by Mary Daheim
Henry returned to Hampton Court in a glum mood, while Richard and several of the other nobles remained in Portsmouth to await the French navy’s next move. Tom Seymour was ordered to join the main fleet, replacing George Carew as vice admiral. But the long-expected attack never materialized. By the middle of the month, the French—low on water and with much sickness among their men—turned back for Le Havre.
Richard returned to Morgan more downcast than when he had left. “I never even had a chance to take part,” he lamented, as she rubbed his tense neck muscles. “Damn Seymour, if only the French had landed! We could have repulsed them easily and I would have made my mark. But no, his reputation for seamanship scared those wretched Frenchies off! Am I never to be free of Seymour meddling?”
Morgan soothed him with words and caresses. Thank God he had never seemed to realize how close she and Tom had been! Richard settled down in her arms and seemed succored by their lovemaking.
Their mutual passion seemed to bind them closer together that winter, though Richard often appeared distracted and frequently went out alone. Morgan made no comment, sensing that Richard’s frustrated ambition made it necessary for him to spend some time in solitude. She filled the hours by sharing them with her children, always a source of comfort.
It was hard to believe that Robbie would be ten on his next birthday. He was getting so tall, so bright, so outgoing. He and the other children got on well with their stepfather, although Morgan sometimes wished Francis could see Robbie growing up. None of them really remembered James at all.
It was Richard who made the first move regarding the future of the children. One night at supper, he mentioned casually that it was time to consider a bride for Robbie.
Morgan was astonished. “Nonsense, Richard! It’s not as if he were a prince. Surely we can wait a few years.”
Richard eyed his empty plate thoughtfully. “Waiting narrows the choice. And I’ve already given some consideration to the matter.”
“You have?” Morgan asked, her topaz eyes wide. “Anyone in particular?”
Richard didn’t meet her stare, but answered matter-of-factly. “My first choice is Henry Grey’s daughter, Jane. She’s near to Robbie in age and would make a fine alliance.”
“Oh, no, Richard!” Morgan exclaimed. “Why, she’s the granddaughter of the King’s sister! I’ve even heard speculation that if anything happened to little Edward, and Mary and Elizabeth were still considered bastards, Lady Jane could claim the throne. No, no, that’s aspiring too high.” Morgan shook her head, convinced that the idea was absurd, even dangerous.
Richard pushed back his chair and stood up, walking around the room. “Robbie is already Count of Belford. He has extensive lands in the North—though sometimes I think you forget that,” he said accusingly. Morgan started to protest, but Richard went on: “Let us be realistic. Henry is old in body, if not in years. Edward is a sickly child. You’ve said yourself how the Queen worries over him. And Mary and Elizabeth have been declared bastards. So if the crown should pass to Jane, can you honestly say you would not like to see your son sitting on the throne by her side?”
“You’re talking about a chain of improbabilities,” Morgan said, getting up and going to Richard’s side. She put her hand on his arm. “And even if it were likely, that’s the very reason I wouldn’t want Robbie mixed up with the Greys. I’ve had done with intrigue and danger.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. “Don’t make such hasty decisions. Think about it for a while. All right?”
Morgan looked at him uncertainly. He was humoring her, she was sure; his mind was already made up. For the first time, looking into his eyes, she plumbed the depth of his ambition and was afraid.
Cat Parr had narrowly escaped the executioner’s axe. Hounded by her old adversary, Bishop Gardiner, she had been implicated in the arrest of Anne Askew, an outspoken Protestant woman who had condemned the Mass. Anne Askew was put to death, but not before she had almost dragged Cat with her.
But either through her own personal wiles or the mellowing of the King, Cat was spared. She promised Henry she would debate no more with him on matters of religion but would follow his counsel in all things. “We are perfect friends again,” Henry told her, and settled back to let her minister to him in his deteriorating health.
But the hairsbreadth escape had unnerved Cat Parr. Outwardly she was calm as ever, but alone with her sister, Anne Herbert, and Morgan, she often seemed distraught.
“If only I could have given him a child,” she exclaimed one day, big tears standing in her eyes. “Now surely it is too late!” Anne patted her sister’s shoulder as Morgan turned away, sympathizing with the Queen.
Henry, however, seemed content. He had at last made peace with the French. Boulogne would be returned to France—but it would cost a staggering two million crowns. The court relaxed and set out to enjoy what remained of summer.
In the new atmosphere, Richard began to make his move. Morgan watched him talk confidentially with Surrey and John Dudley. With growing anxiety she sensed that they were engaged in a dangerous struggle with the Seymours. Nor was she the only one who was aware of what was afoot. Ned Seymour, seated next to her at dinner one day, leaned toward her:
“Your husband is busy at politics these days,” he whispered.
She looked at him warily, wondering if he was warning her. She feigned indifference. “He’s always gossiping with someone. You know how he likes to keep up on the latest scandals.”
Ned sat back, his eyes fixed on Richard and Dudley. Morgan shifted nervously in her chair and turned to Kate Willoughby to discuss the newest dance steps introduced at court.
Tom Seymour was in London, but Morgan saw little of him. As always, their encounters were proper and polite, but never alone. He seemed to prefer to stay aloof from court life at the moment, and Morgan knew that his decision was wise, lest he give himself away in the presence of the Queen.
If Morgan had not been jealous of Cat Parr before, she was beginning to feel a creeping envy. For Tom had not married though now he was nearing forty. He had not waited for Morgan; was he going to wait for Cat? She glanced at the King, grotesquely huge and now unable to move without being lifted from his chair. Perhaps Tom would not have to wait so long after all, she thought bitterly.
“Your meal doesn’t seem to have agreed with you, judging by the look on your face.”
Morgan whirled around. Francis Sinclair was settling himself into the chair Ned Seymour had just vacated.
“When did you come to court?” she asked, as he motioned for the serving people to bring him food and whiskey.
“Just now,” he answered laconically.
She could hardly believe it was he, after all this time. “What for? It’s been years since you’ve been to court.”
He began to eat with such vigor that Morgan moved away a bit, lest some of the debris land on her new blue silk gown. “The King has founded a new college at Cambridge. I come to beg him to do the same at Oxford,” he explained. “Since reverting to the crown, Oxford has foundered sadly. I want to help restore it to its former glory.” The tone was self-deprecating but Morgan knew his intentions were genuine.
“Why you?” she asked, as Kate Willoughby leaned forward to catch their conversation.
“Because I am interested,” he answered shortly, and looked beyond Morgan to Kate. “Pray, good sister-in-law, introduce me to your dinner companion. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her.”
The dark-haired Kate, widow to the Duke of Suffolk, dimpled prettily. Morgan made the introductions, then remarked pointedly, “I thought you would be wed by now to the Countess of Northumberland.”
Francis shrugged as he took a big bite of pheasant leg. “I never asked her.” He shot a sidelong glance at Morgan. “Not all of us run off and get married as soon as the coffin is shut on our last spouse.”
“You ….” Morgan sputtered, and thought better of it. Kate was still hanging over her elbow
. “You must meet my husband when he is free,” Morgan amended, her voice now calm.
“I met him—many years ago,” Francis said indifferently.
“Why, you’re the one who wrote the book about religion!” Kate suddenly exclaimed. “It’s excellently done. I’ve read it twice.”
Francis nodded, polishing off another pheasant leg. “Good, I appreciate a woman who reads.”
Morgan tugged at Francis’s arm. “I want to talk to you—right away, alone.”
He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Talk—or rant?”
“Talk.” Morgan was sharp and insistent. “About Belford—and something else.”
Francis selected half a dozen sweetmeats from a tray before him. “In a few moments. Let me finish my meal in peace.”
Finally, after what seemed an interminable conversation with Kate, he rose and grasped Morgan by the hand. “Come along,” he said, as if he were the one issuing the request. They started from the dining hall but paused as the King was being moved in his chair conveyance by four servingmen. His gross body seemed to overlap the chair and the servants wobbled unsteadily in their progress out of the hall.
“God’s beard!” Francis breathed in amazement. “Can’t he walk?”
“No,” replied Morgan. “One leg is useless.”
Francis shook his head. “I hope I’m not too late with my suit for the college.”
They went out into the gardens where the afternoon sun was beating down on the flowers and hedges of Hampton Court. Morgan began the conversation, asking Francis about Belford. He said all was well there, and that he had visited the castle in the spring. Satisfied, Morgan moved on to her second—and most important—topic.
“I must ask a great favor,” she said slowly, as they stopped near a shallow pool surrounded by marigolds. She looked up at him, wondering what effect her pleading topaz gaze would have on this unpredictable brother-in-law of hers. None, she decided, and came directly to the point: “I want you to take the children to Woodstock for a while.”
Francis drew back, the thick eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Why? Do you and Richard want more freedom in which to exercise your passion?” His humor was heavy-handed and forced.
Again, Morgan suppressed her anger. “Don’t be absurd. It’s because of Richard that I ask this.”
“Why?” he repeated, and the frown deepened.
Morgan hesitated, nervously twisting her hands together. But she knew she would have to be candid with him. “He wants to use them—at least Robbie—to further his own ambitions. They are my children and Robbie is your son. I want them away from court for a while. Perhaps he will get over the idea.”
Francis was silent for a full minute. He stood staring at the gravel path, rocking slightly on his heels. “Christ!” he swore at last. “I won’t permit his intrigues on behalf of any Sinclair offspring. When do you want them to go?”
Morgan smiled in relief, then sobered quickly. “Right away. As soon as you are ready.”
Francis was surprised at her haste but agreed. Morgan thanked him so profusely that he finally put up his big hand in front of her face. “Enough, enough. Robbie is my own, after all. And you can show your gratitude by championing my cause with the King regarding Oxford.” Morgan promised that she would try.
She decided not to say anything to Richard about the children’s journey to Woodstock until Francis was ready to leave. As it turned out, there was no need to mention it at all as her husband was dispatched by the King to go into the city for a few days. Before he returned, Francis had already left with the children, who were delighted to join their uncle on an outing.
Francis was half-pleased with his mission at court: He had not convinced the King that a new college should be founded at Oxford, but Henry had agreed to set up a foundation which would help sustain the university in the future.
The day after Francis and the children headed for Woodstock, Richard arrived from London. It wasn’t until suppertime that he noticed the young ones’ absence. He asked Morgan where they were.
“I let them go back with Francis for a visit to their cousins,” she replied nonchalantly. “They haven’t seen each other for so long.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his wife. She was selecting a gown from the wardrobe with studied calculation, hoping he would ask no more questions.
“You should have consulted with me!” he flared, shouting at her for the first time since they had been married.
Morgan turned in surprise, a red damask gown over her right arm. “Why, Richard, you weren’t even here!” She gave him a wifely smile of reproach. “I could hardly have consulted with you when you were ten miles away.”
Angrily, he advanced on her. “You did this on purpose!” He was still shouting. “You did this to thwart me! Is it not bad enough to be unsure of the King’s feelings and have the Seymours at my back without you blocking my way?”
Morgan laid the red dress on the bed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with infuriating calm. “This has nothing to do with your plans and plots.”
“Plots! How dare you!” He raised his hand but seemed to gain control of himself and dropped his arm to his side. “Write to Francis and have him send the children back immediately.” His voice was more normal, but still angry.
Morgan set her feet apart and looked at him sharply. “I will do no such thing. They were promised the visit,” she replied firmly.
“Don’t countermand my orders!” he shouted. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. “You do what I say! Do you hear?”
Now she was furious, too. “They are my children! I will do as I please with them!” She threw the words at him between clenched teeth.
He stared at her, his hands still on her shoulders. He knew he was balked, at least for the moment. He released her so abruptly that she fell back on the bed. “I’m going out,” he mumbled, heading for the door.
Her eyes flashed at his back. “Where do you go, Richard? To the stews?”
He stood stock-still, then turned around slowly. A hint of his mocking smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Where else would I go?”
“Oh!” She flung a pillow at him, and then another. Both missed. “Unfaithful beast! I thought you loved me!” she cried, and reached for the vase on the stand beside the bed.
He threw himself across the room and grabbed her wrist. The vase dropped from her hand and smashed to the floor. He looked down into her face and spoke slowly. “Why, good wife, there was never talk of love between us.”
She stared up at him, vainly trying to pull her wrist away. “No,” she answered quietly. “There was not.”
He let go of her arm and she lay back on the bed, staring blankly up at him. Her coif had come off and the thick tawny hair fell in waves on the counterpane. The curve of her bosom rose and fell slowly. Richard dropped down beside her on the bed.
“Love is for poets like Surrey,” he said. “We have something else.” His arms went around her, his mouth came down hard on hers, and his fingers worked expertly to unfasten her dress. She closed her eyes and moaned softly as he took quick possession of her body.
The matter of the children was left unresolved. Richard knew, as did Morgan, that sooner or later they would have to return to court. He did not bring up the subject again and their relationship appeared to resume its normal pattern.
But the quarrel had left its mark on Morgan. Somehow, she had deluded herself into thinking that Richard loved her in his way, that perhaps she loved him. It seemed too base, too crass, that two married people should found their partnership on lust alone. But she must have recognized it all along, for his words had come as no real shock. In truth, she felt more upset about not having guessed where Richard spent his time away from her. No, even that was not so. Perhaps she had guessed and wouldn’t admit that to herself either—which was why the words had come so easily to her tongue when she had queried him.
Why he was unfaithfu
l was what bothered her most. Surely, if the only thing that bound them together was their mutual passion for each other’s bodies, then shouldn’t that tie him to her exclusively? Or was it because she was barren, at least for him? Morgan shook her head to dispel the disturbing thoughts.
The children came home at the end of October. To Morgan’s surprise, Richard displayed little interest in their arrival. The change in his attitude caused her relief, but it was soon replaced by anxiety. Was he plotting something else? Was a new plan in the wind? But he revealed nothing to her and she did not pry.
Nan and Harry Seymour arrived at court on December tenth. They greeted Morgan warmly but managed tactfully to avoid Richard. Nan was expecting her fifth child in the spring and already appeared quite large. She laughed when Morgan suggested another set of twins and even Harry shook his head in mock horror.
The three of them sat comfortably together in the gallery. Morgan forgot about her worries for a while as Harry told of visiting Faux Hall on his way to London. The three of them laughed again over Morgan’s encounter with the “ghost.” They had just stifled their last chuckles when Kate Willoughby came running up to them.
“Have you heard?” she asked breathlessly. “Surrey has been arrested for treason!”
Nan and Will stared at Kate, and Morgan gasped, her heart beating much too fast. “What did he do?” she finally managed to ask.
“I don’t know yet. I just heard that he has been taken to the Tower.” She shook her dark head. “They say more arrests will follow—mayhap even the Duke of Norfolk himself!”
