Queen of the North

‘You wish to know my intentions. Then you shall.’

Without more ado we mounted and reconvened at the House of the White Friars on the outskirts of the town of Doncaster; there we were received by the Abbot in full regalia who, without question, ushered us into the chapel. We were expected. Which reminded me never to underestimate my cousin of Lancaster. Foreseeing the doubts that would be raised, with masterful cunning he had made contingency plans to answer them. Expectation and holy awe rippled through my blood. What would be our participation in this sacred place? The saints regarded us with a flat judgement in their painted eyes, making me shiver.

‘I think we have been outplayed and outfoxed,’ Harry said as we knelt in the silent grace, the chapel filling up behind us with Lancaster’s followers, the Abbot offering up prayers for the efficacy of this meeting. Westmorland was here, a sprinkling of other heraldic badges, all of us disarmed in the sacred atmosphere, all eyes fixed on a jewelled coffer which rested on the altar. Lancaster had come here to the White Friars more than prepared. Here, unless I was mistaken, were relics of some importance.

With God’s blessing residing with us, thick as the incense that filled our lungs, Lancaster stood while the Abbot opened the coffer, lifting out a number of gold-girt bones to place them on the altar. Then, both bowing in heavy reverence, Lancaster took from the Abbot and held aloft the jewel-embossed Gospel, raising it to his lips while we looked on, consumed with as much curiosity as piety. What would Lancaster say? This would be as binding an oath as it was possible to make. How binding for the future was Lancaster prepared to be? To my right, the Earl was looking straight ahead as if the proceedings were of no account. On my left, Harry’s fists were clenched against his thighs. I went back to staring at my cousin’s averted face, his head bent in utter respect.

His voice when he spoke was clear, carrying to every man here present, but not loud. It was, I decided, as if he communed with God Himself.

‘I stand here as Henry, Duke of Lancaster, robbed of my inheritance by an ill-counselled King. I have returned to England to reclaim what is rightfully mine, and that is the title and lands of the Duchy of Lancaster. I swear, before all present and in the sight of God and His Holy Spirit, on these Holy Gospels of St John of Bridlington and on his sacred bones, that I will take no more than those things that are mine by law and tradition. I am here to right a wrong.’

Lifting his head so that he might survey the congregation, he took a breath, impressive in his solemn dedication.

‘I swear that I am not come to seize the throne of England. If there is any question of the unfitness of Richard to rule, then I will not be the one to make the accusation. If there is any man in this realm more worthy of the crown than I, then I will willingly stand aside for him. I will not be guilty of taking the throne by force.’

A pause as I marvelled at his willingness to be judged.

‘If it becomes necessary for me to raise money for this venture, I will levy no taxes on the people of this realm without due consent of parliament.’

Which made me catch my breath. This was a forswearing of royal power.

‘I swear this on these holy relics of John of Bridlington. God so judge me in my keeping of this oath.’

Once more he kissed the Holy Gospels, and knelt to receive the final blessing from the bejewelled hands of the Abbot.

‘Amen.’

Which we all repeated with sacramental fervour in a sigh of reverence.

All very seemly, except that Lancaster might have removed his sword, but he was still clad in armour, burnished for battle, which gleamed in the candlelight. A soldier dedicating his future to God.

The Earl, Harry and I were left alone in the White Friars’ chapel to consider what we had just heard.

‘Which makes it all clear enough,’ the Earl huffed. ‘Does it not?’

Harry made no response, more concerned with collecting his sword from the antechamber, clasping his belt around his waist as if he were unclad without it.

Was I the only one to have doubts of Lancaster’s veracity? I opened my mouth to say that nothing was clear to me, but decided against it. It was like staring across a thick winter mist with figures looming. Despite the terrible sanctity of the oath, nothing was clear, nothing decided. Not that I would necessarily believe Lancaster to be capable of deception, no more than any other man of ambition; no more than the Earl whose principles were compromised as soon as his authority came under threat. Sometimes it was necessary to tread warily when the future was not clear-cut. And yet my cousin had sworn an oath on his soul, on those holiest of relics.

I regarded Harry who was still occupied with the stiffness of the buckle. I could not read him as well as I would like. A light-fingered hand gripped my heart and squeezed a little, a forewarning.

Then Harry looked up, buckle forgotten.

‘Do you believe him?’ His demand, addressed to the Earl, cracked the stillness of the now-empty chapel, the precious relics returned to their domed coffer. ‘That he will only take what is his? Are we suitably overawed by this show of magnificent reverence and ceremonial?’

‘What do you still fear? That he will still have designs on the throne?’ The Earl seemed to me strangely complacent as if it mattered not at all.

‘With an army this size at his beck and call? Why not? And he is talking about raising taxes.’

‘Which is sovereign power,’ I added, seeing the direction of Harry’s thoughts. ‘Dealing with parliament to raise taxes, with or without consent, is royal power.’

The Earl rewarded me with a glance, utterly disparaging, below his brows. ‘Lancaster swore that he would not seize the crown. He would stand aside for any man more worthy.’

‘Depends what he means by worthy,’ Harry grimaced.

I glanced from one to the other. ‘What are you saying? Or not saying? That it would be unwise to explore the term worthy? But he swore on the relics.’

How conflicted my loyalties, and Lancaster had barely set foot on English soil.

Harry was still in explosive mood. ‘Oaths can be broken.’

‘Lancaster has a reputation for piety,’ the Earl acknowledged.

‘The Lancasters have a reputation for hard-headed ambition.’

‘There is no outward treason here.’ The Earl gripped his son’s arm. ‘It is my advice that we go with him and ensure that he keeps the oath. If we wish to retain our power in the north, it would be unwise to stand against him at this juncture. Let us assess the lie of the land when Richard returns from Ireland. A decision made now can be undecided. If we think Lancaster’s scheming is not to our taste, then we withdraw. We have committed nothing but our presence and can take it day by day. It may be that it will all fall out to our advantage.’

For the Earl it was quite a speech. I felt that he saw a need to persuade his son, and for a long minute Harry considered, studying the sword callous on his palm, as if of a mind that a decision made here today would result in more sword galls to come. Then he nodded, looking up, eyes catching briefly in the few candle flames that had yet to be doused.

‘I say that we go with him, but we remain awake to what particular dish might be cooking in his pot.’

‘We remain awake,’ the Earl repeated.

They clasped hands in Percy unity; for better or worse we had thrown in our lot with Lancaster. The divergent paths worried me. Better? Settle the irregularities, bring Richard to book and restore good government. Secure Percy power. Worse? The penalty for treason was death.

Instead of following Harry I chose to remain in the chapel, walking slowly to the altar where I bowed my head as I placed my palms on the dome of the little coffer. The jewels gleamed and glinted as the candles finally guttered and died. I thought to offer up my own prayer to St John of Bridlington whose bones were renowned for working miracles, but for whom or for what should I pray? In the end I lifted my hands, covered my face with them and offered up a plea to the Blessed Virgin, for all of us.

In this valley, restless, grievous and changeable,

Turn to us, O Maiden amiable, our Mediator and Advocate, your eyes,

Full of the joy of paradise.

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.

How very young she was with her light voice, her unformed features, her hair severely curtailed within a lace-edged coif. I had forgotten. She would be barely ten years, little older than when I wed Harry. I swore that I had more awareness than she of what a marriage would mean; Isabelle, despite three years of marriage and all the Valois dignity bred into her frail body, looked a mere child in rich folds of damask and fur and encrusted embroidery, so that I presumed that she had dressed for this occasion. My eye was taken by the glitter of her figure, for she was festooned with jewels that had been part of her dowry. Chaplets and collars, brooches and jewelled clasps were pinned to and draped over every surface. On the coffer beside her there were gilded drinking vessels and a ewer set with gems. Richard had instilled into his wife the need to make an impression on her subjects.

‘I trust it was not inconvenient, my summoning you here, Lady Percy.’

Her lips curved in a smile, and I found her worthy of my pity. She was like my own daughter, caught dressing in cloaks and costumes from the Twelfth Night coffers. Moreover I thought that there was fear in her pale grey eyes. Her dolls, brought to England along with their miniature silver furnishings, I suspected had been packed away. In the present unrest she could be allowed to be a child no longer.

I took as indicated a low stool below the little dais where she sat, smoothing my skirts, pleased that I had made an effort with my own raiment despite arriving at the palace on horseback, waiting on the Queen who said nothing but waved her damsels to a little distance. She took a visible breath. ‘I wish to know, Lady Percy, what happens in the country. I think that my damsels keep dangerous news from me.’ She leaned towards me, lowering her voice. ‘I think my husband has returned from Ireland,’ she said.

‘Yes, my lady.’ That was common knowledge. ‘He landed at Milford Haven in Wales. In the final days of July.’

‘But July is so long ago and he has not come to me. I understand that our uncle of York has taken forces to lend my lord the King aid against the…’ She thought for a moment, as if to choose her words with care, before abandoning all discretion. ‘Against the rebels who commit treason against him.’

It was as if she had learned the lines, to repeat when necessary.

‘So I understand. Although my Lord of Lancaster would deny that he has treason in mind. All will be resolved when they meet.’ And then when she burrowed her neat little teeth into her lower lip: ‘Why have you sent for me, my lady?’

Isabelle became suddenly more than direct, her eyes alight with knowledge. ‘Because your family, Lady Percy, are the rebels. They are marching with Lancaster to force my lord the King into compliance.’

I felt a heat at my temples and I smoothed my palms against my skirts. I had not expected this accusation.

‘They mean you no harm, my lady,’ I replied smoothly to reassure, for behind the outward composure, she was not calm. ‘Nor will they harm King Richard. The Earl of Worcester, my lord Percy’s uncle, is still in service with the King. They will talk with him and come to an agreement acceptable to all. The King and his cousin of Lancaster will clasp hands once more in friendship.’

‘Do I believe you?’ Isabelle lifted her chin, allowing me to see the Queen that she might one day become, in authority as well as in name, if fate allowed it. Now there was fire in her eye and colour in her cheeks. ‘I hear that your father by law, the Earl of Northumberland, has been sent to Conwy to take my lord the King prisoner. I hear that your husband has taken control of Chester, to persuade the loyal citizens to support the usurper Lancaster. I hear that your husband has been defeating loyal men in Cheshire who would support my husband. I hear that the Earl of Worcester, my lord’s steward, has broken his rod of office and joined forces with the rest of the Percy traitors. The despicable Lancaster is pulling the Percy strings. What do you know of this, Lady Percy? Are you seeking to take the sacred crown from the King my husband because Lancaster commands you to do so?’

I was taken aback at both the extent of her knowledge and the venom in her attack. Moreover I liked not the presumption that we were mere puppets of Lancaster. We did not dance to his piping but to our own convictions. Anger rose fast and hot in my throat, words forming to deny our complicity in taking Richard’s crown. Until good sense snuffed out my outrage. This was neither the time nor the place for rancour.

Instead, in measured tones I said: ‘You are better informed than I, my lady.’ She obviously had her sources. I had not realised that the threatening conflict had progressed so far. ‘At least it seems that there has been no battle, no bloodshed.’

‘Is that good news?’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘What I do not know is what has happened to my lord the King. Is he still free? What will happen to him if he is taken prisoner?’ She clasped and unclasped her hands, her rings reflecting the light again and again. ‘I fear for his safety.’

‘There is no need. My lord of Lancaster took a sacred oath that he wanted only what is his by inheritance. He intends no harm to his cousin.’

Which Isabelle ignored, her fingers now toying with some glittering fairing tucked into her sleeve. The venom had dissipated as fast as it had appeared. Again she was merely a woeful child, which engaged my compassion. ‘What do I do if my lord is no longer King?’

‘Hush, my lady.’ I tried to dispel the panic that sat on her shoulder like some chattering creature. ‘We do not know that he is no longer King. My lord of Lancaster has assured me that…’

The panic swelled, her voice rising. ‘What do I do if he is dead?’

‘He is not dead. You must not fear that, my lady.’

She lifted a square of linen to her eyes, to her nose; she sniffed like the child she was, but when she spoke again her voice was clear.

‘My lord gave me this.’ From her sleeve she drew the fairing which showed itself to be a jewel-encrusted whistle. ‘It was a gift to him from the Bishop of Durham. He said that if I were ever in danger I should blow on this whistle.’ She gave a sharp toot that caused the finches in the cage at her side to hop in matching panic from side to side. ‘He would hear it and come to rescue me, he promised. But I fear that he never will.’

Poor Isabelle. Standing, stepping up onto the dais, I encroached on her royal dignity to clasp her hand around the whistle, even though she stiffened at the contact. She feared Richard’s death, and it would be impossibly foolish to say that it had never crossed my mind. While I considered some suitable words of comfort, Isabella, looking up into my face said: ‘If our marriage is unconsummated, I must return home to France. It is my father’s wish. My dowry and jewels must return with me. I expect that I will marry again.’

‘You must not ill-wish the future, my lady.’ I released her hands as if they burned.

‘I do not know what to do. What would you do?’

‘If I were you, I would live in hope that all can be resolved.’

‘How can I?’ Abruptly she rose to her feet so that I perforce must retreat. ‘How can I? I am in despair.’

When I saw tears on her cheeks, forgetting that she was Queen, I took her into my arms as I would have embraced my daughter in a moment of her distress, so that she rested there, her jewels a hard carapace, her cheek against my breast.

‘You must be brave,’ I murmured.

‘I think my heart will break,’ she replied. Then, pushing against me: ‘You must release me now.’

Isabelle walked away, collecting her damsels, leaving me to curtsey to an empty room, to mull over the dangers that had erupted to threaten her marriage and her existence as Queen of England.

What do I do if he is dead?

Isabelle’s fear suddenly found an answering chime within me. Harry led a charmed existence, returning from battle and skirmish without undue harm. Even when he had been taken prisoner at Otterburn, he had been ransomed and released, healthy and unharmed, after a year of captivity.