Anne O'Brien - Queen of the North

‘But what about…’

‘I know.’ His fingers on my lips stopped the word ‘Mortimer’ before it could be uttered. ‘Perhaps one day. Not now, not yet. And there is no point in blaming me.’ He kissed me in passing, which went no way to soothing my heart, my sense of failure. ‘We will rule the north in Henry’s name.’

‘Percy deceit and double-dealing.’

‘No. Percy pragmatism. Can you accept that? I would rather we were not at odds for the whole of the journey back to Alnwick.’

‘Very well.’ But I had not quite forgiven him. Or the Earl. Still, I tried for a lighter note between us. ‘I know what it is,’ I said. ‘You can’t bring yourself to sit silent through Sir Thomas Dymoke’s challenge at the feast.’

Sir Thomas, King’s Champion and full of conceit, would challenge to a duel any man who questioned the King’s right to the throne. He would enjoy every minute of the ceremonial.

‘No, I cannot.’ Harry was grimacing. ‘He’s nothing but a pompous bagpipe, and I might be tempted to take him up on the offer. Now, are we ready to go?’

At last we had both set aside our finery. ‘What do we do with these?’ I asked.

Harry regarded them, symbols of Lancaster hegemony. ‘Fold them neatly, I suppose.’

‘You have never folded your garments neatly in your life…’

‘And we will return them with thanks. Until the next time.’

‘Harry…’

I waited until he turned to me. But then a rap on the door forestalled any further conversation, particularly as the door was opened without any invitation from within. The Earl stood on the threshold, casting an eye around the room as his presence filled it, equally garbed in red damask, three strips of gold braid on his right breast defining his rank. A crimson chaperon, decorated with a cloud of white fur, enhanced the impression of status and power.

His smile faded.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

‘Going home.’

‘Are you a fool, man?’

‘I’ve done all that is necessary. I’ve acclaimed. I’ve witnessed. I’ve taken an oath that is binding unto death. I do not have to eat and drink and joust.’

‘What’s ruffled your fur?’ He turned on me. ‘Is this your doing? The claim of the Mortimer child is not worth mentioning. Why give it time and space?’

Accusations proceeded to fly between them, needing no intervention from me.

‘You knew this was to be the outcome,’ Harry accused.

‘So did you if you will confess it.’

‘Yes, but I don’t have to like it.’

‘You’ll like the rewards well enough. Even your uncle of Worcester can come to terms with necessity.’

‘As I have done.’ Harry’s temper, kept in hand in dispute with me, now flamed as bright as his hair. ‘But I’ll not sit at his table and raise a cup of his best spiced wine to seal what is a chancy alliance at best. I think we have been used as magnificent puppets, my lord father, won over by oaths and fair words. And gold chains.’ He gestured to the sparkling gems on the Earl’s breast. ‘Are Percy jewels suddenly not good enough for you? Make sure King Henry pays you well for all our services. Without us he would never have been wearing that crown. Our prestige and our troops made all the difference. We were the first to support him with soldiery in any number capable of giving battle.’

‘Without doubt, nephew.’ The Earl of Worcester, similarly opulent in silk and fur and gold braid, had arrived in the wake of his brother. Shorter, less robust, but unmistakably Percy, he held himself with quiet confidence. ‘We have become kingmakers indeed.’ He smiled at me. ‘I was about to say that you look superb, Elizabeth, but there seem to have been some rapid changes since I saw you at the crowning.’

He embraced me.

‘A rapid change of plan,’ I said.

Meanwhile Harry’s stare remained severe. ‘Have you too come to terms with your conscience, Uncle?’

‘I have. It was necessary.’

‘And yet you were at Richard’s side in Ireland 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.