CHAPTER FOUR – YORK, SEPTEMBER 1468
Things did change though, in ways both beautiful and terrible. Marion sat bolt upright in bed one night, her senses riddled by the cold. Her breathing was labored in an attempt to ease the burning in her throat, caused by the biting cold air snaking its way down her windpipe. It was now September, and the weather in the North was growing colder by the day. Tiny hairs stood on end in an attempt to provide warmth, and small hands pawed at an old fur blanket, to try and make sense of the darkness. At first, Marion was unsure of what had woken her, until she heard a sob come from the end of her bed. She need not guess who was here.
"Katie," she whispered, reaching out, her fingers brushing what felt like her sister's cheeks.
"M-Marion," Kate whimpered.
Marion scooted towards the warmth at the end of her bed, being radiated by her sister's body.
"Whatever is the matter?"
Marion received no answer, only the feeling of her sister's arms wrapping around her. The little girl was startled to feel Kate's body shaking violently. Sweat layered Kate's brow, though she showed no signs of fever. Marion began to panic, as Kate held her and sobbed. Was Kate perhaps dying from some illness not yet known to English physicians? If so, how could such an affliction have come upon her?
"Katie," Marion gasped, trying to struggle away. "What ails you so? You're sweating, but not feverish, and why do you cry so? Are you hurt?"
"He's going to be so angry! 'Tis all my fault - all my fault!" Kate wailed, clinging on to Marion with a grip that hurt, making her little sister squawk.
The girl struggled, trying to remain calm, though that was proving difficult. Kate was scaring her with her behavior, and still being very young, Marion did not quite know how to handle it.
"Please Katie... what is the matter? I want to help, but I cannot if you do not tell me what is wrong."
Light flickered feebly from the small candle the older Morton had brought into the dark room, and Marion was finally able to see her sister's tear stained face. Kate swallowed hugely, her throat being moved by the motion. After a long pause that began to frustrate a still-scared Marion, Kate spoke.
"I'm with child, I'm going to have a baby."
Marion had seen, and been the subject of, Isolde's rages many times, so she knew how formidable the woman could be. It was somewhat terrifying to see the thin, pallid face grow red and swollen, the white blonde hair flying about her shoulders. Both of her sinister silver eyes would fix upon her victim, staring, unblinking as judgmental and cold as her words. If that was terror, Marion did not know what she felt this day. Today, she was not the subject of Islode's rage, instead, that rage was to go to the sound of horse hooves struggling through the mucky street - the approaching Duke of Gloucester.
The three stood in a line, like solders, outside their manor house, with the Minster looming behind them. Isolde, terrible in her gathering rage, Katherine, teary and helpless with her hair hacked off to the jaw, a sign of the shame she had brought to her family (as much as sign as the slight swell of her belly); and Marion, standing off to the side, grim, nothing more. The shouting began when the horse finally arrived, and had been tethered. All three Morton women went inside the house, Marion closing the door before taking up a place beside her sister. The Duke stood stock still, rigid as a board. His eyes flickered between Kate, Isolde and Marion. Kate, Isolde, Marion. Flick, flick, flick; twitch, twitch, twitch.
"I would say it was the fault of my daughter for seducing you, but I do not, because I know that to be wrong!" Isolde bellowed before pausing.
No one, not Kate, or Richard, and certainly not Marion, had expected what came next. Isolde's rage came, unbidden, in a hostile tumult to Marion. Suddenly, it was Marion's fault that the Duke had met Katherine, Marion's fault that the older girl had even considered allowing the Duke into her bed. All the wrongs that Isolde now found in her life - including Marion herself - were her fault.
"You!" Isolde raged. "Who came like the Plague into my house, the pathetic whelp of another woman, my husband's bastard! You have been nothing but a burden for five years! But despite that, I took you in because John begged me, and I kept you because I felt he would have wanted that. I have fed you, and clothed you, and what thanks do I get? For you, an ungrateful little bastard, to influence events so that my dear, true born daughter ended up committing the same sins as her father!"
The ranting went on, but Marion heard none of it. Her mind felt strangely clouded, as if she was a stranger, standing outside the house looking in on the scene. But despite this general lack of awareness about what was going on around her, Marion's mind was racing through the fog. Marion thought it lucky that she knew what the word "bastard" meant, it was lucky Margaret had told her, when she had heard some of the boys staying at Middleham use the word. This revelation of her illegitimacy explained a lot. It explained why she had her bedchamber at the far back of the house - out of sight, out of mind. It explained why Marion never called Isolde "Mother" or "Mama", why she looked different to her older sister, why Isolde had called her mother a whore the day she cut off Marion's hair, and why she never ate her meals at table, but rather in the kitchen with Cook – if ever she ate at all. Marion also felt it explained why Isolde frequently found fault with her, why she had been kind and delighted the day Marion left for Middleham, and enraged upon her return. Isolde was ashamed of her. Every time she saw Marion, she was ashamed and slandered all over again, as if John Morton was bringing Marion home for the first time. With this revelation came a grim new knowledge; that she, Marion, had no place in the world, or the lives of others, even if they were blood kin. She had no right to bear her father's name - "Morton". But you do, said a tiny voice in the back of her head. He must have loved you despite this, for he gave you his name. Far wiser than her years – forced to be so, because she was a source of such shame – Marion understood, minimally, the walking tragedy that was she. She understood that she was no better than a corpse riddled with plague sores. It was depressing enough that she understood this attitude of her time, even more so that she believed it herself. But then there was the fact that she also understood the great thing John Morton had done when he gave her his name.
With this, slightly hopeful thought, the fog lifted as quickly as it had descended over the little girl's mind. And now Marion could hear again. Isolde was still ranting, Kate was crying, and the Duke of Gloucester was trying – rather unsuccessfully - to get a word in.
"... Her mother was a whore who worked and lived in a London brothel," Isolde shrieked, pointing at Marion. "And you, my daughter, are no better."
Kate was sobbing hysterically, one hand clutching at the front of her dress - as if her heart would burst from her chest - the other clamped over her mouth, to try and stifle the sounds she made. From her hideaway in her sister's skirts, Marion whispered: "I'm sorry, Isolde." She did not see the Duke of Gloucester's eyes widened a fraction as he took in the gross injustice of a little girl apologising for being alive.
"M-Mother! P-p-please, st-stop! I beg-g of y-y-you!"
"What?" the incensed older woman screeched. "You dare tell me what to do? You - you-"
"SILENCE!" a new voice finally broke through the cacophony.
Marion looked to Gloucester, who stood by the door, red-faced. His chest rose and fell in time with his rapid breathing, and his eyes shone with a light of both fury and perhaps a glint of madness, though Marion was not sure which.
As the Duke continued to speak, Marion stepped back, wrapping her hands into the plain, brown fabric of her sister's dress. Despite being the daughter of a nobleman, Kate didn't have much in the way of luxurious gowns. Kate said it was because John Morton had been "frugal", but Marion did not know what that word meant.
"If you so believe, Madam," he said. "That your daughter has brought you such shame, then I will take it upon myself to take her somewhere where she can have her babe, and be out of public scrutiny. This will not get back to you, thus, you will not be shamed."
Isolde's rage subsided somewhat, as she examined Richard - as one might examine a nice fur-trimmed cloak, or an animal ready for slaughter.
"Tempting, my Lord. But why, pray tell, are you offering this?"
The Duke stepped forward, placing a hand on Kate's shoulder, a gesture that made her sobs ease a bit.
"I always take care of me and mine, and the babe is mine."
"Yes..." she murmured. "That sounds like something you would say. I have heard you are loyal, Gloucester."
"I try to be. Loyalty is my motto." he said it bluntly, with no grandeur that one would expect with the stating of their mottoes.
Marion frowned. How could loyalty be a motto? Wasn't it a value? Like honesty, or kindness, the values that Brother had taught her about some Sundays when she went to the Minster? She was cut off from her thoughts by Isolde speaking once more, her voice loud and demanding. And despite not liking the Duke, Marion knew that the way Isolde spoke now, was no way to speak to the King's brother.
"Well, extend your loyalty further. Not just to my daughter, and your unborn bastard, but to the other bastard here. Take Marion with you."
Marion edged closer to Kate as Isolde spoke, trying to make herself disappear. But even though she tired, she still saw Gloucester's eyes land on her and stay there. Anger bubbled up within her. No, she would not go with him, he who had been so cruel to her on their journey from Middleham, he who had tried to bribe her with toys while he sinned with her sister. No. No, she thought.
"Yes," he said, still gazing at Marion. "I will take her as well. I can think of nothing worse than breaking a bond between sisters. I myself know the value of sibling bonds, as I have relied on the company of my brothers since my father's death."
Isolde was nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes, take them. I can no longer stand such shame in my house."
Katherine looked up, and though Marion could not see her face, she knew her big sister was horrified.
"Mother...?" she breathed.
And then, Gloucester was there, comforting her. His arms wrapped around her, his hands stroking back her hair, as he mumbled soothing words that Marion could only just hear.
"Hush, sweetheart, all will be well. I promise."
"Can we marry?" Kate whispered against his neck. "For the babe, please?"
There would be no wedding. The Duke of Gloucester was already betrothed to marry Anne Neville, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Warwick. There were no real "adults" around, though Kate and Richard were woman and man grown, they were still just children thrown into the world of adulthood and impending parenthood. Kate and Marion were orphaned. Their father had died in battle in 1464 before Marion had even seen her first birthday, Marion's mother had died birthing her (or so Kate had once said she's heard their father say to Isolde), and Kate had just been cast out by Isolde. There was nowhere to go. The three of them were journeying to Leicester, a place as far away from Isolde as Gloucester could think to go. Ideally, he would take them to Middleham, but he did not think the Earl of Warwick would appreciate either Morton being there. And Leicester was a nice city, he said, full of lovely people. Marion doubted that very much. Plus, he babbled as they left the manor house in York, he had a friend there who could take them in. He and Kate rode on horseback, Marion rode in a cart hitched to the back of Gloucester's horse.
I hate him, Marin thought. It's his fault this happened. I HATE HIM!
Though Marion knew it was sinful and wicked to hate, she could not help herself. It was Gloucester's fault for falling in love with Kate, not Marion's. She could not understand Isolde's logic, yet she did feel guilty for what had happened - though she knew it was not her fault. So she channeled her guilt into hatred; hatred of the man she felt really was to blame.
I want to go home, she thought as she caught her last glance of the Minster, before they rode on over uneven roads, passing through villages and towns.
"I want to go home," she whispered as they entered a place called Leicestershire. The city was not far away.
"I want to go home!" Marion howled.
She had managed to escape her sister and Gloucester as they settled into an inn for the night. Marion found herself on a grassy slope near the back of the inn where a young fowl grazed happily, where the ever cooling breeze ruffled her unruly hair, and birds circled above in the darkening sky. With that howl, Marion fell onto the grass, crying bitter tears. The day had been terrible, the journey just as bad, and Marion was frightened. What happened to bastards in situations like these? Would she be sent away? Would she be killed? Not knowing made her fear more.
But as quickly as despair had come, Marion found some semblance of comfort. It came in the form of a warm cloak being wrapped around her shoulders. A cloak. Big, furry, warm. Marion blinked away tears and looked up to see Gloucester smiling sadly down at her. He sat to her left. He was shivering, but despite the cold he had given his cloak to Marion.
"I am sorry, Marion," he said. "You cannot go home. There is nothing but hatred for you there. Isolde will not tolerate you, but your sister could not live without you."
Marion only blinked at him, and when she did speak, her voice came out small and wavering.
"Because I am a bastard?"
Richard bowed his head.
"Aye. But that is of no concern to me, Marion. Your sister's babe, your future niece or nephew, will also be a bastard, and the fault is entirely mine – although the Church would say it was your sister's fault, for seducing me. I have promised Kate that I will provide for her and the babe, and I will provide for you too. You are very dear to your sister, and I am sure that in time you will be dear to me too. I can tell already that you will be a good aunt."
"You won't hate the babe? Like Isolde hates me?"
"N – what? Why would I hate mine own child?"
"Because it will be a... because it will be like me."
"Come now, Marion. 'Tis not your fault that you were born as you are, as it is no fault of this child your sister carries. The sins of the parents are what makes a bastard, not the bastard itself; therefore, it is the parents that must pay. I will not hate my child, and I do not hate you. You are not to blame for any of this, Marion. Although I am still displeased to your reaction to my continued presence over these last few months, in hindsight... it is perfectly understandable. You only wanted to keep your sister safe. You're wise beyond your years, Marion."
Marion looked up at him, pushing her hair out of her eyes, wiping her running nose.
"Thank you," she whispered.
And though she did not see it, the Duke smiled, for her thanks meant more to him than she would ever understand.