Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  “Master Kingston,” she addressed him, “I have a question to put to you. What … how is the Queen to be buried?”

  Kingston rubbed his beard and thought a moment. “I cannot say, madam. No arrangements have been made.”

  “Then we must find something, some sort of coffin,” Morgan said, keeping her voice as businesslike as possible. Kingston replied that he had none. “None in the Tower?” asked Morgan. “Surely there must be something.”

  Kingston rubbed his beard some more. Then he nodded. “Yes, I believe there is an arrowcase in the armory. It would do. She … she is a very slender young woman. I’ll send for it.”

  Morgan hurried back to the Queen’s rooms. Everything was ready and the ladies-in-waiting had becalmed themselves somewhat, although both Madge and Mary Boleyn were still weeping. Presently the guards and Master Kingston appeared and the little procession headed along the passageway, down the narrow steps, and out onto Tower Green.

  As many London citizens as could be admitted were crowded near the scaffold. Anne and her women were oblivious to them as they walked along the path and up the steps to the high platform where the ominous block stood.

  Anne turned to face the crowd, her voice high but composed. “Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, and I will speak nothing against it. I ask mercy of God and my King, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince there never was.” She took a deep breath and went on: “I take my leave of you and the world, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

  Margaret Wyatt removed Anne’s cape while Madge Shelton took off the pearl coif and replaced it with a linen cap. Morgan, conscious of the lithe, muscular figure of the masked executioner not three feet behind her, held out the bandage for Anne’s eyes. Morgan put the bandage in place, whispered, “God bless you,” and stepped back with the other women.

  Anne knelt to the block. Morgan averted her eyes, looking up at the Tower walls where a crow sat swinging back and forth. As a shimmer of steel flashed in the sun, he cried out and flew off toward the river.

  I’m going to faint, thought Morgan. She turned away as Margaret ran to pick up the head, wrapping it in a white cloth. Morgan suddenly saw Tom Seymour, along with Ned, in the crowd below. He was watching her. He looked as if he were trying to say something, a word of courage, perhaps. Morgan gathered her strength and went back with the other women to take Anne’s body away. Blood still gushed from the severed neck as Morgan and Mary Boleyn lifted their pathetic, broken burden into the arrowcase.

  With silent tears, the little group made its sad journey to the chapel where they laid Anne next to her brother, George. Morgan left them then, hurrying to a small chamber near the chapel, where she retched violently.

  At last she wandered out, weak and white. She was vaguely aware that she should help the other women collect their belongings and Anne’s from the Tower suite. Polly would be wondering where she was, and James would be furious by now. But she walked aimlessly along the passageways, oblivious to the guards and serving people. One hand felt the wall, as if for support.

  Then, at the end of a short corridor, she saw Tom Seymour. He stood waiting until she was standing in front of him. Wordlessly, he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the Tower and through the main gate, where his horse stood tethered. They rode in silence to Westminster.

  Chapter 12

  James faced Morgan with such a chilling gaze that her foot faltered in the doorway. Before he could speak, he saw Tom Seymour behind his wife and the narrow shoulders slumped in surprise.

  “Your uncle has asked to see you.” James was avoiding Tom’s eyes but keeping his tone even. “You should have sought permission before going to the Tower. He is mightily vexed.”

  “Morgan is mightily ill,” Tom intervened. He had his hand under her elbow as he guided her to a chair. “As for Cromwell, you may tell him that Morgan had permission from the future Queen of England.”

  Both James and Morgan stared at Tom; his white lie had caught them offguard, and only now did they both fully realize his new position of authority. Thomas Cromwell might be the King’s private secretary, but Tom Seymour was the King’s future brother-in-law.

  “I think some wine is in order,” Tom was saying as he seated himself opposite Morgan and adjusted the links in the gold chain that hung from his broad shoulders.

  James seemed momentarily frozen in place, but Tom’s assertion of authority made him move for the wine cabinet, where he got out a decanter and three goblets. His hand was none too steady as he poured, and to Morgan, her husband’s reaction seemed to signify the changing of the old order: Throughout the court—all over England, in fact—men and women were reexamining their allegiances, reestablishing their alliances, and all because Henry Tudor had chosen another wife.

  “Jane wants to see you as soon as you feel up to it,” Tom said, after he had taken a hefty drink from his goblet. “She is staying at Sir Nicholas Carew’s house.”

  “Tomorrow?” Morgan asked in a voice that was still shaky.

  “Well enough.” He downed the remainder of his wine in two swallows and set the goblet on the mantel. Turning to Morgan, he took her hand and kissed it gently. “You were brave today, Morgan. It seems you have inherited your father’s courage and daring.” Tom bowed briefly to James, gave Morgan a smile that was but a shadow of his familiar grin, and left the room.

  The long, hollow silence that followed Tom’s departure made Morgan so uneasy that she got up and refilled her goblet. James was standing by an oaken armoire, staring at the floor. At last he spoke and his tone was strained. “I seem to have married a woman with highly placed friends and relations. I trust you will not use them to any disadvantage.”

  The topaz eyes widened. “Whatever are you talking about, James? I seek nothing, except to perform my duties at Belford in a manner befitting your Countess.”

  James regarded his wife with a questioning expression. He gave a short laugh and put a hand on her shoulder. “Of course, of course. I was being … fanciful. The past few days have been difficult for us all. Perhaps the sooner we go back to Belford, the better.”

  “I agree,” Morgan said, and made an effort to smile. “But I do have one request. I would like to visit Faux Hall as long as we are so near. My family would be dreadfully disappointed if they didn’t get to see Robbie.”

  For once, James did not take an inordinate amount of time to make up his mind. He told Morgan that they would leave for Faux Hall before the month was out and continue from there back to Belford. In the meantime, he would take care of certain matters pertaining to their estates. “I’ve had little time to do so since we arrived,” he added, “and any visit to London must be used well.”

  Morgan agreed with as much enthusiasm as possible, hoping that her husband’s ire had indeed disappeared and that they would resume their amicable if loveless relationship. And for once, Morgan was not distressed because she and James had not found passion in marriage. King Henry and Anne Boleyn had—and now he was about to take another wife and Anne lay dead in an arrowcase inside the Tower’s cold walls.

  Jane Seymour would never be a beauty, but Morgan had to admit that the royal bride-to-be exuded a radiance that enhanced her plain appearance. Her clothes were definitely unlike her customary apparel, however, and while scarcely as daring or innovative as Anne Boleyn’s had always been, Jane’s prim, unadorned grays and blues and browns had given way to rich saffron-colored damask, and the emerald necklace she wore had stones the size of robin’s eggs.

  Morgan started to curtsey when she entered the sitting room of Sir Nicholas Carew’s elegant home, but Jane took her visitor by the arm and laughed. “Not yet, Morgan. I’m still Mistress Seymour.”

  “When, Jane?” Morgan asked, feeling ill at ease despite Jane’s warm welcome.

  Jane shrugged her slender shoulders. “I’m not certain. I only came to London three days ago from Wolf Hall. His Grace is tending to the arrangements.” She motio
ned for her guest to sit beside her on a crimson velvet settee. The brilliant background and the saffron gown gave the characteristically subdued Jane a new vibrancy, Morgan thought—or was it Jane’s inner excitement? How long, Morgan wondered, had Jane been considering the possibility of a royal diadem? Tom had avowed that his sister had only come to Henry’s attention the previous autumn. But Jane was subtle and clever: It was possible that Jane had known who Henry’s next wife would be long before he did.

  “I offer my heartiest congratulations,” Morgan said, and thought the words sounded lame.

  Apparently Jane thought so too. A fine line creased her forehead as she regarded Morgan with a questioning look. “Tom told me you went to the Tower. I can’t honestly expect you to feel great joy at my good fortune.”

  Impulsively, Morgan put a hand on Jane’s damask-covered arm. “But I do, really. It’s just that—that yesterday is still so fresh in my memory. And I did admire Anne, after all.”

  Jane sighed and suddenly looked more like the serious young woman Morgan remembered. “Of course you did. I did not. I served Catherine of Aragon and I was very fond of her. So much so, in fact, that if Anne had lived a hundred years, I could never have forgiven her for the wounds she inflicted on that saintly soul. No, no,” Jane said quickly, seeing Morgan about to rise to Anne’s defense. “It wasn’t all Anne’s fault, it was … others’ as well, and the circumstances.”

  It was Henry, Morgan thought, and she wondered if despite her obvious exhilaration, Jane might not feel apprehensive about becoming the King’s third wife. “But you must know I wish you well,” Morgan said, and this time sounded sincere.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Jane smiled and again the radiance showed through. “There is other matrimonial news in our family—have you heard?”

  “No,” Morgan answered, wondering if it could possibly be Tom. But he would have told her, surely. “Who?”

  “My sister, Elizabeth, is marrying your uncle’s son, Gregory. The date is not yet set, but the betrothal will occur as soon as His Grace and I are wed. Our families will be linked now by kinship as well as friendship.”

  “I haven’t seen Gregory since we were children,” Morgan said, and proceeded to tell Jane about Robbie and then about James and Belford and her life in the North. They spoke of Jane’s trousseau and who she would choose as her ladies-in-waiting.

  “If your cousin Nan wishes, I would like to include her.”

  “I’m sure she would be delighted,” Morgan said. “James and I will talk to her about it—with your permission—when we go to Faux Hall.”

  “Please do. Of course I shall issue a formal invitation—when it’s proper.”

  Morgan could not suppress a smile. She had no doubt that Jane would be a very “proper” sort of Queen, dealing carefully and kindly with every person and matter that came to her attention, carrying herself regally on state occasions, willing to let her royal husband make all the important decisions, giving as little cause for contention as possible between them. And it suddenly dawned on Morgan why Henry had chosen the prim, solemn Jane as opposed to a younger, livelier, prettier girl: After Anne Boleyn, even after Catherine of Aragon, Henry wanted peace—almost as much as he wanted a son.

  “Well, I think he’s a stick,” Nan declared, tossing another pebble into the fishpond. “Oh, he’s pleasant enough, but you’ve been here four days and I haven’t heard James laugh once.”

  “He’s quiet,” Morgan asserted, well aware that she had spent a good deal of her time at Faux Hall defending her husband from Nan’s outspoken criticisms.

  “Quiet! His idea of expressing emotion is blinking! Oh, Morgan, I hope Cromwell doesn’t choose a husband for me!”

  “Everyone at court is a pawn,” Morgan said tersely, and got to her feet. “It’s starting to drizzle. I’m going to see Grandmother.”

  Nan scrambled up and hurried to Morgan’s side. “Morgan, I know I shouldn’t rattle on about James—it’s just that I’d hoped for some other sort of husband for you. I mean, I know you can’t be thrilled at …. No, no, I’m putting it very badly. It’s just that you have to live in that barren place and I would like to think you at least had someone you loved to share it with.”

  Morgan had told Nan she did not love James; it had practically been her cousin’s first question and there was no point in lying. Her parents had not asked; either they already knew from the tone of her letters—or they knew Morgan.

  Of course Grandmother Isabeau knew, too. The old woman did not give James her usual warm, witty welcome. At first, Morgan thought it was because her grandmother’s health had failed considerably in the last two years and that she was almost constantly bedridden. But later Grandmother Isabeau had talked to Morgan alone:

  “An unfortunate choice of Cromwell’s,” she had told her granddaughter bluntly. “You might mold him, but he’ll never bend.”

  Morgan recalled the words as she went up the stairs to her grandmother’s room, Nan still at her heels, still apologizing. “See here, Nan,” Morgan said with her hand on the latch, “let’s not talk about James anymore. Then you won’t have to be sorry for what you say.”

  Nan’s long, oval face seemed to grow even longer; for the first time, Morgan realized that Nan had changed in the fourteen months since she had seen her cousin. The angular features had softened; the tall, coltish figure had filled out; the big, black eyes were still innocent but more aware.

  Nan was no longer a child, and Morgan had to remember that from now on she must not treat her cousin as such.

  “Nan,” Morgan said with a fond smile, “what you have been saying may be quite right. But it does no one any good to be reminded of what-might-have-beens. James is kind and good, and a fine father.”

  Nan shifted from one foot to the other, somewhat embarrassed but still not quite willing to surrender her point of view. “I don’t know—it just seems that life is too short to waste it in—merely surviving.”

  “Oh, it’s not that grim!” Morgan forced a bright smile as she moved to lift the latch of her grandmother’s door. “The child is a delight, and there is much to be done on the estates. When the weather is good, I keep quite busy. And James is really pleasant company, which is more than some men are.”

  But Nan did not look convinced. She made a little face, murmured, “I suppose you are right,” and wandered off down the hall. Morgan watched her for a few seconds and tried to fight down the sudden surge of anger she felt rising in her breast.

  “It’s natural, this resentment,” Grandmother Isabeau said five minutes later after Morgan had told her about the exchange with Nan. “You feel cheated by life, and well you should. We all are, ma petite, but those who accept the fact without challenging it live dreary lives indeed.” Grandmother Isabeau paused to take several deep breaths and allow Morgan to offer her a few sips of water. Despite the summer weather, the old lady had weakened just within the short time Morgan and her family had been at Faux Hall. “You are still a young woman. Who knows what the fates have in store? I recommend what patience you can marshal and a will as hard as sapphires.”

  Morgan smiled at her grandmother as she dabbed the old woman’s chin with a fine linen napkin. “I cannot change James, though, Gran’mère. What are you suggesting?”

  “Qui sait?” The fine lines in Isabeau’s forehead creased together. “James is thin, almost frail. How many winters will he last in that cold North Country?”

  Morgan sat up in shock. “Oh, Gran’mère, I can’t wish him dead! He is my husband!”

  Grandmother Isabeau gave Morgan’s hand a feeble pat.

  “Oh, don’t be a dreamer, ma petite! I realize you are young and kindly disposed, but I am old—and close enough to death myself, I daresay—to know that we all must die. I see James and I see poor health in his frame. I am merely being realistic.” She laughed softly and then began to cough; Morgan proffered more water, but Grandmother Isabeau shook her head. “If you care not to face such probabilities and bide your t
ime,” the old woman went on when she had composed herself again, “then I would suggest a lover, a hearty, robust sort such as Saint-Maur.”

  “Tom!” Morgan was even more shocked at that idea than at her grandmother’s fatalistic pronouncement about James. “Why, he’s been like an older brother to me!”

  The corners of Grandmother Isabeau’s mouth turned down in a droll expression. “So he has—while you were still a little girl. Ah, I didn’t say him precisely, I said someone like him, someone with flair, panache, excitement in his blood.” The blue eyes were still bright and they fixed Morgan with a probing stare. “You would prefer the tall one in the orchard?”

  “Oh!” Morgan gasped and all but fell off the chair. “You know!”

  With an unsteady finger, Grandmother Isabeau pointed toward her casement window. “Above there, on the top story, where my sewing things are kept, is an excellent view. I saw him; I saw you.”

  Morgan’s cheeks were hot; she was both angry and embarrassed. “You couldn’t have! The trees were in full blossom! We would have been hidden, even from such a height!”

  Grandmother Isabeau laughed again and this time she did not cough. “I did not say I had seen you together, ma petite. I said I saw him—and you, later, trying on your new dresses. You were not the same young maid who had left the house an hour before.” The thin, old shoulders lifted in a typical French shrug. “And though it must have been a shock to you, poor child that you were, it was quite clear that you did not find him—or his attentions—truly repugnant?”