by Mary Daheim
Tom stood up, grinning. “I’ve never heard you complain about that sort of amusement before, Will. Is your wife turning you into a homebody?”
Will smiled back, looking a bit foolish. Morgan watched from her saddle as Will pulled Tom away from the others.
“I’ve heard it said,” Will told Tom in a low voice, “that you keep the Countess with you at nights for sport, not guarding. For my own part, I know that you were friends with her and her father as well. It makes even me suspicious, Tom.”
Tom threw back his red head and laughed. “Oh, Will, be suspicious then! But don’t let me catch you peering under the door tonight!”
Tom was troubled at the inn in Tuxford, but he kept it from Morgan. He knew his men both feared and respected him; there would be no direct challenge from them.
After Morgan and Tom had made love and lay back among the pillows, she asked what Will had said that afternoon. He shrugged the question off, mumbling something about the men doing too much wenching. “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he ordered, flinging an arm across her body. But Morgan had overheard most of the conversation and remained awake for a long time.
They stopped in Stamford next—only one more night now, and two short days. He decided that Stevenage would be their last stop.
Stevenage was a tiny village with only one inn, and that was full. Next would be Hatfield, but that was so close, too close to London. If they went that far and no farther, Tom knew Will’s suspicions would be confirmed.
“Will you gamble with me?” Tom asked Morgan in a low voice as they rode out of Stevenage. She nodded. “Then we must make for London.”
She stared at him, her heart beating rapidly. “But I thought ….”
“We will arrive close to midnight. I will take you to Seymour Place. In the morning we will see what steps must be taken next.”
The dejected pose came all too easily now. She clutched at the reins and bit her lip. London! Was it possible that she had ever longed to see that city again? Now the very word set her trembling with fear. Tom turned in the saddle. “We’ll make straight for London. Move along!”
Will Herbert smiled, his concern ebbing.
The city—with its lights still burning, traffic still moving in the narrow streets. The bells of St. Paul’s chimed the midnight hour as they rode through King’s Cross. Then they turned, not toward the Tower or Whitehall where Cromwell dwelt, but in the direction of the Inns of Court where Seymour Place was situated.
“Where do we ride?” Herbert asked.
“To my place,” Tom replied.
“Sir Thomas …” began Will.
“You heard me. Think I would wake the diligent Cromwell at this late hour? He may do much of his thinking in bed, but he sleeps there, too. We will remain at Seymour Place until I dispose of the prisoner tomorrow.”
Tom lodged Morgan in a room next to his and posted guards outside. He had already explained that he dared not come to her that night. Alone in her bed, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Without him, the night held more terror than the day. And suddenly her guilt of sin overwhelmed her. Adultery, she thought, what an ugly word! Holding him close, delighting in his kisses, feeling his big body against hers, she had no sense of shame or guilt. But now, conscience was at work. Adultery might be regarded lightly at court, but for Morgan, raised in the strict environment of Faux Hall, it was sin, plain and simple. It was also confusing. She had not felt this way with Francis. Why was it different with Tom?
I love him, I must love him, whereas I don’t love Francis. Else why should I feel so happy with Tom, so content, so oblivious even to the danger we share? She rolled over again and began to pray.
Tom came to her room early that morning. He took her hands and kissed her cheek. “I have sent word to Cromwell that you are here,” he told her, and saw the terror in her eyes. “Now we must wait.”
The guards stayed outside the door. After he left, a servingwoman came in with food and clean clothes. Morgan listlessly went through the garments, noting a low-cut red dress among them. In spite of her apprehension, she was faintly amused. For whom had Tom bought that piece of frippery—or who had hastily left it behind? But it fit reasonably well and she was grateful to discard the chamois riding habit she had worn for the last week.
Tom had been out of the house for several hours. Morgan paced the room, nibbled without appetite at some cold pheasant and continued to wait. She sat on the bed, trying to conjure up scenes with the council, with Henry, with Cromwell. Her shrewd, cunning uncle—surely he could not fall into the same trap that he had set for so many others! The King was aware that Cromwell was virtually indispensable in running the government. Certainly Cromwell, at the height of his power, could save himself. Despite the June warmth, Morgan shivered, rubbing her hands together. They were cold as ice water, though her cheeks were hot.
She got up again, wandering to the window for what seemed like the hundredth time. The view was always the same—a peddler pushing his cart, a carriage rattling by, young boys running and shouting to one another, lawyers and their clerks heading for the Inns of Court.
It was almost suppertime when she heard heavy footsteps in the hall. She jumped up from the bed where she’d been trying to nap. Was it to be now? The door opened to reveal Tom Seymour, with Ned and Will Herbert behind him.
“Cromwell’s been arrested. You’re free!” said Tom. Morgan stood dumbfounded as Tom hurried to take her in his arms.
After supper, with Ned and Will Herbert as Tom’s guests, Morgan learned of the turn of events which had saved her life. Cromwell had received Tom’s message at ten that morning. But there were more pressing matters on his mind; he was putting together warrants for the five bishops he deemed “too conservative,” trying to build a wall of security around himself with the misdeeds of others.
After dinner Cromwell had rushed to the privy council meeting where Ned had joined the others. Tom had waited in the music room, helping Margaret Howard Griffin’s young cousin, Katherine, tune her lute. Ned told him later what had happened—how, in the middle of the session, the captain of the King’s guard had stomped into the room and held out a warrant for the “villain minister’s” arrest. Norfolk had leaped from his seat and flung himself upon Cromwell, wrenching the cross of St. George from his neck. Norfolk, that proud Howard, had at last seen the fall of the upstart Cromwell. Screaming with anger, the disgraced chancellor was taken to the Tower by barge.
“I should feel sorry for him out of Christian charity, but I cannot,” Morgan declared, turning the stem of her wine goblet in her hands. “Yet I don’t understand how I was freed so rapidly.”
Tom poured Scots whiskey for himself and Ned. Will declined, saying he’d have no traffic with the imported liquor, but would stick to brandy.
Tom leaned back in his chair and waved a hand toward Ned. “My good brother came hurrying to the music room with the news. He’d hardly got the story out when the King came in with neither music—nor Cromwell—on his mind.”
“You mean he’s courting this Katherine Howard?” asked Morgan incredulously. “But he’s married to Anne of Cleves!”
Tom smirked at her. “You still don’t know our monarch very well. Do you want to hear what took place or not?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Morgan hastily.
“Actually, there’s not much more to tell. I informed the King that I had you here under arrest at your uncle’s request and asked if the charges would be dropped now, and he just kept grinning at Katherine and then waved his hand and said, ‘Oh, by the Mass! That pretty wench! Certainly, certainly!’ And he added something not fit for your ears, so Ned and I left him to his light o’ love.”
“Howards!” snorted Ned contemptuously. “They seek the reins again.”
Morgan, ignoring Ned’s remark, wriggled with pleasure and relief. “Free! I still can’t take it in!”
Ned frowned slightly and cleared his throat. “There is still one matter which my brother has not touched
upon.” Morgan looked at him questioningly. “Your uncle confiscated Faux Hall, a property he has long coveted.”
Even that bit of news couldn’t shake Morgan. “Ah, I should have guessed! He was always envious of my mother’s side of the family and my father’s possessions.” She remembered how anxious he had been to relieve her of any responsibility for her family home after her parents died. “Surely it will revert to me now.”
Ned still frowned. “Mayhap. But the rumor is that a week ago Cromwell turned Faux Hall over to the King as a gift to placate him. And ’tis said that the King, in turn, has presented it to Katherine Howard as a wooing present.”
Morgan slapped her hand on the table. “Oh, faugh! Who is this chit, anyway?”
Will Herbert supplied the information: She was Norfolk’s eighteen-year-old niece, plump and pretty as a Persian cat. She was one of Anne of Cleves’s ladies and the Howards were pushing her into Henry’s aging arms.
“Well,” said Morgan, “I’ll not think about it now. I’m not going to think of anything tonight, not even about getting back to Belford and the children.”
Tom eyed her from over the rim of his whiskey tumbler. “You would go back to Belford?”
“I must. I am going to take the children away from James. I fear for their safety, especially Anne’s.”
“You set another dangerous task for yourself,” Tom warned her. “I will go back with you.”
She stayed in London less than a fortnight. She visited the court but spent most of her days and all of her nights with Tom at Seymour Place. Occasionally she felt shame and cursed herself as a wanton woman. But mostly she experienced sheer joy from being with Tom and glorying in their mutual passion. At Whitehall one afternoon, several ladies vied with each other for Tom’s attentions while Morgan was cornered by John Dudley’s tiresome political opinions. Morgan had looked over Dudley’s shoulder and had seen Tom give her a long, slow wink. Her blood had begun to race with desire and the pride of possession. Let those featherheaded wenches flirt themselves into a fit, she’d thought—Tom belongs to me. And in that moment, she was absolutely sure that she loved him.
She saw Richard and Margaret Griffin briefly, observed the King from a distance, chatted with the Earl of Surrey, and caught a glimpse of the rangy, fair-haired Anne of Cleves. Two days before she and Tom had decided to leave for Belford, Nan came to London and met Morgan at Seymour Place. Nan was far gone with her second child, and Morgan chided her for making the trip in the summer heat.
“Nonsense! I’m healthy as a plow horse!” She added, however, that her mother was not. “She’s ailed ever since the Countess of Salisbury’s arrest,” Nan said, pulling off her short gloves. “Gloves in this kind of weather!” She tossed them on a table.
They talked for three hours straight, Morgan spilling out the whole horrendous tale with Nan exclaiming and shaking her head. When at last Morgan had brought her up to date, Nan regarded her cousin seriously.
“I have heard some things, too, even at Wolf Hall,” she said. Morgan asked her what they might be. Nan answered her evenly: “That you are Tom’s mistress.”
Morgan got up and walked to the sideboard where she extracted two wilted roses from a bouquet. “It’s true, Nan,” she replied, throwing the roses into the grate.
Nan was silent for a few seconds. “Strange,” she mused, “I remember when he used to come visit your father, when we were very young, how I thought you should marry him. Instead, I married a Seymour.” She folded her hands across her big stomach. “How long ago that seems.”
“Yes,” said Morgan, and stared at the Seymour coat-of-arms above the mantelpiece.
Henry Tudor made one thing clear: He had had enough of Wolseys and Cromwells. From now on, he would run his kingdom by himself.
“Ned pouts,” Tom reported to Morgan one warm June evening. He grinned and brushed her lips with a kiss. “Should I feel sorry for my poor brother?”
“He’s Earl of Hertford. He has all sorts of lands and perquisites,” Morgan replied, nestling her head against Tom’s chest. “In fact, you have grown quite wealthy since becoming uncle to a prince. I expect there will be more preferments for you both as Edward grows older.”
“Hmmmm.” He fondled her body under the thin silken peignoir. “It’s you I prefer, sweetheart.”
“Such a welcome declaration,” Morgan sighed, moving his hand to the soft yet firm flesh of her belly, “since I prefer you to whatever else the world might offer. Oh, Tom,” she exclaimed, guiding his fingers between her thighs, “I marvel that it took so long for me to realize I love you!” Tom lifted the peignoir’s flowing skirts to reveal the lush nakedness of her lower body. “I was slow to discover the truth, too,” he declared, his sea-blue eyes savoring the slim legs, the curve of hip and thigh, and the tantalizing triangle which drew his lips like a magnet.
“When, Tom?” she breathed, as he dropped on his knees to kiss the mound of her womanhood. “You never told me.” But Tom was too engrossed to reply at once. His tongue was probing her eager flesh as she stood with legs spread apart and clutched at his hair. At last they both tumbled onto the divan and he pulled the peignoir all the way off, then hurriedly removed his own clothes.
“At Belford, when I was blown ashore.” He tossed the last of his garments onto the adjacent footstool. “There you were, bulging like an overripe melon, clumsy and none too happy—or so it seemed to me—and yet I found myself totally smitten.”
Morgan laughed aloud, delighted at the absurdity of his description, enchanted by the ardor with which he kissed the hollow of her neck, the crevice between her breasts, the curve of her waist. It was perfect, this love of theirs: Sean had wooed her, Richard had stirred her senses, James had married her—but Tom offered not only his heart but his body, to bring contentment of the flesh and peace to her soul.
And then there was Francis. Even as Tom’s hands explored her buttocks and she covered his chest with biting kisses, Francis’s lanky image flashed before her. But there was no love there, only an animal attraction which had served their lustful urges well. Nor was Francis Tom’s equal in any number of ways—he lacked Tom’s finesse, his grace, his sense of romantic passion. Tom might be part pirate with the reputation of a rake, but he was also a gentleman, schooled in the ways of the court, well versed in words a woman wanted to hear.
But all Morgan wished to hear at that moment was the cry of her own delicious pleasure as Tom held her tight and brought them both to an exquisite, blinding joy. She felt the sudden, shattering surge of his explosion inside her as it mingled with the release of her own desire in the most intimate recesses of her body.
Moments later, as they clung together on the narrow divan, she expressed her feelings about the miracle of their love.
“Perfect?” Tom repeated with a dubiously raised eyebrow. “Wonderful, I’ll concede—but not perfect.”
“Why not?” Morgan looked puzzled as she shifted her body to see him more clearly.
“Because,” he replied, pulling her closer, “we are lovers, not man and wife. I’ve waited too long for love not to want to make it a permanent arrangement.”
“But that’s not possible!” she breathed. “Are you suggesting an annulment or divorce?”
“It’s a possibility.” Tom released Morgan and stood up, going to the wardrobe to get his dressing gown. “You could find grounds somehow. James is clearly unstable; he would have had you killed. There must be a way, and once we get to Belford and secure the children’s safekeeping, we’ll come back to London and figure out what we can do.”
Morgan’s eyes widened as she scanned Tom’s face. “You’re serious! You would marry me! I can hardly believe that!”
“Try, sweetheart. God’s teeth, don’t you know how much I love you?”
The return to Belford was made in six days of hard riding. Now that Morgan had left London behind she was desperately anxious to see her children again. Over a month had gone by since she had clasped them in her arms.
/> But she wished she would not have to see James at all; the mere thought of encountering him again after all he had done filled her with revulsion. He would have to be dealt with, however, and Morgan was extremely grateful that Tom was at her side to help shoulder the responsibility.
On the day before they left London, June twenty-ninth, Commons had passed an Act of Attainder condemning Cromwell as a heretic and a traitor. Tom told Morgan that Henry would let his former chancellor live long enough to obtain him a divorce from Anne of Cleves, who would meet with a far better fate than the other Anne had. “There is talk of pension and special titles and privileges,” he said. “And she takes it well, having neither ambition nor great vanity.”
The July sun beat down on the towers and roofs of Belford Castle. Tom called to his half-dozen retainers to follow him through the gates. They had stopped to eat in the village, in case the lord of the castle was inhospitable. Morgan had been welcomed warmly by the townspeople, who were amazed and delighted to see their Countess again.
Tom had warned her at least once a day on the trip north that James would undoubtedly resist her plans. That was why he had brought his men along, though he knew that if James wanted to create a conflict a small army would be needed to fend off the supporters of Belford. It was an uncertain situation, but there was no telling Morgan she couldn’t have her way and take the children under her care. She had sent a letter ahead, saying her request was sanctioned by the King, which indeed it was, since Henry was still in an expansive mood.
“He’d never rally the people of Belford against me,” Morgan kept telling Tom. “Besides, he cares nothing for the children. He doesn’t even believe Anne is his daughter.” She was convinced he’d relinquish them without protest as long as she promised to raise them well and let them visit their father when he wished it. She would put it in writing if necessary.
