Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Anne O'Brien
he?’
A pause in which Harry pushed another under-tunic into the coffer that was more than full.
‘Harry.’
‘Yes?’
‘Who is the more worthy ruler after Richard?’
Which brought a halt to his housewifery. He lowered his voice. ‘We both know the answer to that. We have talked of it oft enough.’
Suddenly it was vital that I knew what was in his mind. ‘Are we in agreement on this?’ I asked.
‘I think we are.’ Giving up on the coffer, he sat on it as he fastened the lid. ‘I have not entirely changed my mind about the possibility of a Mortimer King. If, that is, the crown falls by whatever means from Richard’s head.’ His frown deepened again. ‘I think I would rather you returned to Alnwick, out of harm’s way.’
‘Or where I will not be able to voice an opinion which will stir lambent ashes into a conflagration? Much as you might do.’
With a sudden lightening of the atmosphere in the tent, Harry grinned, showing his teeth. ‘Something like that.’
‘I am in no danger.’ I went to him and, taking the final tunic from him, folding it neatly, I put my arms around him. ‘I will say nothing untoward.’ I kissed him. ‘I promise.’ Any obvious fears that Lancaster would fail and Richard return to London, burning with ire, to punish all who had dared to support Lancaster, were not to be dwelled upon. Nor would I burden Harry with them. Besides, Harry would see no possibility of failure in this enterprise, as I could not envisage my own death at the hands of King Richard. I doubted that he would make war on a woman.
‘I will see you in London,’ I said.
‘Whoever is King.’
I sighed a little. ‘Whoever is King.’ I thrust aside the tangle of conflicting loyalties because to become enmeshed would do no good at all. ‘Before God, Hotspur, I love you.’
And he replied, his mouth on mine sealing the promise. ‘Heart of my heart, look for me in a month. Then all will be made plain.’
My journey to London gave me much opportunity for thought. I may have promised to take care with what I said aloud, but the workings of my mind were my own, and entirely predictable, as I recalled Lancaster’s carefully worded oath. So Lancaster would look for a more worthy claimant, would he? What a clever word was ‘worthy’. It was all very unsettling, yet Harry’s farewell embrace had gone a way to reconciling me. We would work together for the future. What was it he had said?
We go with him, but we remain awake to what particular dish might be cooking in his pot.
It was all we could do.
And yet, the Earl had been quick to ask if Lancaster would be willing to accept his price, that it would not be beyond Lancaster’s power to pay. It may be that my fleeting suspicions of the Earl’s calm questioning were more than justifiable. Once again I found myself wondering what that price might be.
Eltham Palace, London: August 1399
Isabelle, Queen of England, requests the company of Lady Henry Percy at Eltham Palace at the earliest opportunity.
Thus my sojourn at Westminster, where I was welcomed and accommodated as Philippa’s daughter, was invested with an element of unwelcome drama when I was summoned to the palace of Eltham, across the Thames. A politely worded invitation indeed, although I accepted that within its carefulness there lurked more than a simple request. The little Queen, Isabelle, living in forlorn loneliness, wished to speak with me, but to what purpose was beyond my fathoming.
I made that journey to Eltham, disquiet a close companion. Whatever she asked of me, I had nothing to tell Isabelle about Richard or the conflict of interest with Henry of Lancaster that would bring her comfort. In habitual campaign mood, Harry was too engrossed to communicate with me. All I knew, from lack of pertinent news, was that there had been no bloody meeting on a battlefield. It had soothed some of my fears, but I doubted that it would satisfy the Queen.
I was bowed into her presence in the large audience chamber at Eltham where Isabelle sat, this young girl who had been sent to England to be Queen purely because a French alliance would gild Richard’s reputation in Europe; this child bride now surrounded by all the royal glamour lavished on her by Richard who was never loath to make a show of his power. I curtsied, eyes lowered to the gilded shoes that peeped beneath her embroidered and furred skirts. Her ladies-in-waiting hemmed her in.
‘Come and sit with me.’
Isabelle de Valois beckoned, charmingly imperious, with a jewel-heavy hand. Her voice had lost nothing of its accent in the few years of her domicile in England.
How very young she was with her light voice, her unformed features, her hair severely curtailed within a lace-edged coif. I had forgotten. She would be barely ten years, little older than when I wed Harry. I swore that I had more awareness than she of what a marriage would mean; Isabelle, despite three years of marriage and all the Valois dignity bred into her frail body, looked a mere child in rich folds of damask and fur and encrusted embroidery, so that I presumed that she had dressed for this occasion. My eye was taken by the glitter of her figure, for she was festooned with jewels that had been part of her dowry. Chaplets and collars, brooches and jewelled clasps were pinned to and draped over every surface. On the coffer beside her there were gilded drinking vessels and a ewer set with gems. Richard had instilled into his wife the need to make an impression on her subjects.
‘I trust it was not inconvenient, my summoning you here, Lady Percy.’
Her lips curved in a smile, and I found her worthy of my pity. She was like my own daughter, caught dressing in cloaks and costumes from the Twelfth Night coffers. Moreover I thought that there was fear in her pale grey eyes. Her dolls, brought to England along with their miniature silver furnishings, I suspected had been packed away. In the present unrest she could be allowed to be a child no longer.
I took as indicated a low stool below the little dais where she sat, smoothing my skirts, pleased that I had made an effort with my own raiment despite arriving at the palace on horseback, waiting on the Queen who said nothing but waved her damsels to a little distance. She took a visible breath. ‘I wish to know, Lady Percy, what happens in the country. I think that my damsels keep dangerous news from me.’ She leaned towards me, lowering her voice. ‘I think my husband has returned from Ireland,’ she said.
‘Yes, my lady.’ That was common knowledge. ‘He landed at Milford Haven in Wales. In the final days of July.’
‘But July is so long ago and he has not come to me. I understand that our uncle of York has taken forces to lend my lord the King aid against the…’ She thought for a moment, as if to choose her words with care, before abandoning all discretion. ‘Against the rebels who commit treason against him.’
It was as if she had learned the lines, to repeat when necessary.
‘So I understand. Although my Lord of Lancaster would deny that he has treason in mind. All will be resolved when they meet.’ And then when she burrowed her neat little teeth into her lower lip: ‘Why have you sent for me, my lady?’
Isabelle became suddenly more than direct, her eyes alight with knowledge. ‘Because your family, Lady Percy, are the rebels. They are marching with Lancaster to force my lord the King into compliance.’
I felt a heat at my temples and I smoothed my palms against my skirts. I had not expected this accusation.
‘They mean you no harm, my lady,’ I replied smoothly to reassure, for behind the outward composure, she was not calm. ‘Nor will they harm King Richard. The Earl of Worcester, my lord Percy’s uncle, is still in service with the King.