by Mary Daheim
Afterwards, she thought she must have swooned. She felt as if she were floating, sailing along on a ship of clouds, high over the Cheviot Hills, above the countryside, even as far as London. It seemed like hours, days, weeks. When she awoke, it was still dark. Was it still the same night? she wondered. Did I dream what happened? No, for there was a drop of blood on her shift. He cut my mouth, she thought dumbly, and was scarcely conscious of how her face ached.
Then Morgan heard sounds outside the door. She rose up on one elbow as James came in, breathing hard. He walked to the bed. He acted very composed, for all that there was a sense of elation about him.
“So,” he said in a low voice, “I was wrong.”
James waited for her to speak, but when he realized she would not, he went on. “This is worse—far worse—than what my brother did. I have no choice. A messenger is already riding to Cromwell.”
My wits are useless, she thought stupidly. “Cromwell?” she repeated, trying to get up. There was a pounding in her ears. Am I losing my mind? Then it became clear. “What’s that noise outside?” she demanded.
“The scaffold,” he replied. “For Father Bernard.”
“How did you know who he was?” What was the use of denials, of struggle now?
James held out his hand. “This,” he said, and he showed her the little silver rosary in his palm, the cross missing.
“You would hang him—without waiting for word from the King?”
“We take the law into our own hands in the North—you ought to know that by now.” His hand slapped over the rosary. “If you weren’t kin to Cromwell, I’d hang you, too.”
Stunned into silence, Morgan watched him leave the room.
He was gone for nearly half an hour and returned just as the sun was starting to come up. The storm had never materialized and it was already obvious that this would be a beautiful, warm May day.
“Come,” said James.
Morgan was still lying on the bed in her shift and night-robe. “Come? Where? I’m not dressed yet.”
“Come,” he said, more coldly imperious than ever. Morgan knew if she did not obey, he would drag her by force. She got up from the bed, her feet seeking her slippers. He let her precede him from the room. “To the window over the courtyard,” he directed her.
She suddenly knew; that she had not guessed before amazed her. When they got to the window she did not even register surprise. The hastily constructed gibbet, the little crowd of castle servants and retainers, a few early risers from the village—and Father Bernard walking among them, his hands tied behind his back.
Matthew escorted the frail priest up the steps. The noose dangled, swaying in the spring breeze. Father Bernard looked to all sides, his gaze untroubled, as several onlookers crossed themselves. He said something but Morgan couldn’t hear it through the window. Matthew brought the noose down around the priest’s neck and Morgan turned away. That other May, in the Tower with Anne … and the spring before that and Sean …. She closed her eyes tight.
James grabbed her and shoved her against the window. “Look, bitch!” he cried. But her eyes remained shut fast, and only the gasp in unison from the onlookers told her that Father Bernard was dead.
Edmund was crying. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to see his own mother, not if she were just down the hall in her room. Agnes rocked him in her lap, trying to stop his tears.
James still kept the guards outside Morgan’s door. She had been confined for ten days, since the morning of Father Bernard’s execution. None of the children were allowed to see her and only Polly had permission to wait on her mistress.
Robbie was lunging at his shadow with a toy sword. He regarded Edmund’s snifflings with disdain. But inside, he, too, was upset. He sheathed the sword and turned to Agnes. “Is it true that our mother is going away without us?”
Agnes glanced down at Edmund, who had fallen asleep in her arms. “Aye, Robbie,” she answered.
“When?”
“Soon. Mayhap today.”
Robbie looked down at his toes, his lower lip protruding sulkily. “But she cannot go,” he cried. “She promised to take us to the Holy Isle this summer!”
“It is not her fault,” said Agnes shortly, and turned away to hide her own tears.
Morgan’s windows looked out to the sea. It was in that direction that she watched now as she had often done during the long days of her confinement. She had almost lost track of time. It must be June by now, she calculated.
Her knees ached from spending so much time at her prie-dieu. For the first time in a long while, she felt as if she were praying not into a vast empty void, but directly to her Creator. She prayed not for mercy for herself but for her children, for the souls of Father Bernard and Sean O’Connor and Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, her parents, and for the welfare of all people who suffered in the world.
“Go in peace,” Father Bernard had admonished her on the night of their long talk in the tower room. The words came back to her with great comfort. He must have died at peace, she thought, because he had kept the faith, the old faith I almost lost. But by his counsel and example I will be at peace, too, no matter what happens. Maybe it wasn’t just the old faith which I let slip away, but faith itself.
Whatever it was has been restored to me, and if Father Bernard has been the cause of my earthly destruction, I rejoice because he is also the instrument of my eternal salvation.
And then she heard the shouts of men in the courtyard and knew that it was time. Stiffly, she went to the wardrobe and took out the first cloak she saw. I will not weep, I will not ask to see the children, for James would deny me even that. She put the cloak on and sat down on the bed to wait.
James himself came to fetch her. “The King’s Men are here,” he said, and that was all. She did not answer.
We will never see each other again, Morgan thought, we who were never lovers, rarely friends, and now deadly enemies. She walked ahead of him, thinking how strange it was to be outside her room at last. There would be the fresh air and the ride to London, one last look at the green, lush land she loved so well. Morgan blinked against the sun as she saw nearly a dozen men in Tudor livery waiting on horseback. Morgan blinked again, this time in disbelief: Their leader was Tom Seymour.
She wanted to cry out, for this final irony was too much. Tom held the warrant, which he read aloud to Morgan. She didn’t look at him, didn’t even listen to the words. So formal, his voice sounded, not at all like Tom. When he finished, she turned toward him, watching not his face but his big hands as they rolled up the parchment.
Morgan looked straight through James as he helped her mount. She only half listened as he talked to Tom. “I have done my rightful duty, Sir Thomas,” he said.
Tom nodded. “You have indeed, my lord. Master Cromwell has praised you well.”
“A man cannot do too much for his country and King, is that not so, Sir Thomas?”
Morgan looked more closely now at James. He sounded like a schoolboy seeking reassurance from his tutor. Was there just a flicker of doubt in his voice? She turned her gaze to Tom; a muscle moved along his jawline.
“Aye,” Tom said, “you are a true defender of your King.” He raised his hand, then motioned for Morgan to ride next to him. Peg and Polly were weeping, Matthew looked worried, and some of the others seemed openly afraid. Morgan looked away as Tom led the horsemen out of the courtyard and down the hill to the village.
Morgan never looked back, even though she could have seen the castle from nearly a mile away. She was still so shocked that Tom would be in charge of her arrest that she could only stare straight ahead, like a wooden image. They spoke not at all until both castle and village had been put behind them.
“You are in my personal care,” Tom finally said, speaking in what seemed an unnaturally loud and severe voice. “Any attempt to escape will be dealt with by me, and I’m short on mercy, as my men will tell you.”
She threw him a sidelong glance. Had the
whole world gone mad? Tom, even Tom, after her blood! But she would not weep, not now, no matter what else happened.
Late in the afternoon Tom announced they would spend the night at Alnwick. His second-in-command, Will Herbert, commented that he thought they could get to Morpeth before nightfall.
Tom gave him an angry look. “You question my orders?” Herbert backed off, protesting that he only meant his words as a suggestion.
The inn was small and crowded. Tom told the innkeeper his men could stay in two rooms. He and the woman would require a third. Morgan looked up at him in surprise. Surely locking her in a room by herself was secure enough. Anger flared, for the first time in days.
“At least I could have brought a servingwoman with me. I’ll not share a room with you, of all men!” She struck out at him blindly. “False friend! Traitor!”
He snatched her wrists with his hands. “God’s teeth! The kitten scratches!” Incredibly, his eyes glinted with humor.
“You fiend! To mock me so at a time like this!” She tried to wrench free but failed.
He picked her up, as easily as lifting a sack of apples, and tossed her over his shoulder. Giving orders to his men to go to the lodgings the innkeeper was readying for them, he mounted the stairs two at a time.
The innkeeper’s wife was at the top of the stairs, her round eyes startled. But she was accustomed to not asking questions of her guests; she showed Tom to the room and left. He dumped Morgan on the bed, then returned to the door and slid the bolt.
“You beast! How could you?” Now the tears were flowing free. “Horrible enough for my uncle and my husband to turn on me—but you!” She pounded the straw mattress with her fists.
Tom was standing by the bed, his arms folded across his chest. “When you are through ranting, we can have a civil talk.” She looked up between gulping sobs. The amusement was still in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He sat down next to her, his arm around her shoulders. “God’s beard, Morgan, do you really think I’d lead you to your death?” He watched her face, a composite of distress and noncomprehension. “If you will calm yourself, I’ll tell you why I came to Belford. Oh, here!” He handed her a big handkerchief.
She blew her nose loudly and wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. He waited patiently for at least two full minutes before he began.
“Your wretched husband sent word to Cromwell about how you had hidden Father Bernard. Cromwell could hardly pass up your latest misdeed, and I swear at this point he’d put his mother in the Tower if he thought it would save his own neck. You see, even though the King recently made your uncle Earl of Essex, he’s in mortal danger. The marriage with Anne of Cleves is a fiasco and Henry blames Cromwell.”
Morgan’s eyes were enormous; she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’ve heard little news lately and Nan has to be careful in her letters ….” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief again.
Tom stretched out his long legs, then started to pull off his boots. “Aye, it’s so. Our problem is that we don’t know how long he can hold on. It may be that Henry will keep him in power until he can secure a divorce for the King. In any case, we must fight for time; every hour away from London may mean that Cromwell—instead of you—goes to the Tower. That’s why I decided to stay here tonight and not try for Morpeth.”
Morgan sank back on the bed, a weak smile on her lips.
“And I thought …. All the things I called you! Can you forgive me?”
He kicked the boots away and leaned over her. His blue eyes twinkled even more merrily. “I think so.”
“But how did you come to take command?” she asked, resuming a partial sitting position.
Tom was removing his leather doublet. “I’d been alarmed about you for some time. Nan had come back from Belford and confided to me about James’s odd behavior and your estrangement. Then, when James’s message about you and Father Bernard came to Cromwell, Ned happened to be with him. Ned told me at once and I went to see Cromwell and volunteered to lead the party to Belford. I told him it was a personal matter, hinted about some great affront done me at your hands, and of course he is only too eager to please a Seymour—or any other man who has the King’s ear these days.”
She sighed deeply and smiled, her big, familiar smile. “I know I’m still not safe. But just to have hope! Oh, Tom! I’m so grateful! Why have you been so good to me?”
It had not been meant exactly as a question, but Tom took it for such and the twinkle faded from his eyes. He leaned toward her and ran his hand against her cheek. “Don’t you know?”
The topaz eyes were huge again, the lips still parted slightly. He bent down and kissed her gently. “Am I so difficult to read? I love you, Morgan.”
She clung to him, her head awhirl. “You!” she breathed. “You and all your women!” And she laughed aloud and took his face between her hands. Her eyes turned serious. “Tom.”
“So, you believe me?” He was grinning, the white teeth flashing at her, the candlelight catching the golden glints in his red hair.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. I suppose we’ve always loved each other, in our own way, but more as brother and sister. Yet ….” She paused, tracing his jawline through the thick beard. “No man but Sean ever said he loved me.”
“And I have never told any other woman I loved her. Or meant it, at any rate.” The grin turned sheepish. “Will you fight me like a tigress if I try to make love to you?”
The big eyes regarded Tom steadily. “No.” Morgan wasn’t at all sure if she loved Tom, at least in the romantic sense. But she had been alone for so long and no man had ever both loved and made love to her. Despite Tom’s optimism about saving her from the block, she was still too close to death to deny herself—and him—the joy they might offer each other.
He was already adroitly unlacing her soft chamois riding jacket. With expert hands, he slipped the silk bodice from her shoulders and cupped the full, white breasts. “I thought you’d look like this,” he said appreciatively. “You are a most lovely and inviting woman.”
Morgan watched with delight as his strong fingers moved in circular motions around her breasts and finally touched her nipples. He pinched each one experimentally and she sighed as she saw them turn taut beneath his fingers. It was not just Francis who could arouse her, she thought with involuntary satisfaction, and pulled Tom’s head down into the valley between her breasts.
Morgan’s skirt and undergarments were off in the next few seconds and Tom’s clothes lay in a heap beside the bed. He spread her legs and gazed with pleasure at the tawny triangle that crowned her womanhood.
“Childbearing has done little harm to your body,” he declared, and fell facedown to kiss her stomach and the curling hair and the insides of her thighs. She felt his tongue probe upwards, sending fiery flames throughout her entire being. Morgan’s hands were in his hair and her legs wound around his back.
“Oh, Tom,” she gasped, “now, please!”
He lifted his head, giving her a quick, bemused glance. Then he was straddling her, thrusting inside her body, moving in rapid, throbbing intensity until they both groaned with ecstasy. He did not withdraw from her for a long time, and she lay beneath him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. At last he moved away and they were quiet, so quiet that Morgan thought Tom must have gone to sleep. But eventually he hugged her tight, and when he spoke, his words were unusually sober: “You did not learn to love like that from James, I’ll wager.”
The denial should have rushed to Morgan’s lips—but it did not. She could lie to James, to Richard Griffin, even to the King himself—but not to Tom Seymour. “Does it matter?”
The moon was up, full and silver, floating in a cloudless spring sky above the River Ain. Morgan could make out every nuance of Tom’s face a scant six inches from her own. He appeared to be struggling with himself, knowing he had long ago lost count of the women he had bedded
, and yet unable to accept the possibility that Morgan had dallied with another man outside of wedlock. “No.” He hugged her close and kissed the tip of her nose. “What matters is the future, not the past.”
Morgan gazed at him in wonder and gratitude. Did she love Tom? Perhaps. But she wanted to be certain, and Grandmother Isabeau had told Morgan that she should know when real love was there. And surely, locked in Tom’s embrace, she had to believe that this was the man she was destined to love forever.
Chapter 18
They stayed in Newcastle the following night, Darlington the next, then York. During the day, Tom treated her rudely, casting frequent aspersions on her loyalty to King and country. Morgan seldom replied but rode with eyes staring straight ahead, trying to look defeated but dignified. It was not that difficult to keep up the pretense, for when she thought what might befall them if they got to London too soon, or if Henry changed his mind about Cromwell, she became overwhelmed by fear.
Tom figured they had three, maybe four days before they reached London. It was the sixth of June; he wished he could find out what had gone on while he’d been away from London. Most of the gossip he had heard at the inns along the way didn’t tell him much more than he already knew. There was talk about the new treason bill Cromwell had introduced into Parliament. It was said that the chancellor was going to arrest at least five more bishops.
They reached the forests of Nottingham by midafternoon. As they stopped by a stream to water the horses, Will came up to Tom. “Think we can make Newark this evening?” he asked.
Tom cupped water in his hands and drank. “We stop at Tuxford.”
Will eyed Tom quizzically. “Tom,” he said, for they were friends as well as companions-in-arms, “this slow pace causes the men to spend too much time at inns drinking and wenching and dicing.”
