Anne O'Brien - Queen of the North

That we may gain eternal joy and pleasure .

It was a prayer that soothed, but my previous conflict refused to be overborne: who would have the power to stop Lancaster from doing exactly what he wished?

All as complex and mischievous as kittens in a box.

I could not imagine for one moment that Harry had not allowed this consideration to occupy a significant moment of his thoughts. But was I guilty of an unwarrantable cynicism in my suspicions that Lancaster might be more than willing to break so solemn an oath, sworn on such powerful relics? The scene so recently enacted in this chapel remained vivid in my mind, the holy words, the sacred incense-filled atmosphere that still dried my throat, the stern voice of absolute assurance from the royal vow-taker. A man could be damned for breaking so reverential a vow. Was not my cousin a man of proven honour and integrity?

‘Blessed Virgin, keep me safe from all mean doubting,’ I murmured in a final heartfelt plea. ‘And preserve Henry of Lancaster in the vow to which he has committed his soul.’

How could I not accept such dedication? Lancaster would do what was right and just.

I said my farewells to Harry. Lancaster’s army was marching south, supported by Percy forces, to the Lancaster fortress at Leicester where more troops would join with them, but I would not be there. With a fast-riding escort in Percy livery to deter any well-wishers, I had decided to make my way to London where I would claim accommodation at Westminster and glean as much as could be gleaned from friends and family. Better to be there when Richard returned from Ireland to face his nemesis than isolated in the north, for London was where the future would be decided.

I was sitting on the bed in Harry’s campaign tent while Harry strode around me, stuffing items of clothing into a coffer. A squire was waiting for it outside the canvas door-flap.

‘Keep safe,’ he said in passing. ‘Go straight to London. I doubt you’ll meet up with His Grace of York. We hear he’s in the west after all, searching for invisible rebels.’

‘And you keep safe too.’ I turned my head to watch him in his perambulations. ‘Will there be fighting? When Richard lands from Ireland?’

‘I doubt Richard will have the stomach to take us on. York even less.’ He paused, the groove between his brows becoming a fully fledged frown as he looked out to where the Earl was issuing orders. ‘But there may be,’ he admitted.

‘Are you sure of all this, Harry?’

Harry threw a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that the squire was out of earshot. ‘He took the oath. You heard him.’

‘So you expect Richard to return to London, where he will be feted as King, and with Lancaster following behind as his loyal subject?’

‘I don’t know. Lancaster seems well intentioned.’

‘Lancaster seems well organised and single-minded to me. That oath no more than a clever ploy.’

‘The Earl believes him.’

‘Does 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.

Chapter Four

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.