by Mary Daheim
Morgan did not dwell on either her uncle’s death or King Henry’s youthful bride. She was too engrossed in the running of Belford, riding out at least once a week to supervise the tenants, with Matthew always at her side. She spent an hour each day checking provisions, going over the ledgers, and toting up the accounts. She kept tight rein on the castle servants, even tighter than when James was well.
She visited James every day while he was having his noon meal. Sometimes she would feed him herself, but usually Cedric, his body servant, served him. He lay propped up among the pillows, unseeing, unhearing. He was thinner now, and looked at least ten years older. Morgan gave orders to Cedric to bathe and shave his master every day. She dedicated herself to taking the greatest care of her husband.
Dr. Wimble came every Thursday. At the end of August, he told her that in truth his visits were useless. “I can only see whether he grows worse, but as I have told you, I cannot make him better.”
“I know,” Morgan replied, leaning wearily against one of the library bookshelves.
“In fact,” Dr. Wimble went on, observing her carefully, “I worry more about you than I do about him. You are very pale and too thin. You must not work so hard, and try to eat more.”
“I will,” Morgan promised.
It was that exchange with Dr. Wimble that forced her mind to accept what she had been trying to deny: She was pregnant again, pregnant with Tom’s child. At first she had so lost count of the days that her physical state went unnoticed. Then she told herself that it was only the terrible strain she had been under and the subsequent hard work. But now she had to face the reality of her condition.
She debated whether or not to write to Tom. She had had another letter from Nan saying that Tom had gone to Vienna to enlist support for England against the French and Scottish alliance. He would not return for several months.
The rest of the world might not guess that the babe she carried was not her husband’s, but the inhabitants of Belford would know the truth. She thought of Polly’s face, imagining her shock and distress. She thought of Matthew and wondered if he could continue to respect and obey her. And she thought of Francis and could not even fathom his reaction.
At the end of the second week in September a visitor came to Belford Castle. Peg brought the news to Morgan, who was with Agnes in the nursery watching Anne crawl across the floor.
“She’ll be walking soon,” Agnes was saying as Peg entered the room and curtsied.
“There is a lady to see you, madam,” she said. “I think she is a lady, at least from her speech, but her clothes are patched and old.”
Morgan headed for the hallway, biting her lip and trying to think who the newcomer could be. Because of James’s strong leaning toward the new ways, they had not been friendly with the more conservative families of the North.
Peg told Morgan the visitor was in the library, warming herself. It had been a cool, foggy morning, although the noon sun was beginning to penetrate the clouds.
Mary Percy, the widowed Countess of Northumberland, had lost the freshness of youth and stood with the air of one who has come to a fork in the road and has no idea which turn to take—and little interest in reaching her destination.
“Good day, madam,” said Morgan. “It’s been years since we’ve met.”
Mary moved away from the fire. “I was uncertain about coming to Belford,” she replied. “You knew my lord is dead?”
Morgan had heard that Percy had died, but she had taken little notice since he had been ill so long. She had not given a thought to his widow.
“My condolences, madam.” But Morgan was puzzled. “Would you care for something to eat or drink?”
To Morgan’s astonishment, the Countess took quick steps across the room and fell to her knees. “My lady, I beseech you! I am penniless, alone, homeless! I know your sympathies were not on the side of my husband, but I beg you to let me stay at Belford.”
Morgan looked down at the bowed head, partially covered by a frayed woolen veil. There were some gray hairs among the brown. Morgan’s mind raced: What had befallen the widow of the great lord of the North? Something James had said about Percy being on a pension, his vast fortune gone ….
“Pray rise, madam. We are equals,” Morgan said somewhat stiffly. “Tell me what has brought you to such a state.”
At the time of Percy’s death, Mary explained in faltering tones, almost all his property had been confiscated by the King to pay his debts. For the last three months, Mary had been living in abandoned servants’ quarters near Alnwick Castle. She had barely enough to eat. Although she had written repeatedly to her Talbot relations, their only help was in the form of advice: Have patience and wait for better times.
“It has become clear that better times are not coming and I am well out of patience,” Mary declared bitterly. “I had heard your own lord was ill and you were the only person close by who might be sympathetic. The others all opposed my husband’s religious views and his persecution of Lord Dacre. At least you were not here at that time, and I had to seek help somewhere ….” Her voice grew very small.
Morgan thoughtfully eyed the other woman for a long moment. She could find no reason to refuse her. At least it would be someone of her own class to have as a companion.
“Do you have any servants with you?”
Mary’s eyes lighted up. “Oh, madam, do you mean I can stay?”
Morgan smiled in spite of herself. “Yes, of course. We will become a household of women, but I see no harm in that.”
Mary would have fallen to her knees in gratitude but Morgan restrained her. There were tears in the Northumberland Countess’s eyes. “You are as kind as you are fair!” she cried, pulling out a tattered handkerchief and wiping her eyes.
Mary Percy had only a servingwoman and two elderly retainers. The others had been dismissed or had run away. Morgan put Mary into Lucy and Francis’s old rooms, and felt a pang for the past as she watched Polly and Peg ready the musty chamber.
After two weeks at Belford, Mary began to look better, her face less pinched, her eyes no longer dull. Polly and the Countess’s servingwoman hurriedly made over some of Morgan’s dresses. Morgan watched wryly, thinking that soon she would have to put the serving wenches to work adding fabric to her own clothes.
It was the first day of October when Morgan woke up to bright fall sunshine and saw blood on the bedsheets. Startled and frightened, she picked up the bell to ring for Polly, but thought better of it. She decided to spend the day in bed, however, complaining of a mild stomach upset.
By afternoon she seemed recovered and got up to dress. Peg came in to help her, and as she slipped the gown over Morgan’s head, she felt her mistress sway.
“Madam! You’d best get back to bed. You’re still unwell.” Morgan mumbled agreement but shook off Peg’s helping hand.
She slept most of the rest of the day and all through the night until it was almost dawn. She woke up in great pain, and suddenly knew that she was losing her child. Sick and dizzy, Morgan felt a terrible thirst and tried to raise herself to reach for the water tumbler by the bed. But the pains overcame her and she fell back against the pillow, helpless and moaning.
Only Polly and Dr. Wimble knew she had lost a babe. The rest of the household was told that Morgan was still suffering from stomach trouble but there was nothing seriously wrong. She stayed in bed for a week, with Polly clucking over her, concern suffusing any other feelings she might have.
Morgan recovered fairly quickly and Dr. Wimble was pleased with her progress. On the day before he told her she might try to get up for a little while, she spoke to Polly. “Pray try not to think too ill of me, Polly,” she said.
Polly patted her hand. “Never, madam. You have suffered much at his hands,” she said, waving in the direction of James’s room. “There is nothing you could do, no sin you could commit, that I could truly blame you for after all your troubles.”
When she had left, Morgan stretched out in the bed a
nd tried to sleep. It was still hard to believe that she had lost her child, Tom’s child. She would not write him now. Some day, perhaps, when they met again face-to-face, she would tell him. She felt an overpowering sadness, not just for the babe’s sake but because the tiny being had been her last tangible link with Tom, and now it was gone.
Cedric was shaving James. “He is so thin, madam, that if the razor slips I fear it will go straight through to the bone.”
Morgan, sitting with her embroidery in her lap, looked sadly at her husband. Over a year now he had lain thus, not moving, not speaking. Dr. Wimble was as pessimistic as ever, saying it was only a matter of time before death would claim James’s body as it had already claimed his mind.
He looked at least sixty. The veins stood out everywhere, startlingly blue in the white skin. Much of his pale blond hair had fallen out and his beard was sparse—so sparse that Cedric only shaved him twice a week.
Morgan still came in every day, taking time out from her numerous duties around the castle estates. She spent the rest of her free time with the children, for she had to be both mother and father to them now. Robbie was fair and outgoing, quick at book learning as well as at sports. Edmund was somewhat withdrawn, and clung to his mother’s skirts more than Morgan felt necessary. It was too soon to tell much about little Anne, but she seemed a happy child, walking everywhere and beginning to talk in phrases.
Morgan surveyed her handiwork in the embroidery ring with distress. “I shall never learn to sew properly, not if I spend my life practicing.” She sighed and got up. “I must check with Matthew. He’s going to Newcastle next week to get our provisions for the winter.” Cedric bowed as she left the room.
Another winter, she thought, as she made her way down the wide central staircase. The previous winter had been cheerless enough, with big drifts of snow piled against the castle walls during most of January and February. She had tried to bring some gaiety to the household at Christmas with carols and a great wassail bowl, but somehow the season failed to lift her own spirits and she feared that her feelings were transmitted to the others.
As she descended to the entrance hall, she saw Matthew speaking to a messenger clad in green-and-white Tudor livery. She paused with her hand on the stair rail and called out, “What is it, Matthew? What brings a royal messenger to Belford?”
Matthew explained what the visitor had already told him. The King was on a royal progress through the North. He and the court would be pleased to visit Belford Castle before turning south and making their leisurely way back to London. The messenger proffered the official letter to Morgan and she read it three times.
“We will be deeply honored,” she said.
Morgan was certain Tom would be among the courtiers. She could already see him, riding through the castle gates, waving to her as she stood in the entryway. Her spirits rose to almost fever pitch, and though neither Mary nor the servants knew the real reason, they were pleased to see Morgan so happy again.
She set the servants to readying the castle, polishing the silver, preparing the long-closed guest rooms, sorting the linens that had been stored away. She worked herself and the household into a frenzy. Matthew was dispatched to Newcastle to purchase enough food not only to last the winter but to feed the King and his party as well.
Morgan spent hours going over a plan of activities. She would arrange a ball, a hunt, perhaps a small tournament in the castle courtyard. This late in the year they would probably stay no longer than two or three days. Some of the courtiers and many of the retainers would have to be quartered in the village.
She got out her best dresses, unworn in almost two years. They must be hopelessly out of style, but at least she would look presentable. Mary Percy’s wardrobe was pressed and tended by Peg. Gazing critically at their gowns, Morgan wished she had thought to tell Matthew to buy cloth as well as provisions.
The King and his courtiers arrived on September twenty-third, a fitful autumn day of rain and sun. As the huge party came over the castle bridge and filled the courtyard, Morgan looked for Tom. But he was not there. A terrible disappointment overwhelmed Morgan until she told herself that perhaps he was in the village, seeing to the quartering of the retainers. Yes, no doubt that was where he was; soon he’d ride up, laughing and apologizing for his tardiness.
Morgan forced a wide smile of welcome for the royal party. To her surprise, the King had to be helped from his horse. He seemed enormous, even larger than when she had last seen him a little over a year ago. But he walked unaided, if with a slight limp, and he peered at her closely as she curtsied before him in the doorway of the castle.
“I am the most honored woman in Christendom,” she declared as he gave her his hand.
“You’re too thin,” he said by way of blunt greeting. “I liked you better with more meat. Like this one.” He pulled Katherine Howard forward by the hand and she giggled so hard her bosom bounced.
Morgan curtsied again, observing the new Queen for the first time. She looked much as both Nan and Tom had described—plump, small, and vivacious. She was dressed extravagantly, even in her riding costume, which glittered with jewels. “What a wild land is this North Country!” Katherine exclaimed.
Morgan forced a gracious smile. “We have some aspects of civilization, Your Grace. I hope you will enjoy our small efforts.” She ushered the King and Queen inside and the courtiers followed. Morgan watched the colorful aggregation, thinking how long it had been since she had been a part of it. Then she saw Richard Griffin, with Margaret on his arm. He made an exaggerated bow, which Morgan acknowledged with a curt nod.
Somehow she successfully settled over four hundred people inside the castle within the next hour. The rest of the great company moved into the village. Morgan’s own apartments were turned over to the King. She moved Mary out of Francis and Lucy’s old rooms so that Katherine Howard could stay there.
Morgan took time to ask the King if all pleased him.
“Yes,” he replied, “this is a remarkably comfortable place, considering the outward appearances.” He was allowing one of his men of the bedchamber, Thomas Culpeper, to help him ease onto the bed. “Your lord—he is bedridden, I hear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Henry nodded and spoke no further of James. Illness was both repulsive and frightening to him. An ulcer, Surrey had whispered to Morgan as they had gone up the great staircase.
The supper was lavish, with several kinds of fowl, boar, and even a big stag, which one of the servingmen had shot that afternoon. There were pastries and sweetmeats and wines and a sugar cake in the form of Belford Castle. All was going very well, Morgan decided, but she could not help but count the money that had gone into making it a success.
As hostess, she sat to the left of the King, with Katherine Howard on his other side. On Morgan’s own left was Surrey, restored to influence now that his kin was Queen. Once again Morgan scanned the gathering for Tom Seymour. Ned was present with his wife, but there was no sign of Tom.
Just as the court musicians began to play and the tables were being pushed back to make room for dancing, the double doors swung open and Francis Sinclair strode in. Morgan almost jumped to her feet, so startled was she to see him. It had been over a year since his visit to Belford and there had been no communication between them since that time.
He approached the dais of the King and fell on his knees. “Francis Sinclair,” said Henry, “it has been long years since we have laid eyes on you.”
“It is seven years since I have been to London,” said Francis, standing now before his King. “I am a true provincial.”
“A shame,” Henry remarked, his shrewd eyes taking in every detail of Francis’s rumpled yet imposing appearance. “I could have put a man like you to good use in my service.” He frowned, then waved a pudgy hand. “Eat, good Francis, there must be a few crumbs the rest of us have left!” Katherine giggled at her husband’s humor and he caressed her throat with his hand. “Sweetheart,” murmured Henry
fondly.
Morgan greeted Francis and had a chair brought for him next to Mary Percy. She introduced Francis to Mary, made certain he had a large quince pie and plenty of beef, and then let Ned Seymour escort her onto the floor. They made casual conversation, but finally Morgan could no longer hold back her question:
“Is Tom abroad again?” She tried to keep her voice casual, but Ned was no fool.
“Aye, Morgan, he is in Vienna. He will be gone some months.”
She turned her face away so he could not see the bitter disappointment in her eyes. “You both seem as busy as ever with the King’s business,” she said, trying to steer their talk into impersonal channels.
Ned held out his hand to lead her in a circle step. “We do,” he replied, and glanced in the direction of Surrey, who was talking to the King, “in spite of some who would keep us from it.”
The dance was done. Ned was escorting Morgan back to her place next to the King. “About my brother, Morgan,” he said rapidly in a low voice, “you know why he stays away. Write to him, tell him your future together is hopeless. Perhaps he’ll have the sense to come home.”
Astonished, Morgan looked up at him. She would have spoken but they were already before the royal dais. “I return our lovely hostess, Your Grace,” Ned said, bowing. He turned to Surrey. “Do you dance as smoothly as you speak, my lord?”
Surrey forced a smile and took Morgan’s arm. “I will try, my good Ned, I will try.”
Morgan was very tired. She had been complimented by the guests and praised by the King, but her head ached and all she could think of was sleep. She had only exchanged a few words with Francis but had not talked to Richard Griffin at all. She sipped at a last cup of wine and put her feet up on a stool that Peg had pulled out for her.
Cursing the fate that had sent Tom abroad, she recalled Ned’s words. He knew about their liaison and blamed her for Tom’s self-imposed exile. Competitive as the Seymour brothers were, there was sufficient bond between them to cause Ned concern. Should she write and tell him that though James deteriorated, he showed no indication of dying soon? Maybe Ned was right—but Morgan could not yet follow his advice.
