Destiny's Pawn

by Mary Daheim

  But one of them also looked very familiar. Richard Griffin stood just slightly apart from the rest, his broad-shouldered form attired completely in black, a mourning band on his arm. He turned just as Morgan hesitated and they stared at each other. Richard’s solemn expression broke into a grin and he beckoned to Morgan and her companion.

  “There’s no turning back now,” Morgan said in a low voice. “The King has seen us, too.” She took Mary’s hand, pulling the other woman along and all but shoving her in front of the King.

  Mary immediately dropped to her knees, hands clasped together. “Your Grace,” she began in a shaky voice, “I come to beg a favor of you ….” Mary faltered under Henry’s curious yet impatient gaze and had to be prompted by Morgan. “A favor of your generous, kindly nature,” Mary continued. “I am the widowed Countess of Northumberland, left penniless and alone in the world. I seek only a small portion of my late husband’s holdings so that I may live independently and ….” Again she stopped, obviously on the verge of tears. Morgan was both concerned for Mary’s distress and exasperated at her lack of courage. She was about to intercede and finish the speech herself when King Henry’s voice boomed out in the old familiar cadence:

  “How can your ladyship desire any living of your husband’s lands, seeing your father gave no money to your husband in marriage with your ladyship, or what think you that I should do?”

  Mary glanced quickly at Morgan, who made an encouraging gesture, but no words came forth. The widowed Countess simply stared at Henry with sad, pleading eyes. “What it please Your Grace,” she said at last.

  Henry scanned the petition she had handed him. “Madam,” he said, “I marvel greatly that my lord, your father, being so great a wise man as he was, would see no direction taken in this matter in his time.” He paused and his eye caught Morgan’s. She was sure she detected the hint of a twinkle. “Howbeit,” he went on, “we will be contented to refer the matter to our council.”

  Mary kissed his hand, her eyes damp with tears. “I beseech Your Grace to be good and gracious to me,” she pleaded with a weak smile.

  He nodded. “We will.” Then he turned directly to Morgan. “Do you petition, too, madam, or only sponsor others?”

  She dropped to her knees in the place Mary had left vacant. “I have one small favor to ask of Your Grace.” She turned the great topaz eyes up to him. “I pray that Faux Hall may be restored to me for my sake and that of my children. It is the only possession in this world that is truly my own.”

  “Faux Hall?” Henry looked momentarily puzzled, his forefinger tapping his chin. His little eyes brightened. “Ah, yes! Near Aylesbury, of course! What’s your forfeit, madam?”

  Morgan’s eyes flashed. “Forfeit? It is lawfully mine, Your Grace, taken from me by my late uncle. I almost forfeited life itself in that exchange.”

  She clamped down on her tongue to stop the flow of angry words. Had she gone too far? She spotted Richard then, standing directly behind Henry. He was still grinning at her.

  And Henry was grinning, too, and giving her his hand. “Oh, come up here, Morgan Todd Sinclair, so that we may see you better. Have your home by the river and our best wishes with it. You must promise one thing, though—to stay awhile at court and brighten our lives. There is not much spring here this year.”

  Morgan did stay on, though she felt guilty about leaving her children and husband. At least this time the young ones were safe, with Agnes and Peg to care for them. She had, after all, accomplished what she had set out to do—Faux Hall was hers again, to hold for Edmund until he came of age.

  Mary was enjoying London and life at court, but occasionally would express a desire to return north. Now that some of her properties had been restored, she would move out of Belford, and Morgan sighed with guilty relief. Morgan pointed out to Mary that she was free to leave whenever she chose, but Mary said she would wait until they could make the trip together. The Countess of Northumberland was not used to traveling great distances with only her retainers.

  Nan had come to London in early May. She was still touched with sorrow, for that winter her mother had died. “The Countess of Salisbury’s execution upset her terribly,” Nan told Morgan. “Perhaps she found that blow to a cherished friend—and to the old faith—too much to endure.”

  Morgan was saddened by her aunt’s passing; the older generation of her family was now laid to rest. She and Nan spent a great deal of time talking and reminiscing, but Morgan would not admit, even to Nan, that she was waiting for Tom Seymour. He was still gone, but was rumored to be returning to England to help fortify strategic points along the east coast, lest the long-talked-about war with France actually materialize. Indeed, now there was even talk of war with Scotland.

  The last days of May brought heavy clouds and rain to England. Morgan sat in a window seat at Greenwich, trying to concentrate on Francis’s book. It had been published just before Morgan had arrived at court. Those two theological antagonists, Cranmer and Gardiner, were having difficulty deciding which side to take. The King had praised the book; should they not do likewise? Yet neither wanted to-agree with the other about anything. The courtiers, meantime, jested about the predicament in which Francis Sinclair’s treatise had flung the longtime religious adversaries.

  “Your brother-in-law has made a name for himself with that little volume,” said Richard Griffin. He was dressed in a black riding costume and the dampness clung to his clothes.

  Morgan offered the other half of the window seat to him. “This weather,” she said, as he eased himself down next to her, “sends my spirits plummeting.”

  “It does for a fact,” Richard replied. He was subdued these days, which was fitting in a man who had recently lost his wife, but, Morgan felt, this was not quite the entire explanation.

  She set the book down beside her. “You seem downcast yourself,” she told him. “You must still mourn Margaret deeply.”

  He carefully scrutinized the touch of silver braid on his cuff. “It was very tragic, yes. She had always been so healthy. But six months ago, she began to sicken, her appetite dwindled, and she grew very weak.” The green eyes looked away and he frowned. “There was pain before the end, but not unbearable, thank God.”

  “I’m so sorry. Margaret was a kindly creature. And very beautiful. It’s a shame you could not have had more years together.”

  “So true.” Richard, however, did not appear overwhelmed with grief. Saddened, Morgan thought, but not sorrowful. His next words, however, helped explain his attitude. “His Grace and I did not have good fortune with our Howard wives.”

  Something inside Morgan winced. Richard had never loved Margaret. He had married her for the family name and influence. Now Margaret was dead and so was Katherine, and Richard’s link to the King was buried with them.

  “What a pity you didn’t marry a Seymour,” Morgan remarked archly, and bit her tongue. It had been a doubly cruel comment, cutting both Richard and herself.

  But Richard displayed no irritation. Instead, his hand brushed the artful drape of her lavender oversleeve. “And you? Your cousin married a Seymour. I assume you remain on intimate terms with the family?”

  Morgan flinched. She tried to keep her voice level. “I see Ned occasionally. But of course Tom isn’t at court. I’ve not seen him in almost two years.” Two years! It seemed incredible when she said the words aloud.

  “Well, it doesn’t sound as if you were swimming in their stream these days. If you had been I would not speak my piece.” He glanced up and down the length of the gallery to make sure they could not be overheard. The only other people present were practicing on lutes and virginals at the far end of the long room. Richard grinned at Morgan, a trace of the old mockery showing through. “I can talk to you, Morgan, even if I can’t make love to you.” He leaned closer. “Or can I?”

  She made a face at him. “You cannot. Pray, talk instead.”

  He straightened up. “As you will. Alas, I’m not certain what to say. Except
that since the Howard influence has faded, the Seymours and their hangers-on grasp for more power than is good for them—or for England.”

  Annoyance crept over Morgan but she stifled it. “Surely that is for the King to decide.”

  “Oh—by the Mass, you know how our King can be ….” His tone was impatient but his customary discretion prevailed and he went on more reasonably. “Nor does their nephew’s status as royal heir give them any right to exercise power on their own,” he asserted earnestly. “Now Ned has his title, Lord Hertford. Ned brandishes it as a peacock does his tail. The man grows too arrogant.”

  Morgan couldn’t help but agree with Richard’s appraisal of Ned. Ned was becoming more arrogant; she had noticed that herself. “You distress yourself too much over politics these days,” she said with a smile. “I think I liked you better when you were just another frivolous courtier.”

  He looked at her closely. “Did you? I never had much indication that was so, even then.” He stood up and bowed very low. “I’d like to see about an inch less of that dress and an inch more of you—at the bosom.” He walked rapidly down the gallery and out through the big doors.

  Morgan and Mary started back for the North the first week of June, just before the court moved to Windsor. The women and their small entourage made their way out of the city and onto the Great North Road on a clear, bright spring morning, taking the same route Morgan had traveled two years before with Tom Seymour at her side.

  There was still no word of Tom at court. Now that she was leaving, Morgan told herself it was just as well that she had not see him. If she had, if they had been together, alone, she knew she could not have resisted the lure of his arms or the touch of his lips.

  It took them ten days to get to Northumberland. She and Mary would part at Morpeth, with Mary going on to her old home nearby and Morgan continuing north to Belford. Mary was full of plans for renovating her properties, even Alnwick Castle. Both women had sought advice on overseeing their restored possessions, and Morgan had asked Nan and Harry if they would see to the care of Faux Hall.

  It was miserably hot under the late afternoon sun. The party had stopped to water the horses and drink some ale in Morpeth. The time for parting had come and Mary was loath to say good-bye.

  “You have done so much for me,” she began, her eyes moist.

  Morgan admonished her with a long finger. “I cannot bear any sentimental speeches from you, Mary. You have repaid me a thousandfold with your friendship. But you must visit us sometime.”

  “I promise,” said Mary. “And we’ll get together for holidays. I want to give a big banquet and ball for as many people as will come.” She paused and studied her horse’s reins. “Do you think I should invite Francis?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Invite anyone you like.” She moved uncomfortably in the saddle, her clothes sticking to her body. “You had best be off before we all melt. My best wishes and prayers go with you, Mary.”

  Mary leaned from her horse and hugged Morgan. “Bless you, dear friend, bless you!” She resettled herself on her mount and flicked her reins. Twice she turned to wave as Morgan and her serving people watched them trot down the road beside the River Wansbeck. Morgan was sorry that Mary would no longer be at Belford for companionship, but she was oddly unmoved at their parting. Instead, she felt a sense of relief; ashamed, she prayed for Mary’s good fortune in her new life.

  They spent the night at the town of Alnwick and arrived at Belford the next day shortly before noon. Morgan had been anxious to finish the journey before the hot afternoon sun began to beat down.

  “Thank the good Lord we’re back,” said Polly, as they dismounted in the castle courtyard. “My poor bottom feels as if I’d been sitting on a rock pile for six months!”

  Morgan laughed. “The next thing I know, you’ll be asking for a litter to travel in.”

  Matthew and Peg came out to greet them. Matthew had optimistic news about the crops; Peg chattered happily about how well behaved the children had been. Agnes brought the young ones into the entrance hall to greet their mother and they squealed delightedly under her hugs and kisses.

  At last, Morgan turned to Matthew. “How is my lord?” she asked.

  He turned his palms upwards. “The same, madam. Always the same.”

  It was true, Morgan noted, when she went to see James after supervising the unpacking. He was almost like a skeleton now, so thin and frail. She wondered if he suffered, but Dr. Wimble assured her he did not. As she watched him, his wasted body almost swallowed up in the big bed, she felt a terrible guilt. She had never prayed for his recovery, not once, for in her heart she admitted to herself what she would admit to no one else: She did not want him to get well.

  “I am wicked,” she said, and Cedric looked sharply at her.

  “Madam?” he asked, unsure of what he had heard.

  “I am going to the chapel now. I go to pray for my lord.”

  Matthew was running hard, taking big, gasping breaths. He had just come back from the village where he had gone by foot to pick up a new pair of shoes for his mistress and spend an hour or two at his favorite inn. He stopped in the entrance hall to get his wind, and saw Polly on the stairway.

  “Where is my lady?” he asked.

  Polly surveyed his excited state. “You’re all undone, Steward Matthew. Her ladyship is in the kitchens.”

  Hurrying in that direction, he almost collided with Morgan as she came through the door.

  “Careful, man,” she reproached him. “You go too fast! Why, whatever is wrong, Matthew?”

  The words came tumbling out. “There’s been an English raid on Teviotdale. I heard about it at the Golden Eagle. They burned homes and villages, but the Scots ambushed them. One of the prisoners is Master Francis!”

  Morgan was incredulous. “What? Francis wouldn’t be among them—he’s no soldier. Come into the kitchen, Matthew, and have some ale.”

  Matthew obeyed silently, one hand mopping his forehead and bald spot. He fell onto a stool and readily accepted a mug of ale from one of the kitchen wenches.

  Morgan pushed back some loose strands of hair that clung to her cheeks. It was almost unbearably hot in the kitchens on this August day. “Now, tell me—slowly—exactly what you heard.”

  A line of foam was on Matthew’s upper lip. He took another big gulp of ale and finally caught his breath. “I went to the inn for a little drink and talk. Some merchants came in who were traveling from Scotland. They were agitated and anxious to tell their tale. Four days ago, Sir Robert Bowes—he’s Warden of the Middle Marches—swooped down on Teviotdale and put the torch to much Scots property. They started back to England in triumph, but some two thousand light horsemen were waiting for them at Haddon Rigg. Many of the English escaped, but they captured Bowes and Master Francis.”

  Still unconvinced that her brother-in-law could have been among the raiders, Morgan clucked at Matthew. “Much of the story may be true, but I cannot believe that Francis would be among the raiders. What made these merchants think it was he?”

  Matthew held out his mug to the serving wench, who refilled it promptly. “One of the merchants told about a nobleman—a great, tall man with fair hair—who put down four Scots in hand-to-hand fighting before he was taken. Right off, I thought of Master Francis. I asked him if that was the name and the merchant said it was. He remembered because he said it was a Scots name as well as an English one and he had been confused at first as to which side the nobleman fought on.”

  Morgan blinked rapidly as acceptance of the report sank in. She stared unseeing at the great open fireplace where chickens were turning on a spit. Once more, fear nagged at her.

  “I must write to Sinclair House for verification that Francis did go with Bowes and his men.” She turned to Matthew. “I do believe you, Matthew, but I must know for certain. If it is true, we must ransom Francis at once.” She gave brief, final orders to the kitchen help and started for the door.

  Matthew called after her, “Ma
dam, my lady,” and she stopped, noting the shamefaced expression he wore. “Yes?”

  “In all the excitement, madam … I forgot your shoes.”

  A smile flickered on Morgan’s lips for an instant, and then she hurried out of the kitchens to get paper and pen.

  A few days later, King Henry declared war on Scotland. Ammunition and supplies had already been sent north to the border towns of Wark, Norham, Carlisle and Berwick. Soon, the royal armies would be on the march.

  Nervously, Morgan listened to the news of the battle preparations. Berwick and Norham were only half a day’s ride from Belford. It was possible that Belford itself might be attacked by the Scots. She gave orders to Matthew to fortify the castle and to make sure that sufficient men were recruited for its defense. Unlike the border raid of six years before, there was time now to make ready.

  A week after she had written to Sinclair House, a letter came back in the youthful but precise handwriting of Francis’s daughter, Mary. “I write to you in my father’s absence,” she began, and Morgan knew that the tale about Francis’s capture was true. Mary tried to explain why her father had gone with Sir Robert Bowes: “Sir Robert came here in July to beg my father to go with him, saying it would be revenge for all the evil things the Scots had done to us in their raids. My father became very angry and told Sir Robert about the raid at Belford, which I, too, remember. He told me all this later, before he departed, and said things about honor and justice. We are very lonesome without him, My Lady Aunt, and wish he would soon be free.”

  Morgan scanned the letter again and then summoned Matthew. “Send six men to Sinclair House,” she ordered. “I want Francis’s children brought here. They will be safer in a castle than a manor house so close to the border.”