Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

Justin drew in his breath, for that cut too close to the bone. Nullius filius meant “no man’s son,” and that was how he’d felt for his entire life. “Did you believe that, Morgan?”

“Oddly enough, I did. I had no reason to, for I’d never lacked for love. But somehow I knew that my uncle had spoken true. So, I went off and got drunk, and when I sobered up, I sought out my mother and asked for the truth. She did not deny it, saying that she’d wed my father whilst pregnant with another man’s child.” This was turning out to be more painful than Morgan had anticipated. Reaching blindly for his wine cup, he drank deeply. “She did not deceive Sir Ralph. He knew from the first, offering marriage to spare her shame.”

Justin glanced involuntarily toward Claudine; she’d gone pale and one hand was clasping her throat. Durand and John were inscrutable, but Emma looked skeptical. “The Welsh have queer ideas of morality,” she said. “To bear a child out of wedlock is not the shame it would be in a more Christian country.”

“My mother had been a handmaiden to the Lady Gwenllian, the wife of the prince of South Wales, the Lord Rhys. She could not turn to her family, for the man was her father’s sworn enemy. She loved her father, could not bear to hurt him so.”

“That explains her reason for wanting the marriage,” Durand said, and now he sounded no less skeptical than Emma. “But what of Sir Ralph

… Bloet, was it? Why would he take on another man’s whelp?”

Morgan bristled at the tone, but he held his temper. Looking toward John, he said succinctly, “My mother was highborn, and very beautiful.”

“I do not doubt it.” John sipped his wine, gestured for Morgan to continue. “Did your mother tell you the name of the man who’d sired you?”

“Yes, my lord, she did. The same man who sired you. Henry Fitz Empress, the English king.”

Emma choked on her wine, seemed in danger of strangling for several moments. Claudine gasped and Justin’s mouth dropped open. Even Durand looked startled. Only John seemed to take this amazing revelation with equanimity. “Indeed? When did they have this… tryst?”

“September of God’s Year 1171. Lord Rhys came to the English king at Pembroke, where he was planning to sail for Ireland. He brought his court, and my mother was amongst them. She was young, and Henry was the king,” Morgan said, with a slight shrug, as if that explained it all and, to his audience, it did. “She was flattered, bedazzled, easily seduced. But when she learned she was with child, she was panic-stricken. The king had taken Caerleon from her father that summer, and he’d declared war upon the English Crown. She feared her father would never have forgiven her had he known she’d lain with Henry. She knew Sir Ralph, and when he found her in tears, she confided in him. You know the rest of the story.”

“Yes,” John agreed, “we do. It is not that uncommon a tale, is it?”

“I suppose not. But this one ended better than most, I daresay. My mother and Sir Ralph have been very content in this marriage, and he always treated me as if I were his own.”

“But you have brothers, do you not?” John said, with certainty. “That would explain why they steered you toward the Church, even though you were the firstborn. It is only natural that he’d want his demesnes to pass to his blood kindred.”

Morgan nodded. His shoulders slumped, as if the truth had been a burden he’d carried too long. “So now you know.”

“Why,” John asked, “did my father not provide for you? Say what you will about him, he always took care of his own. Jesu, he even brought a few of his bastards to his court for my mother to raise!”

“My mother never told him. He’d sailed for Ireland by the time she realized her plight. After she wed Sir Ralph, they agreed that no one need know. People would assume that Sir Ralph had sampled the cream ere he bought it, and I daresay most did, for I remember no whispers, no sidelong looks from neighbors. My mother named me Morgan, after her favorite uncle, and Sir Ralph gave me his name, his protection, and his affection. I have no complaints. They did the best they could under the circumstances. Nor can I blame the English king. He did not reject me, never knew about me.”

Justin flinched, wondering if Morgan realized how lucky he was to be able to say that. He started at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, for he’d not heard Claudine’s soft footsteps in the rushes. She said nothing, merely squeezed his arm in silent understanding.

“So why did you come to me under false pretenses?” Emma was obviously having difficulty accepting that her stable groom might also be her nephew. “What did you want?”

“From you, nothing. After I learned the truth, I was confused,” Morgan said, with a faint smile at such a vast understatement. “It took time for me to come to terms with it. I was angry at first, and I was no longer sure that I wanted a vocation in the Church. It is an unsettling thing, learning that your identity is false, your life a lie.”

“And then you sought us out,” John said.

“Yes. I am not truly sure why,” Morgan admitted. “I suppose I was curious. To find I had another family…”

“A royal family,” Emma said tartly, making it clear that she had no intention of welcoming this newfound kinsman with open arms. “You saw a chance to enrich yourself at my brother’s expense, for Harry was no longer alive to deny your claims!”

“How did I enrich myself by grooming your horses and mucking out your stalls?” Morgan shot back. “I admit I was curious, and I have a right to be! The same blood that flows in your veins, Lady Emma, also flows in mine!”

“So you say. But you have no proof of any of this, do you?”

“No,” Morgan said reluctantly. “I have the emerald ring that the king gave my mother and I have her word. I need no more than that, for she would not lie to me.”

Emma found an unexpected ally now in Durand, who laughed. “Did I miss something? It was my understanding, lad, that she’d been lying to you since the day you were born!”

Morgan glared at Durand. “She had no choice, not whilst her father still lived. They agreed that they’d not lie to me should I ever ask, and they did not.” When Durand did not respond, he swung back toward Emma. “That is why I came to you under ‘false pretenses. ’ Had I come to you with the truth, you’d have turned me away at once. I knew I had no proof that would satisfy you.”

“I disagree.” All heads turned toward John. “You do have proof, Morgan. You showed it to me in the cemetery of the Holy Innocents.”

Once again, Morgan seemed at a loss for words. Emma was not. “Since when have you become as trusting and guileless as a cloistered nun? I thought you had more sense, John!”

John shrugged. “A man,” he said, “can never have too many brothers.”

Morgan ate supper that evening at the high table, a magnet for all eyes. Petronilla looked bewildered by his sudden elevation from groom to high-ranking guest; Emma was smoldering; most of John’s household avidly curious. Justin was astonished, but very pleased by the outcome. “I wish Morgan well,” he said quietly to Claudine. “I never expected, though, that John would accept him so easily or so wholeheartedly.”

“It does not surprise me,” she confided. “What did John say, that his father looked after his own? Well, so does John. He is very good about acknowledging his bastard children, sees that they want for nothing. And of all his brothers, the only one he seems truly fond of is Will Longsword.”

At the mention of John’s baseborn half brother, Justin suddenly realized why Morgan had seemed vaguely familiar from their first meeting. “That is who he reminds me of-Will! They do not have the same coloring, but there is a resemblance for certes.”