Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “Oh, muffet!” Tom’s hands flew out in a gesture of exasperation. “Ned’s not gruesome. He can be a prig, but he’s a decent sort.” Tom paused, aware that he was not addressing Morgan’s question and was obviously reluctant to do so. But there was Morgan, looking at him with reproachful topaz eyes and, he judged, about to explode with wrath. “His Grace is going to marry Jane.”

  “God’s teeth!” Morgan breathed, using one of Tom’s favorite oaths. “I don’t believe it!” But before Tom could speak again, Morgan was on her feet, shaking both fists at his chest. “But I do! Of course I do! That’s the reason you and Ned always spoke so unkindly of Anne! The reason the King visited Ned’s estates and Wolf Hall on progress last year!”

  Tom grabbed Morgan’s wrists before she could do any real damage. “No, Morgan,” he said with unaccustomed sternness. “Jane didn’t attract the King’s attention until he came to Wolf Hall. I didn’t even know about this when I visited you at Belford. As for our hostility toward Anne, Ned and I never felt she was suited to be Queen.”

  “And Jane is?” Morgan demanded. “Jane, with her prim little mouth and no chin and the taste of an aging mother superior? What will she wear to her coronation—a wimple?”

  Tom dropped Morgan’s hands and slapped her, hard. Morgan reeled, almost falling over the crate. Eyes flashing fire, she glared at Tom and reached for the first thing at hand, a pair of James’s riding boots. They flew past Tom and landed on the hearth. He and Morgan locked furious gazes for several seconds—and then she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest, as he stroked her back and whispered soothing words into her ear.

  “Life is a damnable thing, Morgan. Sometimes I think that irony dominates us more than any other element,” he said at last, letting go of her as she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “I never dreamed Jane would capture the King, I swear. God’s eyes, I love my sister and she’s a kindly creature, but I thought she’d be fortunate to get herself a nice country squire. Yet here we are, with Jane all but on the throne, and with any luck, perhaps she will finally give Henry the son he craves. And if she does, perhaps the rest of us can live in peace for a change.”

  Exhausted from her emotional tirades Morgan could only nod. Tom put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hit you—does it hurt?”

  “Of course it does,” Morgan replied with a tremulous smile. “But I was being very unkind.”

  “You were being very angry,” Tom said, and bent down to kiss the cheek he had struck. “Now why don’t you show me that fine son of yours, muffet?”

  Morgan’s smile grew more steady. “Of course, if he’s awake.” She started toward the door to the baby’s room but paused in midstep. “Just one thing, Tom. Don’t ever call me ‘muffet’ again.”

  When James returned over an hour later from conferring with Ned Seymour and Harry Percy, he looked solemn and hardly spoke as he and Morgan ate a late supper in their rooms. But at last Morgan told him she knew about Jane Seymour and he seemed to relax somewhat.

  “But do you know about the commission?” he inquired, toying with a dish of clotted cream. Morgan said she did not, and James began to explain. “The commission will investigate the charges against the Queen. I have been appointed to it. So has Percy.”

  Morgan all but choked on a spoonful of the rich dessert. “You! Oh, James, no! And Percy—he and Anne were once ….” Morgan’s words trailed off as she tried to take in yet another shock.

  James set his dish aside and took a long sip of sweet wine imported from the Levant. “Francis ought to try this vintage, though he might find it a bit cloying for his taste.”

  “Pox on Francis!” Morgan cried angrily, and bit her tongue, for she knew she was not upset with her brother-in-law but with her husband, her uncle, the King, Percy, and all those self-righteous men who were seeking Anne’s downfall. “Why, James? Why have you and Percy agreed to do this?”

  The pale blue eyes turned cool; the hand that held the wineglass tightened perceptibly. “It is our duty,” James replied frostily. “The King has requested us to serve. Percy and I are the only loyal men he can count on in the North. As for Percy’s former feelings for Anne, that was a long time ago. I didn’t realize until we took this journey how Percy’s fortune has dwindled. He needs the favor of the King—he is even seeking a pension. I learned this from him one night when we stayed up late and he got to drinking.” James stood up, aloof, yet ill at ease. “I never told you about the talk Percy and I had with Lord Latimer. He told us that those villagers at the monastery were typical of the people in the other northern towns. They’re isolated; they haven’t kept pace with the times. As their abbeys are being destroyed, they grow resentful and rebellious.”

  “What of Latimer himself?”

  “Oh, he clings to the old faith. He’s not a well man, and as tends to happen, he grows conservative. Indeed, he told us these stubborn souls contend that they support the King but think he has fallen into the clutches of evil councilors—like your uncle.”

  Morgan sat with her chin on her fist and stared into space. She had been so eager to come to court, but now, caught up in the ceaseless political and religious turmoil that followed the King like a long, dark, menacing shadow, Morgan wished she were back at Belford, watching the tides, talking to the tenants, visiting the villagers, seeing Francis stride across the courtyard …. She shook her head to dispel the familiar images, which suddenly seemed so comforting. Especially the mental picture of Francis Sinclair.

  On the third day of Anne Boleyn’s imprisonment in the Tower, Morgan felt edgier than ever. In the early afternoon James came into the apartments to find his wife standing by the window, staring gloomily out at the Thames.

  “James,” she said, without turning around, “let’s go into London. I am so tired of staying here … waiting for something to happen.”

  James had just returned from conferring with Cromwell about what information his matrons had managed to wrench from Anne Boleyn. He had been cooped up with Morgan’s uncle for over three hours and was very tired. “Nonsense!” he said, smoothing his pale blond hair into place. “Why don’t you read or tend to your sewing?”

  She turned to face him. “I don’t feel like reading and you know I despise sewing. For me, it’s only an excuse for keeping your hands busy while you gossip.”

  James was pulling off his doublet. “As you will. I’m going to rest a bit and then I have more work to do.”

  “Work! You call putting nails into a poor woman’s coffin work!”

  James carefully hung his doublet up in the oak closet. “I shan’t argue with you, Morgan. Pray hold your tongue, I’m weary.”

  Morgan sighed as her husband disappeared into the bedchamber. She stood by the window for another minute and then went to fetch her green lace shawl. She would go for a walk, anything to get outside the palace.

  She went down to the riverbank, where robins pecked in the grass, searching for tidbits to feed their young. They scattered at Morgan’s approach and she smiled guiltily at their soaring figures.

  It was a fine day, the blue sky marred only by an occasional fluff of cloud. On the river, a few barges and wherries moved with the tide. The slight breeze brought a faint foul air off the Thames; the smell of blood, Morgan thought suddenly, and shuddered. Wondering at her own morbid mood, she headed back toward the palace.

  At the tiltyard entrance, she saw Richard Griffin walking toward her, the crimson plume on his dark gray bonnet keeping in jaunty rhythm with his step. Morgan’s first reaction was to flee. But it would have been more than rude, it would have been cowardly. She stood her ground, watching him break into that charming, gap-toothed smile.

  “Welcome, Morgan, Countess of Belford! I heard you were at Greenwich when I arrived this morning.” He put out a hand, but Morgan kept hers tucked up under her shawl. “Well? I didn’t expect open arms after our last meeting, but a simple ‘hello’ would not be amiss.”

  Morgan held her head hi
gh and spoke in a low, controlled tone: “At first I thought I hated you for what you did and said when you came to the convent. Now I realize how little I’ve thought of you at all.”

  Her candor clearly stung Richard’s vanity. The green eyes actually appeared wounded; the smile faded instantly. He took a step forward, tentatively touching her upper arm. “Did you ever realize why I acted as I did? And why I came at all?”

  The topaz eyes blinked twice, rapidly. “No,” she answered truthfully, “I assumed you were sent by the King or my uncle and that you behaved so wretchedly because … because … I don’t know, because you thought I was a traitor and a fool.”

  “Oh.” The hint of a smile returned to Richard’s mouth. “Yes, that’s all very reasonable. And very wrong.” Before she could respond, Richard put a finger to Morgan’s lips. “I was not sent. Surrey was to go, but I told him to let me take his place. I had been very jealous of Sean O’Connor, and as you had spurned me for him, I wanted to be the one to break the news. Surrey thought me a callous knave, but since he’s basically a lazy sort, he finally agreed.” Richard paused, noting the skeptical expression on Morgan’s face. “You see, I knew someone had to save you, not only from your uncle but from yourself. And I wasn’t sure the others would realize how you might react.”

  Morgan considered his words with great care. She wanted to believe him, though she wasn’t sure why. He was charming, amusing, attractive—perhaps he was also kind, in his way. Morgan stood very straight, and when she spoke, her words were stilted. “I should be grateful—maybe someday I will be. But,” she went on, plucking at the lace fringe on her shawl, “your words were so heartless.”

  “They had to be.” Richard’s arm went around her shoulders. “You had to find out about Sean in one swift blow. Holding back would have been far more agonizing. Don’t you realize that now?”

  Morgan stood close to him, her face almost touching his chest. “I suppose. Yet at the time ….” But she didn’t want to think about that terrible time anymore; she had tried so hard to bury that moment of horror and heartbreak in the darkest corner of her mind. “All right. I’ll concede that your motives were justified, even generous. Now let’s speak of something else.”

  They did, Richard talking about the visit to Wales from which he’d returned only the previous day and Morgan telling him about her infant son and life at Belford.

  “You speak with professed enthusiasm for your new life, but it sounds like a dreary place to me,” Richard said, tracing circles with the heel of his boot in the dirt path. “What of your lord? I hear he’s on the commission to try poor Anne.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’m sick at heart about her plight. Yet what can I do?”

  “Nothing. None of us can help her. Good God, I’m glad I was in Wales these past few weeks or else I might have gone the way of Norris, Brereton, and the others.” He saw her questioning look and grinned. “Nay, I’ve never bedded with Anne—but neither have they.”

  It had never occurred to Morgan that Richard Griffin could have been endangered, too. She felt an unexpected surge of relief that he had been spared, and it showed in her topaz eyes.

  “Oh, Morgan, I think you don’t hate me so much after all!” Richard put his arms around her again. “You are lovelier than ever. That lion’s mane of yours gleams in the sun like golden bronze!”

  “Twaddle, Richard, let go of me! I’m a wife and mother now!” She pulled away and tried to look stern but ruined the effect by giggling, an uncontrollable outburst which bordered on hysteria. Richard began to look alarmed, but when he moved to take her in his arms once more, she shook her head, quieted down, and finally spoke in gulps. “I’m sorry … I’m so upset about the Queen … and seeing you reminds me of … the past.”

  Richard appeared sympathetic. “Leave the past in the past. As for Anne, I only hope the King will get his divorce and leave her in peace. I just wish to God she weren’t being supplanted by that sheep, Jane Seymour, along with her insufferable brothers.”

  His remark made Morgan angry; it also made her realize that her loyalties were once again divided. She had never known Catherine of Aragon, yet sympathized with Henry’s first Queen. Then she had served Anne and felt not only loyalty but admiration and respect for the King’s second consort. But here she was, distraught at Anne’s downfall yet torn by her friendship with the Seymours, especially Tom.

  Richard saw her reaction and sighed. “I’m sorry. I forgot that you are on familiar terms with our next Queen and her kin. But I must be honest—both Ned and Tom are steeped in ambition.”

  Ned, beyond any doubt, thought Morgan, but not the carefree, adventuresome Tom. Her fit of near-hysteria had drained her, however, and she would not argue further with Richard. “It’s a pity one must have friends at all,” she said sadly. “It seems each friend must be the other’s adversary in this venomous world at court.” Before Richard could respond, she shook her head, gave him a ghostly smile, and with the shawl trailing behind her on the spring breeze, Morgan walked wearily back into the palace.

  Morgan and James were packing again, preparing to move to Westminster, where the King was in residence. But Morgan’s orders to Polly and the other servants were absentminded and distracted. George Boleyn, Harry Norris, Will Brereton, Francis Weston, and Mark Smeaton had all been found guilty and sentenced to death. Henry did not want to divorce Anne; he wanted to kill her.

  “His own wife!” Morgan cried to James that evening. “Surely you and Percy and Norfolk and the others will vote for clemency!”

  James did not reply. His manner was distant, the pale blue eyes unfathomable. “You and Robbie and the rest of our entourage will leave early in the morning for Westminster,” he said after a long silence. “I will meet you there after Anne’s trial.”

  Morgan’s mouth clamped shut into a hard, tight line. If her husband’s demeanor was any indication, the verdict had already been rendered in the judgment of Anne Boleyn.

  Slipping out of Westminster had been easy; getting inside the Tower was another matter. Morgan gazed up at the formidable structure with its many turrets etched against a flawless May sky. She and Polly had engaged a small barge to take them from Westminster to the Tower. As Morgan hesitated, the bargeman began to shuffle impatiently. The weather was good and so was business, with all those fine folk being executed on Tower Hill. A dithering passenger, albeit a Countess, might lose him a fare.

  “Madam,” he began, as Morgan stared anxiously at the water that lapped at the worn stone steps leading from the river, “like I said, it’s sixpence for ….” But his words were cut off by the boom of a nearby cannon. The barge rocked and Morgan all but fell on top of Polly.

  “What’s that?” gasped Morgan.

  The bargeman shrugged. “Another execution. Weston, maybe, this time.” He put out a beefy, callused hand in an importunate gesture.

  “Oh, Christ have mercy!” Morgan whispered, and crossed herself. She had not given a thought to arriving while Weston and the others were being butchered on Tower Hill. Her only concern had been to avoid James, who would have forbidden her to attend Anne during the condemned consort’s last hours on earth. “Here,” Morgan finally said, shaking some coins from a small silk purse and handing them to the bargeman. She didn’t wait for his thank-you’s but began to mount the slimy stairs with Polly at her heels.

  Anne Boleyn was situated in the same suite where she had spent the eve of her coronation some three years earlier. As the door opened, she was sitting in a high-backed chair, the almond-shaped eyes looking straight ahead, the tapering hands folded in her lap. Margaret Wyatt stood next to her, while Madge Shelton, who had been rumored to be engaged to Harry Norris, wept noiselessly in one corner.

  But as soon as Anne saw her, Morgan flew across and fell at her former mistress’s feet. “Your Grace! Forgive my intrusion, but I wanted to be with you!” She felt Anne’s hand rest lightly on her head, then draw away. Morgan looked up, amazed at the calm Anne’s face displayed.

/>   “I’m well pleased,” Anne replied. “I have great need of friends in my final hours. So many have already gone who did show me great devotion.”

  “I’m sorry … very sorry,” Morgan said, and wished her own composure were as great as Anne’s. “I’m sorry, too, that my husband was on the commission.”

  Anne waved a hand in an indifferent gesture. “My own father was on the commission. It matters not; my fate was sealed long ago.” The faintest of smiles touched her mouth. “Yet I am surprised that you came. Why?”

  Morgan had pulled over a footstool proffered by Margaret Wyatt. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, seating herself and pulling her lawn skirts about her ankles. “You were kind to me, you tried to help me, I felt as if you—as if we—had some sort of common bond.”

  Anne considered Morgan’s words carefully. “But not common destiny, I trust,” she said with a wistful smile. “If you don’t aim as high, you will not have so far to fall.”

  “I have no great ambition,” Morgan replied, “yet I admired how you overcame obstacles and matched wits with Wolsey and the King and the others ….” Her voice trailed away as she saw two of Cromwell’s matrons pause to listen. “You seemed to know what you wanted—and you made certain you got it.”

  Anne shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Morgan, see where it led me! Was I so clever after all?” She laughed again and the sound echoed faintly of hysteria. Margaret Wyatt looked alarmed and put a hand on her mistress’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” Morgan declared. “You were. Clever and single-minded and daring. What happens tomorrow … cannot taint your victory.” She lowered her voice and took the Queen’s hand in her own. “You won, Your Grace. In these last few days, you have vanquished your enemies.”

  Anne Boleyn had requested the privilege of dying not by the axe, but by the sword. Since no such expert executioner resided in London, Cromwell had had to send to St. Omer in France. When Anne stood ready in her short, ermine-trimmed cape and her pearl-encrusted coif, her women grouped around her, and Mary Boleyn threw her arms about her sister. Morgan remained aloof; she had not known Anne as well or as long as they. She decided to occupy herself in some other, more practical manner. Seeking permission from Cromwell’s women to leave for a few minutes, she went off down the narrow passageway to search for Master Kingston, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower. She found him at the end of the corridor, waiting for Anne and her party.