Anne O'Brien - Queen of the North

Perhaps.

I was still staring at the pages where I had placed them when Harry entered, in a hurry.

‘News from the family?’

‘Yes. Philippa and Alianore. My brother Edmund never writes. Not news so much as fear and vengeance and demands for support.’

‘I have misplaced a small leather-bound coffer. Have you seen it? There it is. What is it doing in here?’ He discovered it lurking beneath a pile of discarded rent rolls which should have been demanding his interest, and scooped it up. ‘What do they want?’

‘Philippa to support Lancaster and remove Richard, punishing him for Arundel’s death. Alianore to keep an eye on her two sons and their throne. Keeping both out of Lancaster’s hands and getting the crown for her son.’

‘Ambitious. And what does sister Elizabeth think?’

‘Since Lancaster’s intentions are deliberately opaque, sister Elizabeth is torn between loyalties.’

‘Let me know when you have decided.’ Then, in passing, he placed his hand on mine, his fingers firm, the planes and angles of his vivid features softening. ‘If those letters are as treacherous as you seem to be suggesting, it might be best if you burned them. Who knows? This may turn out to be nothing more than a ripple caused by a wasp dropping into a goblet of ale. Next month we might all be bowing in utmost respect before King Richard again with this whole Lancaster episode forgotten, and Lancaster restored to the royal bosom. Let us then be circumspect in what we say and what we do. I advise you not to reply to either.’

I did not question his judgement. Yes, it was treason to discuss the removal of the crowned and anointed rightful King, to replace him with another, whether he be Lancaster or Mortimer. All was so ephemeral, like stars in a night sky when a spring mist descended to blot them out, one by one so that the constellations could no longer be recognised. All was so uncertain.

When he had left the room I consigned the pages to the flames, but the fire could not obliterate the conflicting concerns of my sisters. They remained firmly embedded in my own mind, one struggling for pre-eminence over the other.

If anything surprised me, it was Harry’s circumspection. It was unusual for him to be so wary. Which awakened me even more to the hazards about to land on our doorstep with cousin Henry returned from exile.

The whole country would be holding its breath.

And the one pertinent fact that I had signally failed to discover: were the Percys breathing easily?

It was a sight to smite at the senses. The noise, the vivid colour, the snap of energy. Here was an array to grasp the imagination, to awaken every emotion, the whole overlaid by sheer arrogance, as I sat my mount in the shadow of the walls of Warkworth. Here was the Percy retained army, archers, foot soldiers and mounted men, slick and gleaming as they were at the beginning of every campaign. But this, in some subtle manner, was different. Every weapon shone, but no more so than the horseflesh, burnished to glow in the morning sun. On every breast, every pennon, every banner, reared the red-clawed lion of the Percys, rampant in azure on its golden field. They waited to move off in well-ordered ranks, so different from the usual noisy melee. This was a meticulously created power, prepared to face any opposition, with force of arms if necessary, or to cow into surrender by the impressive display of the might of the Earl of Northumberland.

The Percy retinues were marching south and I, despite Harry’s belief to the contrary, was marching with them.

I could not fail to be drawn in, to become part of this enterprise. I could not recall ever seeing so large a force. If the Earl intended to present Lancaster with a tally for his use of these Percy men, it would be a goodly sum indeed.

The discussions about the number of retainers and the manner of our meeting with the returning exile had been long and heated but here was the glorious culmination of it all. I thought that there had been no doubt about this outcome from the very beginning. It was simply that the men of this household liked the sound of their own voices in hot argument. But were we not in truth contemplating bloody treason, choosing to raise a body of troops in England that was not to be used for the explicit policies of our King?

Even more stirring, the numbers were augmented by the red livery with its silver saltire, the retained men of the Earl of Westmorland who had thrown in his lot, whatever it might be, with us. A hazardous alliance, since Westmorland was one of those men considered a threat to Percy sovereignty in the north, and thus a potential enemy, but the Neville Earl was wed to Lancaster’s half-sister Joan Beaufort. He too would have an interest in hearing what the new arrival had to say for himself.

And yet I was forced to acknowledge that Richard was our rightful King through true descent, with oaths of fealty laid at his feet. What we did on that day in July of 1399 could be called subversion, unless we retired home again without lifting a sword, without Richard being any the wiser when he returned from his campaign in Ireland. An unlikely outcome. What we did here today was assuredly treasonable. Here was rebellion in the making.

So the Earl ordered his men to march south, and I, as the ranks of retainers drew away from the curtain wall and gatehouse of Warkworth, drew my most stalwart horse up level with Harry’s. Momentarily he frowned, as I had anticipated he would, but gave no indication that my appearance offered him any cause for consternation, or even surprise.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, bending a flat stare.

‘Coming with you.’ Meeting it, I preserved the blandest of expressions, masking the tight fist of emotion that had nothing to do with my defiance of a husband’s clearly expressed will and everything to do with a sudden anxiety at where this expedition would end.

‘I thought we had agreed,’ Harry stated.

‘No, we did not agree. You denied me. I simply retreated from what would have been a useless exchange of opinion, and here I am, as I said I would be.’

I had said nothing when we had parted company after breaking our fast on that morning. If Harry had not realised I was dressed for travel, his mind caught up in the urgency of moving men and equipment as we had exchanged a perfunctory embrace, that was to my advantage. Besides, what could he do? It was not a matter of my asking permission from my Percy lord. He could of course have locked me behind the walls of Warkworth but why would he? My arguments for my accompanying this expedition, if he had chosen to listen and if I had chosen to make them, were superb and Harry had none to offset them, other than that I would be in the way. Of which I took no heed.

‘You will be in the way,’ he said.

‘I knew you would say that. And I will not. I will even polish your armour if you ask nicely so that you make a good impression on cousin Henry.’

I was rewarded with a gleam of appreciation and a grin from his squire. The Earl, riding up at speed, majestic in an azure tunic and chaperon, with Westmorland in tow, was another matter. There was no appreciation.

‘You will not accompany us, madam.’

Since here was neither courtesy nor room for discussion, I gave no argument, instead gesturing to the sumpter horses that carried my travelling coffers, to the two women, efficiently mounted and wrapped in layers against the chill wind, who accompanied me. We were well used to hard travel after a lifetime of living in the March.

‘This could be war, woman.’

‘Could it? I thought we were going to offer Henry welcome and support. Do you foresee a passage of arms?’ And then smiling beyond him: ‘Good day, my Lord of Westmorland.’

‘Good day, Lady Percy.’ Westmorland bowed his head with a quirk to one brow. Another relative by marriage, if an even more distant one.