Anne O'Brien - Queen of the North

‘We look like three cunning women,’ Philippa observed as we withdrew into a sisterly group, into a corner where we would not be buffeted by the milling lords, citizens and their hangers-on. ‘Plotting our future.’

‘Perhaps we are,’ I said, kissing her cheek.

‘We may have need to be,’ Alianore offered, beaming at us both, but behind the smile I saw raw concern. ‘Good to see that you stand high in Lancaster’s regard, Elizabeth. Red becomes you more than it does Harry.’ She fingered the opulent, gold-worked over-sleeve of my houppelande with what could have been distaste, before submitting to a sisterly hug. ‘Even Harry looks presentable. For once he doesn’t look as if he has just ridden in after a month of besieging a Scottish peel tower.’

‘You are hardly clad as a beggar, Alianore. But we Percys are royally grand, are we not, down to the collar and coronet?’ I touched my fingers to the intricate chain around my neck. ‘And why not? We have been bought,’ spreading my arms to set the damask with its sable trim rippling as if a living thing. ‘A crown in return for a damask robe. Have you seen my gilded shoes?’ I lifted my skirts a fraction. ‘These were in payment for Northumberland carrying the Lancaster sword. Which is the greatest symbol of power, do you suppose? Gilded shoes or an edged weapon? Richard would have said shoes,’ I added, admitting to a touch of guilt at his present incarceration in the Tower, recalling his love of extravagant footwear.

‘Richard has forfeited his throne, shoes or no shoes.’ Philippa’s voice had a tendency to carry, until I nudged her. ‘I’d wager on the power of the sword.’

‘Best not to say that too loud, on this fine auspicious occasion,’ I suggested, seeing heads turned in our direction.

‘What will happen to Richard?’ Philippa asked, dutifully lowering her voice. ‘Can our new King afford to let him live?’

My sister did not seem overly concerned. We were all well versed in political necessity. How would we not be, brought up as we had been at the centre of political events? The first Mortimer Earl of March had met his death by execution after a remarkable history of treason, hand in glove with the Queen against the rightful King Edward the Second.

‘I’ll not be sorry if he dies a quiet death.’ Philippa paused. ‘Or even a violent one. I’ll never forgive him for taking Arundel’s head. It was disgraceful that Richard should be free to take such monstrous revenge.’

To bring a halt to this well-worn theme, I clasped her hand, thinking that she looked strained, more than was demanded by the weariness of the long ceremony. Perhaps it was true grief that ate at her stamina, despite the vast age difference between her and her late FitzAlan husband. ‘I know. I am sorry that the loss afflicts you.’

‘It was the manner of the loss,’ she said. ‘Richard does not deserve my pity.’

It had been a driving force within her, destroying any comfort that the passing of months and a new, kindly husband might have brought. Philippa had not had an easy life, considering the deaths of her two former husbands. An accidental lance to the groin for one, an axe to the neck for the other. It had destroyed any trace of the soft humour my sister had had when we were girls, nor had she a nursery full of children for her comfort.

‘Where are your sons, Alianore?’ I asked to deflect a further outburst of venom.

‘Safely in the Welsh March. I sent them to stay with your brother Edmund at Ludlow, although I think he’s taken them on to Wigmore. I’d not bring them here. I’ll never bring them here.’

It had not been the happiest of deflections. Alianore and I regarded each other with a depth of understanding.

‘We are committed to this new rule, Alianore,’ I said. ‘Our lords were all prominent during the bowing, oath-taking and anointing.’

‘Except brother Edmund who is not here.’ Alianore pointed out what we had all already acknowledged.

‘Edmund is a law unto himself, pleasing unto himself. It is no surprise.’ Philippa’s bitterness continued to pervade every word she uttered.

‘We are committed,’ I repeated. ‘We have to be so.’ Bitterly, disbelievingly, I realised that I was echoing Harry’s own words, when, less than an hour ago, I had been berating him for his betrayal. I felt no commitment.

‘But are we content? I will never be content.’ Philippa again.

‘Nor I.’ Alianore.

‘Lancaster promised to support the most suitable claimant,’ I said, studying the rings on my hands, trying for balance where there was no balance. I was as unsettled as my sisters.

‘Suitable? What does that mean?’ Alianore’s voice climbed. ‘What about God-given right? My son Edmund is suitable. He has the right.’

‘But Edmund is so young.’

‘He will grow. All he needs is a regent and a group of trusted counsellors. It has been done before, it could be done again. Richard had a council, and his lady mother, Princess Joan, until he reached his majority.’

I tried to be realistic, and loyal to Harry, when I had no wish to be so. My thoughts matched Alianore’s. Princess Joan, Alianore’s grandmother, had been a match for anyone in guiding a youthful King. But in my mind I heard Harry’s warning echo and re-echo.

‘No one will stand for a child, if Lancaster is here with an army and the support of the lords. No one would willingly choose a regency. Besides, it is done now. The lords have made their decision.’

‘Any man of principle would be quick to choose the rightful bloodline,’ Alianore said. ‘Decisions can be unmade. Kings can be un-kinged. Have we not just proved it? It is a dangerous precedent, but it can be used to our advantage.’

‘As Lancaster knows.’ Playing devil’s advocate was proving exhausting. ‘He will be on his guard against any threats to his new power.’

Another unfortunate gambit. Alianore leaned to whisper in my ear: ‘What do I do if he sends for the boys? They were royal wards under Richard. They will continue to be so. They are the only challenge to his power.’ Her whisper became a sibilant hiss. ‘What do I do if Lancaster sends for them? Can I refuse?’

‘Let them come,’ Philippa advised, our heads close. ‘I don’t believe Lancaster will do what is unjust. They will not meet a hasty death.’

‘Is there ice in your veins, Philippa?’ Alianore demanded.

‘No. I am merely practical. Besides, what can you do? Short of hiding them in the Welsh March or sending them into the fastness of Wales, you can do nothing but obey. I think that we should smile on our new King. Unlike Richard, he has no blood on his hands.’

‘Not yet. What do you say, Elizabeth?’

‘I say I don’t like the thought of them being here under Henry’s dominion but I agree with Philippa. I don’t see that you have a choice. Nor do I see King Henry being guilty of murder.’

Alianore proved intransigent. ‘I thought we had agreed that he might very well arrange for Richard’s demise in some distant castle. Why not my sons too? Then all opposition is destroyed, and King Henry can toast the untrammelled inheritance for his own four sons.’

‘I know.’ I sighed, acknowledging that I would not wish to send my own children into Lancaster’s keeping. Not that I feared him, but I would not wish them out of my sight. ‘There is no easy path, is there?’

Such disloyalty, such treachery, in such seemingly innocuous conversation when all around us were celebrating. The interruption, which effectively silenced us when it came, was smoothly inviting.

‘You look to be in serious confidences together, cousins. Does the new reign already see the stirring of a plot?’

We turned as one to regard the newcomer, recognising the voice, the light timbre, the teasing note.