by Mary Daheim
“Who goes there?” It was Matthew, James’s steward. He was below them, around the corner in the corridor.
Morgan thought she would faint, but suddenly she heard words coming from her lips. “Someone is lurking near the side door. Go look quick.”
“Aye, my lady,” she heard him reply.
She didn’t wait for his hasty footsteps to move away. With a supreme effort, she lifted Father Bernard and half dragged, half carried him up the remaining steps and down the narrow corridor into the tower room. She eased him onto the pallet, where he lay with his eyes closed, his breathing rapid and hoarse.
“I will be right back,” she said, and raced from the room and back down the two flights of stairs to the side door.
Matthew was looking around the castle walls. She called to him: “Is anyone there?”
He shook his head. “It’s so dark I can’t tell. Should I send some men to search?”
“No, perhaps it was my fancy. I was going to take a walk and I heard a noise when I got to the door. I thought I’d look from one of the windows, but then I heard you.”
Matthew was back inside the castle. He regarded his mistress with concern. “You look frightened to death, my lady.”
She tried to laugh. “Oh, no. I get nervous sometimes when my lord is gone at nights. It’s silly, of course.” Morgan thanked Matthew and walked as casually as possible back up the stairs.
James returned to Belford three days later. He greeted Morgan perfunctorily and retired to the library to record his purchases.
Now that he was back, Morgan wondered if keeping her secret would become more complicated. Perhaps not, since James paid her little heed. But it increased her anxiety to have him inside the castle again. Besides, she reasoned, Father Bernard was already showing signs of improvement. With luck, he might be able to leave Belford in a fortnight. He had told her that he was bound for Bamburgh, where he hoped to find a fishing boat headed for the Continent.
Morgan visited him only at night, long after the castle’s other inhabitants were asleep. She brought him not only food, but clean clothes and even some books that Francis had left behind.
He was sitting, as usual, by the turret window. They never dared light a candle, but tonight the moon was full, casting its beams into the little room. They spoke in whispers, though it was doubtful they could have been heard had they shouted.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, as she set the hamper down on the stone floor.
“Better.” It was the same reply he had given her every night, and from all appearances, it was true. Morgan thought his face was filling out a bit.
“Your cough?” she asked. Always the same questions, she thought, like one of those African parrots.
“It, too, is better.” He smiled. “I’ve been drinking your elder-flower tea. It helps.”
She was about to ask if he needed anything else when he invited her to sit down. “My quarters are not lavish; perhaps you’ll accept the pallet?” He still wore his wry smile.
Morgan hesitated, then sank onto the makeshift bed. “My daughter,” he began, and Morgan was suddenly aware of him as a priest instead of as a man. “I know how your lord feels about the old faith, for I learned that he drove his own brother out of Belford for disagreeing with him. So why is it that you do this?”
Morgan pleated the folds of her night-robe between her fingers. “I don’t know, Father. To atone for what my uncle has done to those who cling to the old ways, to counteract James’s attitudes, to do something for a fellow human being in trouble ….” She looked up at him. “I just don’t know. I’ve thought a lot on it, but I’m still not sure.”
He broke off a leg of quail and started to nibble at it. “You follow the new ways here, of course.”
“Yes.” She stood up, pacing the small chamber. “I have great trouble putting all that’s happened into perspective. I fear I don’t comprehend all these changes as a religious conflict but rather as one faction of men mistreating another.” And she told him about the monastery in York, and before she knew it, she was unleashing the whole story of Sean O’Connor and the bitterness she had felt at first for Rome and her loyalty to Anne Boleyn and all the confusing thoughts which had perplexed her for so long. She even told him about her estrangement from James and the sorry state of their marriage.
When she had finished, he regarded her thoughtfully, draining the last drops from his wine cup. “Mayhap,” he said at last, “women are the only true Christians after all. By bringing life into the world, they regard it more preciously. When they see a man abuse his brother or do him unto death, no matter the cause, they think, ‘That could be my son.’ Women see events in terms of people, not ideas. It is well that they do.”
Morgan smiled at him. “How strange it is to hear a priest talk plain, without preaching!”
“Aye, had more of us spoken so to our congregations for these long years, we might not have come to such a pretty pass. We priests and bishops and cardinals are as much to blame as King Henry. The majority of people have become estranged from their religion and care not which way the wind blows. They want security, not salvation.” He fingered his pointed chin thoughtfully. “Yet if our errors have given the King and others an excuse, it is still no reason to destroy the old faith. Sometimes the things that happen in life are unavoidable—I don’t think this break with the Pope was one of them.”
“Then what is the remedy, Father?” Morgan asked.
He shook his head slowly. “There is none, I fear, save that steadfast men and women not deny their faith, that they go on seeking salvation as they have always done and uphold the Holy Father as Christ’s vicar on earth.”
“You make it sound so simple, but it’s not,” Morgan countered.
“Oh no, it’s simple enough. It’s what happens to a man if he does these things in England that complicates the situation.” He sighed and slumped against an old wine cask.
Morgan stood up. “You must be tired out, listening to me gabble so. I’ll leave you now.” She reached down for the hamper, then suddenly sank to her knees. “Bless me, Father,” she implored.
He rose and put his hand on her hair. “Go in peace, my daughter,” he said.
Morgan had dark circles under her eyes the next morning. She had slept only about three hours, what with waiting until all was quiet and then staying so long in the tower room. Still, she felt better inside, her mind less troubled than it had been for some time. Just talking about her troubles had eased them.
The sound of horses in the courtyard brought her to the window. She looked down and saw at least two dozen riders and their mounts inside the walls, their leader talking to James and Matthew. She shielded her eyes against the morning sun and recognized the green-and-white armbands the newcomers wore. King’s Men!
Panic overwhelmed her. Should she go down to the courtyard and find out what they wanted? Would James think it odd? But she was too upset to stay in her room and wait. She grabbed the brandy decanter and took a long draught. Her throat and stomach burned fiercely for a few seconds, but she felt better. She hurried along the corridor and down the main stairway, then slowed her pace and tried to walk as calmly as possible into the courtyard. The bells in the village church tower were striking nine as she reached the group of men.
“I see we have visitors,” she said to James. “Shall I order refreshments?”
James paused, his eyes distant. But the leader of the troop bowed. “We breakfasted a short time ago, my lady,” he said. “We head now for Bamburgh.” He thanked James and mounted his horse. The signal was given and the men trotted out through the castle gate.
“What was that all about?” Morgan asked her husband.
He never seemed to meet her eyes anymore. “They search for a runaway priest, a certain Father Bernard of Lancashire. I told them this was an unlikely place to look for him.” James turned away and walked back toward the castle.
Morgan froze in place. She was aware that Matthew was watching he
r. He spoke: “That may solve our mystery, my lady.”
Morgan jumped. “Mystery? What mystery?” She regarded Matthew closely.
He spread his hands. '“The sound you heard a week or so ago, when my lord was away. Don’t you recall?”
“Oh!” She forced a little laugh. “Of course! Do you really think that might have been the priest?”
He nodded gravely. “Aye, madam, and I told the King’s Men so. You see, they found a little silver cross in the orchard. They are sure he came this way.”
She stared at him for a long second and then shrugged. “Mayhap. But I daresay he’s far from here by now.”
Was there a strange, quizzical look in Matthew’s eyes? Morgan wasn’t certain. But he only said, “Aye, madam, no doubt,” and then he, too, headed back toward the castle entrance.
Morgan felt an oppressive need to get outside the castle walls. She put on a pair of old shoes and a light cloak, and set out for the sea-cliff path. She would walk down to the beach, for the tide was far out. There was always much activity this time of year along the shore, with the gulls and rooks and kestrels and other birds seeking food for their young. Sometimes Morgan would kneel down by one of the tide pools and watch the curious little sea animals, living out their lives in that small, watery world.
She walked quickly, noticing the bright colors of the lichens which clung to the rocks. Turning a slight bend, she saw someone ahead of her several hundred feet. Morgan slackened her step and held her hand up to keep the sun out of her eyes. It was James, she was quite certain, but he seemed to be sitting on the ground. She stopped, stepping behind a big rock currant bush. No, he wasn’t sitting—he was kneeling down in front of the cross marking the grave of Francis and Lucy’s dead baby.
So he is sorry after all for what he has done to Francis, Morgan thought. She wondered if this might be the moment to approach him, to salvage some scrap of their relationship. But just as she was pondering her decision,
James rose and turned to face the sea. Suddenly his arms and legs stuck out in what looked like a wild caricature of a court dance. He was crying out something and Morgan strained to hear his words over the roar of the sea.
It was a chant, almost a song, and at last Morgan picked up a few words: “Kyrie, eleison … Christe, eleison … Domine, non sum dignus ….”
Morgan clutched at her cloak. The Latin words from the Mass—“Lord, have mercy … Christ, have mercy … Lord, I am not worthy ….” What did it mean, coupled with such terrifying gyrations? But she did know, of course. She knew now for certain what she had feared all along: James’s mind was twisted, perhaps from guilt over his treatment of Francis or from sorrow for the renunciation of his faith. Whatever the cause, the effects were ghastly and frightening. Morgan gathered up her skirts and started to run. Glancing back over her shoulder before she rounded the bend again, she saw him, still leaping about the edge of the cliff, calling out over the sea: “Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa ….”
Chapter 17
Polly was grumbling to Peg. “What’s a bit of fowl and some wine to a rich man like him? I always thought he was a miser. I remember one time, why, he was no more than seventeen, and I had eaten some sweetmeats from the sideboard and ….”
Morgan, listening outside the door, came into the room where the two women were remaking some of their mistress’s gowns. “Tut, tut,” she reprimanded as she walked through the door, “is it your master you speak of?”
Peg blushed but Polly held her ground. “Aye, madam. You should have new dresses, not old ones remade. So now his lordship complains because too much food is being eaten. If you please, my lady, I swear he keeps track of every drop of ale.”
Morgan shook a finger at Polly. The older servant felt rather free to speak her piece now that James and Morgan were estranged. But her criticism was getting out of hand. “No more of that, Polly. My lord has always kept strict accounts of our stores and purchases, and that’s as it should be. Surely you can’t complain that you’re not getting enough to eat.”
Polly put her hand to her little round stomach and chuckled. “Ah, no, madam! It is not me he complains of.” She stopped and the chuckle faded.
Fear swept over Morgan. “Well? Who is it then?”
Polly hung her head. “It is you, madam. I overheard him tell Matthew that you were eating enough for two people.”
Morgan reached for the brandy decanter, her back to the women so that they could not see how her hands shook. “Faugh! How silly!” She took a great gulp of brandy and set the cup down abruptly. I’m drinking too much of this lately, she thought. But she did feel better. She faced her servingwomen and laughed. “At least eating brings me some pleasure. There is little to savor around here these days.” She picked up one of the remodeled gowns from a chair. “Your embroidery is improving, Peg,” she said, and they fell to discussing Morgan’s wardrobe.
That evening Morgan tried to write a letter to Nan, but her thoughts were distracted. If only she could unburden herself to her cousin—but of course she dared not. A drop of ink fell from her quill onto the parchment. She tried to blot it up quickly but the stain had set. “Pray forgive the appearance of this letter, dear Nan, but I seem to be unnaturally upset. Mayhap it’s the weather,” she wrote. “I think we are due for a thunderstorm.” Morgan cursed and flung down the pen. More inkblots, but at least this time on the desk top. She wiped them away, picked up the quill, and finished off her letter. “Tell me more about the King and Anne of Cleves. Write soon, for even a letter is some small consolation.” She sent her love to all the Seymours and signed her name with less of a flourish than usual.
She leaned against the stiff back of the chair. Two weeks since Father Bernard had come to the castle. She had hoped that by now he would be well enough to leave. But though he was definitely stronger, he still coughed blood and his legs were weak.
There was a knock on the door. Morgan leaped from her chair, Nan’s letter fluttering to the floor. “Who is it?” she called, a hand at her throat.
“It’s me, my lady,” answered Peg.
Morgan’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Enter,” she said.
As Peg came in, Morgan noted at once that her hazel eyes were troubled. What’s the wench done, Morgan thought wearily, got herself with child by a groom? She sat down and directed Peg to take the chair opposite her.
“My lady, I should not ha’ come,” Peg said, her face averted from Morgan’s gaze. She was a border lass, some said Matthew’s illegitimate daughter. It was he who had sought service for her at the castle the winter before Morgan’s marriage. “I should not be sayin’ what I’m goin’ to say,” she said.
Morgan’s patience was hard pressed. “Well, you’re here and you might as well say something.”
Peg raised her head but still couldn’t meet her mistress’s eyes. “It’s about you, my lady.” Her fingers fretted at a small mole by her left eye. “It’s what Polly said today, about the food.” She paused again, her hands now pulling on her white apron.
“Yes? Go on,” prodded Morgan. My nerves, she thought, and eyed the brandy decanter covetously.
“Polly didn’t tell ye all ’twas said between his lordship and Matthew. No doubt she held back out o’ kindness,” Peg said, her words coming faster now, “but I think ye should know, seein’ all the troubles your ladyship has had t’ bear.” She stopped again, waiting for more encouragement.
Morgan felt like screaming at the girl but she kept tight control. “So? Out with it, Peg.”
“His lordship said ye were eatin’ enough for two and then—Polly said—he called out a terrible oath and cried that ye must be wi’ child and that ye must ha’ a lover in the castle.” She buried her face in her hands and started to cry. “Polly and me—we knew it was not so. But I had to tell ye … even if ye beat me for it.” She sobbed aloud.
Morgan stood up and put her hand over her eyes. Dear God, she thought, what next? She gave Peg’s shoulder a kindly pat. “Of course it’s not so. D
on’t upset yourself over such queer talk. His lordship gets undone sometimes, that’s all. Now forget about this and go wash your face and get straight to bed.”
Peg looked up gratefully at her mistress. “Oh, madam, ye are so kind! How can his lordship speak such things?”
“To bed,” Morgan repeated firmly as Peg got up, made a little curtsey, and withdrew.
Morgan leaned against the door. I cannot bear much more of this, she thought. She started for the brandy decanter but stopped short. Instead, she pressed her hands together in a prayerful attitude for a moment and then crossed the room to her writing desk. She picked up her letter to Nan and took quill in hand. “Pray for me,” Morgan wrote across the bottom of the page.
That night she made no mention of the day’s events to Father Bernard. If he noticed that his food had decreased somewhat, he said nothing. They exchanged only a few words and then she was gone, making her stealthy way down the steps and along the corridor. She was weary, so weary that she was certain she would fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Quietly she opened her bedchamber door and went in.
James was standing in the middle of the room.
Morgan cried out. She turned to flee, but he was upon her in a second, his hands clutching her arms. “I’ve ordered every inch of this castle searched.” His voice was low, his eyes wild. “We’ll find your lover before dawn. And then you will both pay, oh, so very dearly!”
Morgan tried to pull free and knew it was useless. She stared into those wild eyes, the eyes of a stranger. “I have no lover,” she said dully.
“Lying bitch!” He released her and struck a sharp blow across her face. She reeled back against the bed. “Lies! You’ve told me nothing but lies! I knew before and let you dupe me! It’s Francis, it’s always been Francis, and we’ll find him before the sun rises.” He opened the door. “Don’t try to leave, madam,” he ordered, and his voice sounded very normal. “I have posted men outside.” He closed the door very quietly behind him.
