Anne O'Brien - Queen of the North

‘It is good to have your company,’ I said.

The Earl of Northumberland waved any further niceties aside, swooping on my original query like a hawk on a vole, quick to deny any deliberate aggression.

‘I foresee nothing as yet.’

‘That is good. Then I accompany you. If there is a battle, I take refuge in the nearest fortress.’

The Northumberland brow became heavier.

‘This is to be a matter of heavy negotiation, madam, not a social visit.’

‘This is family, sir.’

‘Family! We are all family!’

The Earl looked as if he would happily dispense with some of them. But was it not true? Did it not cause the worst of heartbreak when loyalties were strained to the limit by demands of cousinship, either close or distant? Whatever the outcome in this coming contest, it would not be without its sorrows and pain, for all of us. Even the Earl, through his royal forebears, could not pretend that the victor held no personal interest for him.

‘I am going to meet my cousin and welcome him home,’ I continued with seemingly naive pleasure. ‘I see no reason why I should not be here as a representative of the Mortimer branch of the family since neither my brother nor sister will make the journey.’

Which gave him momentary food for thought, as I knew it would. His eye held mine as if weighing up how much I knew of the developing situation. Did he really think that his son and I conversed about nothing but the health of our children? When I did not look away, he turned his eye, still choleric, on his son and heir.

‘I suppose you see no reason why she should not be here?’

‘None.’

Harry was comfortingly loyal.

With no more than a grunt, for he had lost the skirmish, the Earl spurred his horse into a smart canter towards the head of the column where his banners were unfurled, their colours advertising that Percy was on the move.

‘How gratifying,’ I acknowledged Harry with a slide of eye.

‘I don’t see that you needed my help. You were doing quite well on your own.’

Upon which exchange, Harry fell into easy conversation with Westmorland, leaving me to enjoy the familiar scenery and ponder. Yes, it was a matter of family. But what predicament would these complicated family ties drag us all into? This family that had sworn fealty to Richard now seemed prepared to discard those oaths as so much dross. But there was no true bafflement for me there. It was not difficult for me to see that severe dissatisfaction had been looming on our northern horizon for some months. Now, for my own satisfaction, I slotted the problems together into a snug-fitting mosaic.

It had to be said that the Earl of Northumberland, bending the ear of his standard-bearer, had become increasingly restless with Richard’s interference in what he saw as his own preserve, even though he and Harry between them held the positions of Warden of the West and East March and thus in effect, in the King’s name, controlled the north. The Earl had much to thank Richard for. At the banquet to mark the coronation of the child King back in 1377 Henry, then Lord Percy, Marshal of England, had been created Earl of Northumberland. In the previous year, Harry and his two brothers had all been knighted by the old King Edward the Third. Thus all would seem set for Percy prosperity and influence as royal counsellors and controllers of the border region, notorious for insurrection.

But all was not well, either in London or in the northern March. Here on our own doorstep Richard, in his wisdom, was intent on negotiating with the Scots to achieve a permanent peace. Not a situation that would endear itself to a warlike family that looked for every opportunity to increase its territory and wealth in its raids against its neighbour. No room here in Richard’s planning for Percy territorial ambitions, interests or traditions. Peace with the Scots was not smiled upon over a dish of Percy pottage. Disillusionment coated the venison with a slick glaze. Richard’s policies were, within the fastness of our own walls, heartily condemned.

Nor was this all. I cast a glance across at the Neville Earl of Westmorland, busy discussing with Harry the punishment of a band of enterprising brigands from over the border, with no evidence of bad blood between them. But there was more than a hint of wariness on both sides. The Neville family had appeared within our environs when this Ralph Neville was created Earl of Westmorland by a silkily smiling Richard, along with the gift of the border town of Penrith and other lands in Cumberland. Westmorland’s intentions became an item of suspicion in Percy discussions. No Percy enjoyed a competitor for the length and breadth of their authority in these lands. Northumberland’s vision of the north held no role for Westmorland.

But so much power invested in the Percy lord could be deemed dangerous. Richard had known perfectly well what he was doing in promoting the power of the Nevilles in our midst. Promote a Neville, curb a Percy. Which placed Richard firmly in the role of enemy to Percy ambitions.

But would this mild dissatisfaction encourage my family by marriage to rebel against the King? I did not think so. Would our power not be enhanced through bolstering Richard rather than undermining him? Royal gratitude could pave our path in gold.

‘I’m Warden of the East March, appointed for ten years.’ Harry’s dogmatic statement in reply to some Neville query reached me as if in response to my line of thought. ‘We wield the power Richard has given us and hold on to what we have. We’ll not question Richard’s right to rule.’

No disloyalty. No frisson of treason here. But here we were, riding south to meet up with my cousin of Lancaster who had just branded himself the greatest traitor of them all.

‘That’s not the talk of the March, as I hear it,’ Westmorland suggested.

‘Never believe the talk of the March.’ Harry’s shoulders, neatly encased in a new brigandine for the occasion, complete with gold stitching, lifted in a shrug of sorts. I could not see his expression for the fall of his hair beneath his brimmed beaver hat.

‘What do you say, my lady?’ Westmorland leaned forward to catch my eye.

If I was flattered to be asked, I showed none of my pleasure. ‘I’d say that Harry has still not learned to keep his mouth shut when pricked by outrageous irritation.’

‘Well, it was outrageous,’ Harry responded. ‘And I spoke as I thought.’

‘There you are. Guilty as charged.’

A guffaw from Westmorland indicated that he knew full well the source of this irritant that had caused Harry’s challenge to royal power. No one with ears in the locality could have missed it when Richard had begun to draw power more securely into his own fist, starting with the demand for vast payments of money from nobles who caught our suspicious King’s attention.

Most noble families kept their dissent between themselves and paid up. Harry, of course, had to be the one to voice his disfavour, which some mischief-maker was quick to report to our King in all its unsavoury language.

Richard had subsequently muttered about banishment from England, a favourite ploy to rid himself of those who stepped on the toes of his elegant shoes. There were also threats of forfeiture and death, before Richard postponed all his punishing of recalcitrant magnates until his return from his campaign in Ireland.

‘No,’ Harry was in the process of agreeing, ‘it was not wise, but temper, and a cup and more of inferior wine with a pompously wordy royal courier, got the better of me. Now we await Richard’s return to see whether he smiles on us or wields his power to batter us into submission. I don’t fear banishment. We are too useful to him, and Richard will have had time to reconsider.’ His smile was cynical. ‘Our King was as hasty as I.’