Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Anne O'Brien

       Westminster: 13 October 1399

      Cold and cramped, I stood in my chamber in the rambling palace of Westminster, clad in robes that were not of my choosing although the fit was remarkably good, aided with a pin and a stitch here and there. Opposite me stood Harry, even more resplendent, hands fisted on his hips. Harry looked uneasy as if he would rather be in hunting leathers or readied for some Scottish skirmish, but there was a determination in the rigidity of his jaw as he carried the finery of a full-skirted, ankle-length houppelande well, with its dagged sleeves and ermine edges. The draped folds of the chaperon, set squarely on his head as if some furred animal, all fringed with gold, was of a similar hue. Unfortunately Henry of Lancaster had not considered Harry’s red hair in the choice of garments.

      ‘Well?’ he asked, under my critical gaze.

      I was in no mood for doling out admiration.

      ‘I am not in agreement with this,’ I announced.

      ‘As you have made more than clear for the past se’nnight. But you will do it because I ask it of you,’ was all the reply I got.

      ‘Or because you order me to do it and I will concur, as a good wife should obey her husband.’

      ‘If you wish. This is not the time for soul-searching, Elizabeth. We are here. We have walked at Lancaster’s side every day, acknowledging all he has done. This is the culmination of all the weeks since we met with him at Doncaster.’

      ‘Weeks in which the Earl your father broke as many oaths as did Lancaster. When Lancaster swore to bow before those with a superior claim to the throne.’ I gave Harry no quarter. ‘Of which there are two. Our erstwhile King Richard, now a prisoner, and then Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. What happened to all the fine words at Doncaster? Trampled, it seems to me, under the joint mail-shod feet of Lancaster and Northumberland.’

      These were weeks in which the Earl of Northumberland had played a significant, some would say an inglorious, role to ensure Lancaster’s ultimate victory, plotting with habitual cunning to take control of Richard who had sought refuge in Conwy Castle on his return from Ireland. The Earl swore that Lancaster did not desire the throne, swore his own firm allegiance to King Richard, before taking him into custody and dropping him into the waiting hands of Lancaster at Flint Castle. Richard’s friends and erstwhile counsellors had promptly made themselves scarce or sided with the Earl of Northumberland who promised them safe passage in his retinue.

      ‘Lancaster did not get where he is today merely by force of arms.’ Harry was glaring at my intransigence. He was in no mood to admire my own appearance either. The deep red of velvet and damask complemented my own dark colouring.

      ‘No. He was led to the throne by self-serving magnates like the Duke of York, who conveniently changed sides when Richard capitulated to your father at Conwy and they saw which way the wind was blowing. But Percy arms played the major part in this travesty. Lancaster is not the heir. This is wrong, Harry!’

      ‘Wrong it may be, but this is what will happen.’

      ‘And your voice will not be raised against it?’

      He stalked to where a flagon of ale and cups had been left for us, poured, emptied one in a gulp and gave another to me as he replaced his on the board with a smart thump.

      ‘Of what value would that be, to raise one voice in the midst of thousands? Lancaster has been acclaimed by the rabble in the streets and by the lords and clerics at Westminster. One voice will not be heard amongst the rest.’ He scowled down at his feet clad in softest unscuffed leather. ‘Nor am I sure that I wish it to be.’ He looked up at me under his brows. ‘There is so much validity in Lancaster’s claim. The Earl of March is too young, too untried, and the female line of his royal descent disliked by so many. The old King, your great-grandfather, saw the weakness of it when he issued a decree that after his death only males would inherit. Which neatly obliterated your mother’s claim in spite of her Plantagenet blood. Yes, I know what you will say…’ when I opened my mouth to argue, ‘but it’s a matter of right of inheritance against the demands of political expediency. I’ve thought much of this and…’

      ‘You have changed your mind, haven’t you? You will give your wholehearted allegiance to this man who fooled us with his mummer’s oath-taking.’

      I was baffled, horrified, that he had done so after our hearts and minds had seemed so closely in tune. Here was my husband, comfortably in political alliance with Henry of Lancaster. Disappointment was sour in my belly, churning with the acknowledgement that it would be beyond my powers to change Hotspur’s mind, once it was fixed on the vision before him, whether it be the enemy across the battlefield or the usurper who already had the crown in his hand.

      ‘Yes, for the most obvious of reasons. Young Edmund should be King, I’ll not deny it, but it may be that our own power in the north will be more secure with a friendly Lancaster than a young boy who cannot hold the reins of power.’

      ‘Unless Lancaster becomes unfriendly and decides to strip it from you!’

      ‘He owes us too much to do that. There is no real support for Mortimer, and as you see, it is overwhelming for Lancaster. So I think in the circumstances to support the Earl of March would not be politic.’

      ‘Does that make his claim an empty one?’ I would propound every argument at my disposal to change his mind, quick anger surprising me, glossing my words with fiery eloquence. ‘You know that it does not. It is no empty claim. Richard was crowned King as a child, little older than Edmund Mortimer. With a strong council England suffered no hardship. A child King did not cast England into revolt or attack from abroad. My nephew is the legitimate heir, and if the crown does not sit legitimately, what stability will it give this kingdom? The power will be on offer to every magnate who has ambition to seize it for himself. It should undeniably be Mortimer, not Lancaster.’

      ‘I accept all that you say, but you can’t argue legitimacy, Elizabeth. We unseated Richard fast enough when it suited us.’

      ‘That was not Lancaster’s sworn intention when he made that thrice-damned oath. We were all fooled. But if Richard is not King, it should be Edmund Mortimer by the right of his mother’s blood and his father being King Edward’s second son. You know that is the truth of it, but have clearly rejected it for the sake of your own power. Because it is politic.’ I drew breath. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’ My anger was now hot beneath my sleek fur. ‘I doubt your father gives any credence to the Mortimer claim either.’

      ‘I doubt it too.’ Harry found the need for another cup of ale. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, here we are, trussed up like Christmas geese, and today Henry of Lancaster will be crowned King. Are you ready?’

      I spread my arms. ‘Do I look ready? Lancaster has paid for the clothes on my back!’

      ‘You look magnificent.’

      ‘So do you look magnificent, but to what purpose?’ Even in my anger, he was beautiful. ‘There’s no need to be concerned. I will do you proud.’ My jaw was as tense as his.

      ‘Are you going to drink that?’ I still held the untouched cup in one hand. ‘I suggest you do. It will give you a mellow edge. And try to be polite. At least there will be no possibility of your conversing with your regal cousin until after the event, when he will be your King. It might put a curb on your tongue.’

      I bared my teeth, and drank. For Harry’s sake, and because I foresaw no good in creating dissention at this late