker basket and observed each child look faintly awed by the sight of the tiny Belford heir wriggling in the straw. The grown-ups murmured among themselves and nodded in approval; their Countess was as kind as she was fair.
When Morgan and James finally got into bed late that night, they were both weary but pleased. “You gladdened our people’s hearts, Morgan,” James said with noticeable warmth. “My father would have been proud of you.”
“Babies win hearts easily,” Morgan said, adjusting the pillow behind her head. “Our good folk needed something special after the horror they endured from the raid.” James went through his ritual of adjusting the bed hangings and snuffing out the last candle. “True. And our son is a handsome child,” he asserted with pride. “He is good sized, too, for coming so soon.”
Morgan stiffened and forced herself to speak casually. “Babies in my family are usually large. Both Nan and I were, at least for girls.” It was true, and Morgan was glad she hadn’t had to lie. Somehow, on this one night, she had almost been able to believe that the child she had borne truly belonged to her husband.
“We have been blessed,” James said in a voice that had suddenly grown sleepy. He reached out and patted Morgan’s shoulder. “We must pray that next time we will be equally fortunate.”
“Of course.” Morgan spoke as if by reflex. Only now did it occur to her that within a few short weeks James might want to make love to her again. And now that her body was freed of its burden, she wanted to make love—but not, she realized with a sudden sense of despair, with her husband.
Gifts for the new baby arrived along with letters from Faux Hall in mid-February. Morgan and Lucy had a fine time opening the packages and exclaiming over Grandmother Isabeau’s exquisitely stitched infant’s cap, the quilt Nan had laboriously pieced, the silver cup from Lady Alice and Sir Edmund, and the crocheted lap robe made by Aunt Margaret.
The letters, however, contained sad tidings: Catherine of Aragon had died in January. Rumors flew that Catherine had been poisoned. “I fear it is more likely her sad demise was brought about by a broken heart,” Lady Alice wrote. “Yet His Grace and Anne Boleyn”—Morgan noted that her mother still would not refer to Anne as Queen—“dressed in bright yellow and celebrated openly. The court is in a festive mood of late in any event, since Anne is with child again. Your dear cousin, however, has used this change of mood as a weapon in waging her own small war against Aunt Margaret; Nan is determined to go to court this spring.”
Morgan smiled at the vision of Nan and Aunt Margaret going head to head over the court venture. Nan would win eventually, as she would be seventeen in March and her mother could not hold her back much longer.
But the second letter, written by her father and dated almost a week later, contained news which changed Nan’s fate—and many another’s in England. A joust had been held in late January to further mark Catherine’s passing. Indeed, it was the same day that the former Queen was buried with little pomp or ceremony at Peterborough Cathedral. But fate dealt both Henry and Anne a cruel if, as some might say, well-deserved blow: The King had been unseated from his mount and lay unconscious for some time. Anne had not attended the tournament, but her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, was only too pleased to bring his despised niece bad news. He had told her that Henry was dead. The shock made Anne miscarry, and the unborn child had been well-enough formed for the court physicians to determine without any doubt that it was a boy.
“His Grace recovered and told Anne tersely that she would get no more children by him. His rage is said to have been terrible indeed, and Anne’s state is most precarious.” Morgan puzzled over that sentence. She knew her parents could not be openly critical or specific since letters might be intercepted. Did her father refer to the Queen’s health or to her position as consort? Of course, Morgan suddenly realized, now that Catherine was dead, Henry could rid himself of Anne. If he had tried to do so while his first Queen lived, even his most ardent supporters would have insisted he take Catherine back; two discarded consorts would be more than even Henry Tudor’s staunchest adherents could stomach.
“In consequence,” her father continued, “Aunt Margaret does not feel the time is right for Nan’s presentation at court. Nor is Nan certain she wishes to go while matters remain unresolved.”
Again, a veiled reference to Anne’s future, Morgan thought as she finished the rest of the letter, which dealt with news of Faux Hall and some of the neighboring families. As Morgan put the letters away in her silver casket, she said a silent prayer for each Queen: for the repose of Catherine’s soul, and that Anne would persevere.
Still, the events at court seemed very far away and life at Belford continued in its set pattern as the Sinclairs and their tenants made ready for the spring sowing. Then, unexpectedly, the happenings in and around London reached out to touch the castle’s inhabitants in a surprising manner.
At the end of March, Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, rode into the castle courtyard with two retainers. Morgan, holding Robbie in her arms, watched Percy from the nursery window. It was a sunny day, promising that winter was over and commonfolks’ troubles might be eased. A half-dozen servants were greeting the Earl, and Morgan summoned Agnes to take the babe.
By the time Morgan arrived in the entry hall, James was already welcoming Percy. Morgan recognized him from court and was shocked to see how he had aged in the past year. She always thought of him as Anne Boleyn’s lost love rather than as the most powerful peer in the North, but as she dropped a deep curtsey, she felt pity rather than awe. He was stoop-shouldered, with no vigor in his movements, and his brown eyes seemed old and empty. Yet he could not be more than thirty-five, Morgan realized, and wondered if losing Anne had destroyed him.
But Percy was courteous to Morgan and readily accepted James’s invitation to go into the study and partake of food and wine. After the three of them had exchanged pleasantries as well as compliments from the Earl on the birth of an heir to Belford, Morgan suggested that she excuse herself so that the two men could speak privately. But Northumberland bade her stay, saying that the message he had brought would be of as much interest to her as to her husband.
Morgan could not suppress a look of curiosity but said nothing. The Earl munched without a great deal of appetite on poached plover’s eggs and oatmeal cakes before he addressed his host and hostess: “I’m going to court next month. The weather turns for the better—while events in London turn for the worse.” Percy’s lips closed over the edge of his wineglass. His sad eyes surveyed James closely. “Will you and your wife join my Countess and me on our journey?”
The hesitancy on James’s face gave Morgan time to think about her own reaction to Percy’s invitation. She had been dismayed at going to Belford at the time, but on the other hand, she had wished never to see Greenwich or Windsor or St. James or any of the other royal residences again. They held too many unhappy memories and she would see Sean’s ghost in nearly all of them. Yet after almost a year in the North, spent mostly within a five-mile radius of the castle precincts, Morgan suddenly realized she would like to renew her acquaintanceship with the courtiers, to see Tom Seymour and Jane and even Ned. Perhaps she would be able to visit her family at Faux Hall. Eagerly, she waited for James’s reply.
“I don’t know, Harry, it seems that court is not a
very agreeable place these days.” James looked into his empty wineglass, picked up the decanter, and refilled all three goblets. “I must give your gracious offer some thought. May I send a message in a week’s time?”
Percy frowned and dabbed butter on an oatmeal cake. “The court may be troubled—but that’s why I think men such as you and I should be there. You’ve heard the stories about the King, about the bad winter, the poor harvests, the hostile feelings on the Continent, the people’s ….” He paused, stretching his spindly legs out under the table, and searched for the right word. “Their discontent. His Grace needs those who support him at his side. I’m certain he will appreciate our … loyalty.”
James rubbed at his sharp chin thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s so. I’ve never been caught up in the courtier’s role, yet I realize it’s never wise to stay away too long.” He glanced at Morgan; she knew what was going through his cautious mind, knew that he was thinking his reluctance to be at the King’s side in a time of crisis might jeopardize his position as Earl of Belford, might even be cause for suspicion. Yet Percy’s attitude perturbed her. He had been Anne’s great love, as ardent for her as she had been for him. And now he talked of supporting the King who might be considering ways to rid himself of Percy’s former beloved. Or, Morgan wondered, taking a swift look at Percy from under her tawny lashes, did the Earl actually hope Henry would divorce Anne and he could finally claim her as his own? But he had mentioned his wife, and Morgan recalled that Percy had—at Wolsey’s insistence—married the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter. And somehow Morgan perceived that there was no more fight left in the Earl of Northumberland; Harry Percy would go the way the winds blew him and no longer cared from which direction they came.
“Well?” It was James, who had obviously had to repeat himself. Morgan realized she had been lost in her reverie, and she actually jumped in her chair.
“Forgive me, I was thinking—about the choices, I mean,” she lied unconvincingly. “In truth,” she said, seeing a flicker of anger in James’s pale blue eyes, “I was wondering whether we are safer at court or at Belford.”
“Safer?” James looked at her questioningly. “An odd choice of words.” But he was clearly undecided. “Let me think on it, at least overnight, Harry. You will bide with us until tomorrow, I presume?”
Percy nodded. “Of course. In the meantime, I know you’ll make the right decision, James. The King needs his true and honest men. And,” he added, in a tone which suddenly sounded very far away, “you and I are numbered among them.”
Morgan woke early the next morning, noted that James was still asleep, heard Polly in the antechamber call for Agnes to feed Robbie, and considered dozing a bit longer. But she could not settle down again; she was anxious to hear James’s decision. They had not discussed it before going to bed as James had surprised Morgan by making love to her. It was only the third time he had taken her since Robbie’s birth: Morgan had put him off as long as she could, at first pleading the natural consequences of childbearing, then fatigue, and finally, a mild indisposition. But she could see that James was growing impatient, not so much for her own charms, perhaps, as for the prospect of begetting another child. James stirred beside her, slowly opened his eyes and yawned.
“Are you awake?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Yes. I’ve been fretting over going to court.” Morgan smiled a bit wanly and forced herself to touch James’s thin fingers.
He patted her hand and got out of bed, the dressing gown securely tied in place. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said, opening the draperies to let in the early-morning light. Morgan held her breath while James looked out as the North Sea churned toward the shore and the sun rose behind the ruined abbey on the Holy Isle. “Will Robbie be able to travel?”
“Of course!” Morgan leaped out of bed, amazed at herself for being so pleased. She rushed to James’s side and gave him an impulsive hug. Her enthusiastic response startled him, too; he smiled broadly and his eyes stayed fixed on the curve of her bosom, which rose and fell in excitement under the thin nightgown.
“Then it’s settled,” James declared, clearing his throat and turning away with apparent reluctance. “I’ll dress and tell Percy at once.”
The day before Morgan and James were to leave, Francis and Lucy returned to Belford from a month-long visit to Lucy’s relatives in Carlisle. They were both surprised to learn about the decision to go to court. Lucy asked Francis if they couldn’t go, too.
“I’ve never been to London. This would be the perfect opportunity,” she pleaded as the four Sinclairs sat in James’s study.
But Francis was adamant. Percy had invited only James and Morgan; court life did not appeal to Francis; if the weather turned warm as the early spring had promised, London could become a pestilential place. “And,” Francis added cryptically, “you know this is not the proper time, Lucy.”
Lucy said nothing more, merely looking disappointed and sad. After supper, Morgan sought Lucy out but it was Francis she found in their rooms instead of his wife.
“Lucy went to pray in the chapel,” he told her, rummaging through an as yet unpacked trunk. “This would have been the Dowager Countess’s birthday.”
“I didn’t know that. I wasn’t here at this time last year.” Impossible, thought Morgan. It seemed as if she had been at Belford forever. But Francis was correct—she was just a week away from the day she had arrived at the castle.
“You thought me cruel to deny Lucy the trip to court?” Francis asked, not looking at Morgan but examining a worn jerkin he had taken out of the trunk.
“Well—a little. You ought to take her to London some day, Francis.”
“So I shall.” Francis sighed, rolled up the jerkin, and tossed it onto a pile of discarded clothing by the bed. “But not now. Lucy thinks she is with child again.”
“Oh! Congratulations!” She started toward him, saw the storm gathering in the gray eyes, and stopped.
“She should not have risked it,” he said gruffly. “She insisted it was not the time for her to get pregnant. I’ve children enough, but only one wife.”
Morgan plaited the folds of her pale blue overskirt and tried to think of some comforting words. “I’m sure if she takes good care of herself and Dr. Wimble watches her well ….”
“Paugh!” snorted Francis, beginning to pace the bedchamber. “It’s the birth that worries me. I told her no more, I insisted she ….’’ This time he interrupted himself, glowering at Morgan. “As for you—isn’t it about time you considered giving James his own child?”
Morgan was too astonished to speak. Francis had impregnated her against her will and now he was berating her for not fulfilling her duties to the brother he had betrayed. Was there no end to the man’s effrontery? “Don’t you dare meddle in my life again, Francis Sinclair!” She was all but screaming. “It’s too soon to bear another child!”
The angry gray eyes flickered as Francis grabbed Morgan’s arm. “Do you reject his lovemaking or is James indifferent to your charms?”
“Neither!” Morgan snapped, trying to shake off Francis’s grip.
“Both, I’d say. I know James—and I know you.” He pulled her to him so roughly that her coif fell off, tumbling into the half-filled trunk. His mouth captured hers in a devouring kiss and his hands moved searchingly from her back to her buttocks. Morgan tried to pull away, but it was a token gesture at best, and when Francis began kissing the curve of her throat, her own arms wrapped around him, the nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
“Francis …” she moaned, feeling the fire she had tried to forget begin to well up in the deepest recesses of her being. “Francis, we mustn’t ….”
He picked her up in his arms and looked down at the parted lips, the huge topaz eyes, the thick hair which fell in waves of tawny splendor.
“You want me,” he said, and his deep voice growled with emotion. “And God knows, I want you.”
Morgan knew she ought to deny his wo
rds, knew she ought to fight off the desire that made her body throb, knew that if they were discovered Lucy’s heart would break and James might kill them both. But she could only gaze up at Francis and wait for the fulfillment he could offer her.
But Francis was now looking not at her but at the bed. Without warning, he unceremoniously set her back on her feet. “Oh, Christ! I’ve got to finish unpacking. Go about your business and leave me to mine.”
Stunned, Morgan could only stare at Francis’s back as he began sorting items of clothing from the trunk. She stood motionless for what seemed a very long time, and at last Francis turned to look at her, a fierce, angry gaze that almost made her gasp.
“Well?” he demanded. When Morgan made no reply, he started to turn away again, then picked something up and hurled it at her. “Your coif, madam. You seem to have lost it. Good night.”
Morgan bent to retrieve the coif. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she surveyed a very preoccupied Francis Sinclair—and the bed. Francis and Lucy’s bed, Morgan suddenly realized, and with trembling fingers, she put the coif back on and all but ran from the room.
On the second day of their journey south, the little group from Belford Castle stopped at Alnwick, where Percy, his wife, and a dozen retainers joined them. Mary Talbot Percy was blond, with angular features and wide-set hazel eyes. She would have been pretty, Morgan thought, if she did not wear the same look of defeat that her husband did. Married life had not dealt kindly with the Percys of Northumberland.
Mary sat in the coach with Morgan and Robbie and Agnes, while the two earls rode ahead on horseback and several of the retainers moved slowly at the rear of the caravan on mules. Spring, damp and fragrant, had come again to England. Beech, aspen, and birch trees flaunted new greenery. Wood violets and early columbine made festive splurges of color in the woods. Though it had rained off and on for the past few days, the roads were good, and if the travelers hadn’t been burdened with the heavy baggage carts and the mules, they might have been able to reach London by May Day.
