Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Anne O'Brien
and when he landed.’
‘And now I am here.’
‘Well, Elizabeth and I will be in Alnwick by the time you have both finished roistering, and when you have returned Lancaster Sword to its owner, my Lord Constable.’
Worcester looked from Harry to me, as if he had known the tenor of the conversation before he arrived. Perhaps he had. ‘There’s no chance for young Mortimer, you know.’
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. Younger than his brother, slighter in build, his features not so hawkish, Worcester had an air of gentle elegance about him and a gift of drawing advantages out of the most unfavourable of circumstances. Unwed, with no family of his own, he had dedicated his life to service to the King. He had a name for diplomacy and cool speaking that could smooth the clash of magnate ambitions. Erudite, educated, charming – I liked him. I could not quite understand how he had given his name to this change in circumstance, except that he had always been attorney to the Lancasters. Perhaps that had been the persuading element in his dramatic change of loyalty since no one would know better than he the crime committed when Richard had seized the Lancaster estates.
Harry, now in possession of cloak and gloves, replied to his uncle’s soft criticism. ‘No, there is no chance. But that does not mean that I have to like what has been done. We crowned the wrong man here today. The Earl of March has the right.’
‘Right has nothing to do with it.’ The Earl was already halfway through the door, taking his brother with him. ‘Then go. But as you ride north, you should contemplate the benefits to us of having King Henry’s gratitude showering down on us.’
‘What did he mean?’ I asked when the Percy feet had clattered down the stairs.
‘Nothing more than I have already said. There will be rewards. Our King will assuredly pay his dues. But we’ll not count our chickens before King Henry has hatched them.’
I thought he was being evasive. As we left London, looking back to the Tower, a memory alighted in my mind, and not a happy one.
‘Do you think Isabelle will ever see Richard again?’ I asked.
Harry growled. ‘As you would say, I’d be a fool to wager my Percy acres, or even the shoes on my feet, on it.’
I could think of no response, realising as we headed north that I had exchanged not one word with my cousin Henry on the occasion of his coronation. To me he was a breaker of sacred oaths. Taken of his own volition on the relics of St John of Bridlington, yet he had denied them at the first opportunity. To those around me I would be a loyal subject, acknowledging this new line of kings through Lancaster to his own sons. In my heart I was a traitor. Henry had broken his sacred vow. He had always wanted the throne. The vow had been a piece of carefully planned and performed mischief to win over those who might be uncertain.
‘Would you condemn him as an oath-breaker?’ I asked Harry as we rested briefly during our journey in the comfortable grandeur of Spofforth, the Yorkshire castle which was secure enough not to need dark crenellations and where Harry had spent some of his earliest years.
‘I’ll leave that to God on the day of Lancaster’s death.’ Harry lounged at his ease, apparently unaffected by our long journey conducted at his usual breakneck speed. ‘We brought him to the throne. Now we accept it and concentrate on events in the north, where we’ll ensure that Henry as King will not be to our disadvantage.’
Which encouraged me, in affronted silence that Harry had slid so effortlessly from Mortimer justice to Percy dominance, to retire to my chamber, unable to decide whether I should be guided by my head or my heart. And worst of all, I knew that Harry would enjoy wielding every inch of the authority that King Henry was about to cast into his lap.
My Mortimer dreams, I feared, were about to fade into insignificance within the scope of Percy plans for the future.
Alnwick Castle: Early November 1399
King Henry’s chickens were hatched smartly enough. Before the first frosts of November, the two great Percy magnates, Northumberland and Worcester, arrived at Alnwick with what could only be described as an air of smug achievement. They were soon closeted with Harry in the Earl’s private chamber, dispatching servants for ale and food.
I considered listening at the door but decided that it was beneath my dignity either to eavesdrop or to demand admittance. I would discover all in due time.
So what had been our reward for helping Lancaster to his throne? I imagined it was generous, hearing the Earl’s bark of laughter, Worcester’s smooth rumble, the sharp query from Harry as I passed the still-closed door an hour later.
A further hour and the exchange of opinion continued, with more ale sent for, and I could wait no longer. Thus I arrived with the ale, waylaying the servant and taking the flagon from him. There they were, the three Percy lords deep in admiration of their ill-gotten gains and no doubt planning a raid along the Scottish border on the strength of their new powers, driving me to make, in a spirit of spiced malice, a suitably deferential obeisance in the presence of such overwhelming magnate supremacy. With the deftness of any serving wench, I refilled the cups, then laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, remaining behind him when he placed his hand to cover mine. Whether in warning or acknowledgement I was unsure. Worcester predictably rose to his feet with words of welcome. The Earl, equally predictably, keeping his seat, granted me a brusque nod of his head.
‘So tell me the good news, my lords. Has our payment for services rendered been acceptable?’
King Henry’s more-than-smooth accession still rubbed against my skin.
I took in the evidence at a quick glance. There were documents in the coffer on the table between them, some spilling out where they had been read and abandoned. Royal seals were evident, the figure easily recognisable as the King seated between two lions. How generous had King Henry been? I thought of perusing them for myself but that would spoil the Percy liking for pride and self-promotion. Harry was smiling at me as he took my arm, bringing me closer into the Percy council so that I perched on the arm of his chair. He pushed his own cup of ale into my hand.
‘Come and drink to our achievements.’ He rescued one of the documents, unrolling it for me to see. ‘I am confirmed as Warden of the East March and Governor of the castles at both Berwick and Roxburgh. I have also the castle of Bamburgh to hold for life.’ As he allowed the document to re-roll, I could not mistake the glow of satisfaction. ‘My father holds the West March as we would expect, and the town of Carlisle. Between us we will dominate the north in the name of King and Percy. We could not ask for more.’
‘My congratulations.’ Raising the cup in a smart little salute, I drank, as I must; it would be churlish not to do so, for it was a substantial reward indeed, to put a seal on Percy ambitions. All that Richard had allowed us had been confirmed by Lancaster as King, and more. Between them the Earl and Harry held the military and civilian power in the north in their combined fists. As well as the Earl being Constable of England.
The Earl was not moved to be too complacent. ‘It is regretful about Ralph Neville.’
From which I presumed that King Henry had not been backward in recognising the debt he owed to his brother by marriage. I waited. When the Earl merely grunted his displeasure through a mouthful of ale, it was Worcester who explained it for me, settling easily into his habitual laconic manner.
‘Neville has been made Marshal of England and given the lordship of Richmond for life. We would rather he had not – Richmond is a strategic castle – but it is a drop in the ocean. He’ll be no threat to us.’
So Henry was placing Neville as a tame hawk in the centre of the Percy raptors. Even though the office of Earl Marshal was a prestigious one, at the head of the King’s forces, as my lord of Worcester admitted, it was