by Mary Daheim
“I …” Morgan stared at the bedpost and felt her heart hammering away in her ears. “I did, though. I loathed him. He was—an animal. I was terrified and worried and ….”
“Intrigued.” Grandmother Isabeau nodded slowly. “As well you should be, if he performed as well as he gave orders to the Madden twins and cared for his horse and—what? The old collie? I liked the way he moved—not with grace as does Saint-Maur, but with purpose and confidence. I almost wished that he could have ridden away with you before Cromwell and his minions sent you off with a lesser sort of man.” She paused and sighed deeply; Morgan could hear the ominous rattling noise in the old woman’s chest. “Did you ever learn his name, ma petite?”
Morgan saw the question in her grandmother’s eyes and the love and concern on her tired, wrinkled face. Her first reaction had been to lie, but she knew the truth would give her grandmother a sense of peace. “I did. He is my brother-in-law.” She spoke quietly, her eyes fixed on her wedding ring. “He is Robbie’s father.”
“Ah?” She nodded with satisfaction. “Then you do know what I’m talking about. I thought you would. I am disappointed you tried to deceive your poor old gran’mère! You and—what is his name?”
The blue eyes were wide as Morgan murmured, “Francis,” in reply.
“Oh, Francis, a fine name, fit for a King, as our French François would agree.” She coughed again, sipped at the water, and smoothed the counterpane with the blue-veined hands. “You and Francis must love each other very deeply.”
“By Our Lady, we don’t love each other at all!” Morgan blurted. “We—we have not even been together since I married James. And he loves his wife, Lucy, very, very much.”
“Hmmm. Of course he does. It is well for one’s lover to love his wife; it shows a great heart. Oh, ma petite, I wish now I were not so close to heaven! I would like to remain here to see how much you and Francis do not love each other!” She laughed in an unnatural, noisesome way, which alarmed Morgan. But Grandmother Isabeau finally shook her head and waved her granddaughter’s ministrations away. “More water and I shall float to le bon Dieu like an aged, leaky caravel. You will prevail somehow, dear child, and I will wish you well from heaven’s gate.”
Grandmother Isabeau died that night in her sleep, after receiving the sacraments from her own confessor, a handsome young priest from Berkhamstead. Sir Edmund told a grieving Morgan that they had found the old woman with a smile on her face.
Chapter 13
Morgan and Lucy spent most of July and August out on the terrace at Belford working on another set of baby clothes. The terrace not only afforded spectacular views of the sea, but the cool breeze drove away the summer heat. Lucy’s two older children played nearby and the babies sat propped up on cushions where they could finger their toes and make gurgling noises at each other.
As before, Lucy was anxious for news of London and the court. Morgan tried to convince her sister-in-law that the journey had not been an enviable experience. “By the Saints, Lucy,” Morgan said with a trace of exasperation, “the executions, the intrigues and scheming, the ruthless ambition—not to mention those poor monks we saw on our way south—I can’t imagine you would enjoy such spectacles!”
Lucy flushed slightly and bent to retrieve a skein of yarn, which was rolling toward Robbie. She was almost into her sixth month, and her body was growing cumbersome. Dr. Wimble had permitted her to sit up at least part of the day as long as she did not spend too much time on her feet. “From this distance, it sounds rather … exciting. But I understand how you feel,” Lucy asserted, as Robbie let out a disappointed cry when the skein was picked up before he could capture it for his own. “Such a sad homecoming, with your grandmother’s death.”
Morgan avoided Lucy’s gaze; Grandmother Isabeau’s words about Francis were still fresh in her mind. “In truth, I was glad to have been there when she died. She was a remarkable woman.”
“French, you said?” Lucy plucked a long piece of thread from the skein and snapped it off with her small, white teeth. “Didn’t you tell me once that she met your grandfather when he ….” Lucy stopped speaking and beamed with pleasure. “Oh, Francis! You’re home! I expected you yesterday.”
Francis strode past Morgan, greeting her with a perfunctory hello before he bent to kiss Lucy’s lips. He had been gone for a week to Newcastle, buying provisions from Flemish sea captains.
“A certain Vanderhoef proved obstinate,” Francis said, as his two older children scrambled for his attention. He hugged and kissed each in turn, then picked up his youngest child. “Either you’ve grown, small scamp, or your clothes have shrunk. Lucy,” he said, turning back to his wife as he bounced little George in his arms, “shouldn’t you be back in bed? It’s well onto four o’clock.”
“Don’t fuss, I’m fine,” Lucy said with another smile. “Just sitting here doesn’t tax me. I feel too weak when I stay abed so much.”
But Francis’s frown eased only slightly. “I must assume that Dr. Wimble knows his business. And that you do, too.” Carefully, he set the baby back down among the pillows. “I must change and wash,” he announced in that deep voice, and saluted both women before heading into the castle with his two eldest children at his heels.
“Such a worrywart!” Lucy exclaimed fondly. “To tell the truth, Morgan, I have a cramp in my leg. I get them often these days. Shall we walk just a bit before I retire?”
“I don’t know—you really aren’t supposed to, are you?” Morgan looked questioningly at Lucy, noting that her almost-constant pallor had given way to a heightened color with Francis’s return.
But Lucy was already on her feet. “Peg?” she called, and called twice more before the servingwoman appeared with a basket of fresh-cut iris under her arm. Peg also looked dubious when informed that the two women were going for a short walk, but took up her post watching the babies as Lucy and Morgan headed slowly down the stone stairs to the sea-cliff path.
“A lovely summer day,” Lucy declared, gazing out toward the rocky wedge of the Holy Isle. “There, my cramp is already gone. You have not yet been to the isle, have you, Morgan?”
“I keep intending to,” Morgan answered, treading cautiously on the pebble-strewn path, which led down to the water’s edge. “James was going to go with me last week, but that was when the village chandler burned his hand so badly in hot tallow.”
“The chandler is better, though?” Lucy asked, turning to look over her shoulder at Morgan. Suddenly Lucy’s face froze and she halted in midstep. “Oh!” she cried, and staggered toward a twisted tree trunk.
“What is it?” Morgan demanded, rushing to her sister-in-law’s side. She felt Lucy sway; it took all her strength to keep the other girl from going over the cliff. Morgan dragged her away from the edge, and Lucy collapsed against some rocks, her hands on her stomach.
“The child! Something is wrong ….”
Morgan looked frantically about her. No one was in sight and it was almost a quarter of a mile back to the castle. “Can you walk?” she asked Lucy, already knowing the answer.
“The pain! Oh, God!” Lucy doubled over and screamed, her brown hair tumbling over her face.
Morgan bent down, shouting over the wind and Lucy’s groans. “I must fetch help! Listen, Lucy! I must leave you, but I’ll run.” Lucy’s head nodded slightly as she writhed against the rocks.
Morgan picked up her skirts and raced away, stumbling occasionally over stones, unaware that she had torn her dress on a brier bush. It seemed like an hour before she reached the terrace, only to find it deserted. Peg must have gone indoors with the babies. Morgan hesitated as she heard James’s voice calling to a servant. Sure enough, he was at the south entrance, about to mount his bay gelding.
“James!” Morgan called, leaning over the terrace railing. “Get Francis quickly! Lucy is having the baby!” James looked up, the riding crop falling from his hand. “Where? Where is she?”
“On the sea-cliff path. Francis came back to the cast
le, but he went to change his clothes. Hurry, James!” But James had already disappeared. Morgan started back, hurrying down the path, but she had only gone half the distance when she heard Francis running behind her, dressed in shirt and hose, his hair still damp.
“James has gone for Dr. Wimble,” he called. Morgan nodded, not wanting to waste her breath on words. But within a few yards, Francis had overtaken her, all but pushing her aside. His mouth was set in a grim, hard line, and the look on his face frightened her so much that she averted her eyes, concentrating instead on a prayer to the Virgin for Lucy’s safety.
They found Lucy unconscious among the rocks. Massive amounts of blood clotted the dirt. At the edge of her skirt lay a tiny baby boy, the cord still attached. He was dead.
Francis fell to the ground, a strange animal cry wrenched from his throat. He gathered up both Lucy and the dead babe in his arms and sobbed. Morgan covered her face with her hands and turned away, an overwhelming sense of misery and desolation enfolding her.
Somehow, she pulled herself together and turned back to Francis and Lucy. Lucy’s eyes flickered open as she tried to talk. “Forgive …” was all she could say. Francis kissed her forehead and rubbed his cheek against hers. Then he gathered Lucy up in his arms.
“I will take her back to the castle,” he said to Morgan, forcing his voice to stay even. “I want you to take your skirt and wrap the baby in it and bury him—here.”
Morgan was aghast. “But Francis—I have nothing to dig with. The ground is hard … I can’t ….”
“I want him buried here—overlooking the sea!” He was almost screaming and the look in his eyes was near murderous. “Use your shoes, your hands, the rocks, anything! Just do it or I’ll whip you!” He was already moving up the path, with Lucy’s brown hair streaming over his arm.
Morgan stood staring at the tiny body for a long time. Afterwards, she had no idea what thoughts had been in her mind unless she had been praying. Finally she grasped the light wool of her black mourning dress at the waist and gave it a fierce tug. She stooped down and tenderly wrapped the baby in the cloth. Then she kissed the little bundle where the curve of the head showed.
“Poor little creature,” she said aloud, making the sign of the cross with her thumb, “that much love at least I can give you.” She set the sad burden aside, selected a sharp rock, and began to dig a few yards away under a crooked tree whose limbs stretched out toward the Holy Isle.
Lucy was dangerously ill for almost a week. Francis spoke little, but paced their room during the days like an angry lion. He never asked Morgan if she had buried the child; it apparently never occurred to him that she would disobey.
When at last it was certain that Lucy would recover, Dr. Wimble told Francis she must never try to have another child. Francis didn’t answer him, but went into the village that night and got very drunk.
Morgan, of course, didn’t know until later—when Lucy tearfully told her—what Dr. Wimble had said. But she did know that Francis was gone all that night, and in the morning when Lucy asked to see him, Morgan stood waiting in the entrance hall until he returned.
He rode into the courtyard about nine o’clock. Morgan noticed that he was reeling slightly; she had never seen him drunk. When he came into the hallway she could smell the liquor on his breath and she saw four long scratches on his left cheek. She thought of Lucy, her sweet, pale face propped up against the pillows, and anger overcame her.
“You scurrilous knave! You’ve been drinking and whoring! While your poor wife cries out for you from her sickbed! If it hadn’t been for your filthy lust she wouldn’t be there in the first place!”
Francis’s gray eyes glittered. His right hand snapped up as if to strike Morgan, but he let it fall back to his side. He shrugged and turned his back on her.
“You have a vicious tongue, Morgan,” he said, trying to control both his rage and the slur of his speech.
“You! Criticizing me!” she lashed at him. “I haven’t known what to tell poor Lucy. I’ve been lying to her for almost two hours. And you can’t go to see her looking like that. Those scratches—how will you explain them?”
He wheeled around and grabbed Morgan’s shoulders in a viselike grip. Francis picked her right up off her feet so that his face was almost touching hers. “I don’t have to explain anything, especially to you,” he said in a low, furious voice.
She kept looking straight at him but was unable to reply. His eyes seemed to paralyze her and his fingers dug so deep into her shoulders that she thought he must be drawing blood. He kept staring at her until she thought she would scream, but instead, she finally spoke in a firm, level voice. “Put me down, Francis. Now.”
To her astonishment, he did just that. Then he strode away, his booted and spurred feet echoing over the stone floor.
He had gone directly to see Lucy. She told Morgan about his visit later that afternoon. Lucy also told her then about Dr. Wimble’s admonition. It distressed Lucy greatly, but more for Francis’s sake than her own.
Lucy, however, made no comment about Francis’s absence or the condition in which he had returned. Apparently, Morgan decided, Lucy understood her husband very well.
By early October Lucy was feeling recovered and even Francis’s droll humor was restored. For the first week or two after his night away from the castle, he spent a great deal of his time walking the sea cliffs, where Morgan was certain he visited the grave of his tiny son. James told her later that Francis had had a cross put on the grave and that Lucy had gone there with her husband one afternoon to pray.
The weather that fall was warm and clear, with the promise of further good crops. Belford’s tenants had harvested large quantities of wheat, rye, and beans so far. Indeed, reports from all over England were good that year. It seemed to be a sign of favor for Henry and his new Queen.
Beneath the surface, however, there were new, serious troubles. In early October James received a letter from Percy, who was very ill at his Northumberland ancestral home. He told in detail of a rising in Lincolnshire by supporters of the old faith. Lincoln itself had been taken the day before Percy had written. Encouraged by local priests, nobles and commoners had banded together to demand that the dissolution of the monasteries should stop, that taxes be lessened, and that heresy should cease.
Percy wrote that he was certain the King would refuse the requests. For his own part, he could do nothing; he was too tired and ill. But he begged James and Francis to resist should the disturbances creep northward. “For you and your brother are the only North men I know to be loyal to King and country,” Percy concluded.
James had read the letter aloud in the library where Francis had been encamped among his books. Morgan and Lucy were both present, for James thought that they, too, should hear Percy’s words.
“I heard murmurings in Bamburgh when I was there day before yesterday,” Francis said, crossing his long legs at the ankle. “But if the King reacts firmly, the insurgents will desist.”
“Mayhap,” James answered. He fingered Percy’s letter thoughtfully. “You would be glad to see them put down, Brother?”
“I’d rather not see civil war in England, whatever the cause,” Francis replied. He stretched lazily, his long arms appearing to reach almost across the small room. “I would always opt for reason and goodwill to prevail, though such notions make me sound impossibly unrealistic.”
It was unrealistic, as all the inhabitants of Belford Castle soon learned when the threat of civil war was brought disturbingly close. In York, Lord Latimer and other Catholic leaders instigated the Pilgrimage of Grace, marching with banners which urged King Henry to reject his evil councilors and embrace the true Mother Church once more. York was turned into an armed camp as the King sent his soldiers north to combat the insurgents.
James was indignant over this bold challenge of his sovereign’s policies. Francis, however, defended the pilgrim rebels’ right to moral persuasion. After a particularly heated argument at supper one evening,
Francis stormed from the table, and as Lucy started to follow him, James deterred her:
“My brother is too impulsive and sentimental,” he told Lucy. “You must not pander to his ill humor or reckless opinions. It is one thing for him to speak his mind within the walls of Belford, but it would be foolish and even dangerous if he were encouraged to speak so elsewhere.”
Lucy murmured that no doubt James was right. The three remaining members of the Sinclair family finished their supper in awkward silence.
It was Morgan, in fact, who sought out Francis later. While she could sympathize with the pilgrims’ motives, she still had contempt for those who staked their lives on religious principles. The lesson of Sean O’Connor was not easily forgotten. But most of all, she disliked the dissension between James and Francis. James was so cold and correct, Francis so obstinate and volatile. And Morgan knew better than anyone how religious differences could wreak havoc.
It was a blustery autumn night when Morgan entered Francis’s library to find him seated in his favorite chair, his feet propped up on the desk, a thick tome in his hands. He did not look pleased at the intrusion.
“Don’t think me predisposed toward heresy because I was married to your brother in the new rites,” Morgan began without preamble as she seated herself across the desk from Francis, “but my own feeling is that once Henry has a son, he will return to the Church of Rome and all this controversy will be put aside. Meanwhile, it’s best for all of his subjects to bide and hold our tongues.”
“Faugh! We will never go back! At least Henry Tudor will not.” Francis scowled at Morgan from under his bushy eyebrows. “You think he would relinquish the power of heading his own church? How little you know of human nature!”
