by Anne O'Brien
‘Nor do I. You can’t accuse us of supporting Lancaster in one breath, then intending to use the Mortimers against him in the next because you happen to be my wife. Or perhaps you can. It’s woman’s thinking and too complex for me.’ He came to sit beside me. ‘If I touch you, will you strike back?’
‘Yes. I might. Lancaster has made them his wards, as we thought. They will remain under his jurisdiction, in whichever castle he chooses.’
The shadow of Richard and his death spread its wings over me again. If the boys ever became a threat to King Henry through the attentions of some ambitious lord, their lives would be worth nothing. Lancaster would not hesitate to rid himself of the threat.
‘We can’t change it,’ Harry was saying. He had not touched me.
‘We could try.’
‘You are unrealistic and unreasonable.’
‘As you have just said. I am a woman.’
‘God preserve me from all difficult women. I swear you are my bed of nettles, Elizabeth.’
Which was as disparaging a verdict as I could ever recall.
There was no reconciliation between us.
Retiring to my rooms I chivvied my serving women, ordering up hot water and a bath, as if I could scour away the events of the last half-hour. I could not of course and my mood remained unsettled until, cleansed and dried, my hair combed free of tangles and anointed with a mix of dried rose petals, cloves, nutmeg and galangal, I wrote to my sister Philippa.
We are not dwelling in a paradise of love and esteem. Harry is vocal in his alliance with our treacherous cousin of Lancaster. The hopes for a Mortimer King are dead and buried. I am finding it hard to accept this so our exchanges have the quality of a saddler’s bodkin.
I find myself wishing for the equable days when Richard wore the crown and Lancaster lurked in the courts of Europe, earning his living at the tournament.
I am sure that you would condemn me for so weak a betrayal of our own blood.
I retired alone to bed with no one to appreciate my perfumed hair.
Chapter Nine
Alnwick Castle: June 1400
Within a year of his being crowned, and after much careful planning that was not at all to the approval of the Earl of Northumberland and Sir Henry Percy, our new King Henry invaded Scotland. At Alnwick I bade Harry farewell as I had so many times before and prepared to watch as the Percy banners and retainers headed north in support of their King.
‘Too much damned royal interference in our lands for my liking,’ growled the Earl. ‘To have the King camped hereabouts and planning new incursions tramples on our toes. We’ll deal with the Scots to our own advantage without his beady eye on us.’
‘God keep you and bring you home safe,’ I said formally to Harry who was preparing to mount, interested that the Earl was already becoming jaundiced with this royal alliance.
He eyed me. ‘I’ve had a warmer Godspeed.’
‘I’ve had a more loyal husband.’
‘If I die on the battlefield, you’ll regret such a hostile farewell.’
‘If you die on the battlefield I promise I will make amends when I kneel at your tomb. I have no portent of your demise.’
He kissed my cheek for form’s sake. I watched him go, my mind still furious with him and his betrayal, my heart beating with love for his departing figure.
Undoubtedly I loved him. As he disappeared in a cloud of dust, I recalled the early days when I did not, our paths crossing infrequently when Harry’s brought him to the gates of Alnwick or to Warkworth. We exchanged greetings, asked after each other’s health, gave gifts at New Year, supped together in the great hall, then he was invariably collecting his horse, his weapons and his retainers and was off again with a fleeting kiss to my cheek and a promise to be home soon, much as today. Our life was one of border warfare, the frequent raids into Scotland to seize land and livestock being fixed in Harry’s lifeblood. I found myself a neglected bride with an absent husband.
When was it that I had decided I wanted more than this from Sir Henry Percy?
Oh, I recalled as if it were yesterday rather than the span of a dozen years, when he left me to go to Newcastle, directed there by the Earl because of an imminent threat from the forces of the Scottish Earl of Douglas. Helping him to shrug his way into a padded gambeson, I found myself thinking that I would rather be stripping it off him. It took much control not to curl my fingers into his hair before he crammed his helm onto it. I had grown up. I was seventeen years old.
So when did Sir Henry Percy decide that he had more than a passing liking for me, that I was more than just another young female in the Percy household?
I had no idea. Harry was not one for soul-searching nor for putting emotions into words unless it was impatience, when his diction became colourful. Thus the source of his love for me was an enigma. Action was more in his line than discussion and confession.
In the end it was all a matter of fate and some careful planning on my part after a lengthy absence that had filled me with fear and a physical desire that refused to be buried in daily routine. It was after the battle of Otterburn that resulted in Harry’s being taken prisoner in a clash of forces that went terribly wrong, resulting in a long year of worry until I would see him again. Harry’s younger brother Ralph had been returned to us speedily because of the state of his thigh wound, but Harry had to wait for the princely sum of three thousand pounds to be spent on his restoration, raised by the Earl to recover his beloved son and by King Richard who in those days valued Percy loyalty.
So Harry came home, to much rejoicing and ballad-making of Harry’s fatal battle with the Earl of Douglas…
Percy wi’ his guid braid sword that could sae sharply wound
Has cut the Douglas on the brow till he fell upon the ground.
The wound was deep, he fain would sleep right by the braken-tree
He has laid him doon a’ wounded sair beside a lilye lee.
My heart rejoiced too as he dismounted, as healthy as he had been when he set off to do battle. Allowing the household to flock and welcome their long-lost son, I waited, feasting my eyes. He was all I recalled, heroically proportioned, as handsome as a fighting-cock in glossy plumage. His hair gleamed. So did his smile. I was awarded a kiss.
And I wanted him in my arms, in my bed.
‘Elizabeth. You have grown. I swear you came only to my shoulder when I left.’
‘You have been away many months.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You have grown more beautiful too.’
‘Thank you.’
I was impatient. He was distracted. I followed him to his chamber, dismissing his servants. I sat on his bed, hands demurely clasped.
‘Did you want me for something?’
‘I have come to renew my acquaintance with you,’ I said.
‘Well, here I am. What have you been doing?’ he asked, attention fixed on unbuckling his brigandine.
‘Waiting.’
He looked up sharply. ‘Waiting for what?’
‘You.’
‘And?’
‘To become your wife.’
He tilted his head. ‘You were shy when I left, as I recall.’
‘Not shy. Perhaps I did not know my own mind well enough.’
‘And you do now.’
‘Indubitably.’
A crease appeared between his brows. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen years. You should know that.’
‘I should?’
‘Yes. I am Elizabeth Mortimer and your wife in name only.’
His gaze was arrested, taking me in from my neat coif to my shoes, and all in between. I had dressed particularly carefully. Had I not had a year to consider it?
‘Then, wife in name only, come and be my squire.’
I pushed myself to my feet to help with loops and latches and difficult buckles, all with the usual coating of dust.
‘Were you badly injured in the battle?’ I asked lightly. I had found that my hands wer
e not as steady as I would have wished.
‘A mass of cuts and bruises. Nothing like Ralph.’
‘Who is well recovered now. You, Harry, look sleek and well tended.’
‘I was made welcome by Sir John Montgomery at his manor at Eaglesham.’
‘Were there no daughters in this household at Eaglesham,’ I enquired dulcetly, ‘to devote themselves to your needs?’
‘No. I was the enemy.’
‘A most attractive enemy.’
He glanced down at me, as I glanced up.
‘You have acquired a flirtatious turn of phrase, wife.’
At last I did curl my fingers into his hair. While Harry gripped me by my shoulders and kissed my mouth in quite different mood from his greeting in the bailey.
‘Have I neglected you?’
‘On the whole… I was still catching my breath, my blood hot.
‘It was indubitably wrong of me.’
‘I think you will not neglect me today.’
‘A forward wench.’
‘I have been practising.’
His brows rose.
‘In my mind, you understand.’
He found the need to kiss me again.
Then decided that I was the most effective squire he had ever had.
So I climbed into bed with the Northumberland heir. Behind the curtains with their rampant Percy lions, all was most satisfactory. Finding as much delight in me as I did in him, Harry’s energies were prodigious.
‘I am not a castle that needs to be besieged,’ I observed when I could breathe again.
‘Are you not?’
‘I have capitulated. I will still have capitulated tomorrow and the next day.’
‘Good. But a good commander always inspects the defences.’
His inspection made me laugh.
‘I did not realise how fortunate I was to capture a Mortimer bride. I must stay at home more often.’
My heart swelled with love for him.
‘I like this verse,’ I said, singing softly against his hair.
Up then spake Lord Percy fair, and Oh but he spake hie
I am the lord o’ this castle, my wife’s the lady gay.
If thou’rt the lord o’ this castle, sae weel it pleases me
For ere I cross the Border fells the ane o’ us shall dee.
‘I regret the end of Lord Douglas, but it is a relief to me that it was not you who died.’
‘It is a relief to me too. You should know. I bear a charmed life.’
It seemed on that day that we had both been touched with the hand of some magic. How could such magic have become so tarnished?
I need not have expended any emotion whatsoever on Harry’s fighting for his life against the Scots in some major battle, which illogically made me crosser than ever. By the autumn we were settled back into the usual round of petty squabbles and minor insurrections. King Henry’s invasion of Scotland was abandoned, chiefly through his lack of money to pursue it and Scottish refusal to even consider King Henry’s claim of overlordship. A minor clash at Fullhope Law brought an end to it, the Percy forces returning home with no significant losses and their banners in good form. The English invasion had become a fast retreat, leaving the borders once more under Percy supervision. So the King went home in a state of disgruntlement, while the Earl and Harry donned their authority as Wardens of the East and West March with more than a little self-satisfaction that the King was out of their hair.
Relieved I might be that Harry had returned with no significant injury, but he and I stalked around each other, my memories of marital magic pushed further into the distant past. We were not hostile, but coolly tentative. I sensed him watching me for a weakness in my armour. I refused to give him one.
‘I rejoice in your return, my lord.’ My outer mood was much as it had been when he left.
‘Pleased to hear it.’ Harry stood, legs braced, hands fisted on hips as if addressing a cohort of retainers. His eyes were keen on my face. ‘Have you had cold weather here?’
‘No. Why?’
I did not see the sharp wit being honed at my expense.
‘It was the ice on your tongue, madam.’
‘No, sir. It has been uncommonly warm!’
‘So that accounts for it. Your welcome has the aridity of a drought.’
Nor to my chagrin did he give me a chance to retaliate, marching off to deal with some minor affair of horses and weapons. So the air in the Percy household remained chill.
Until letters arrived, delivered from the south, all three by the hand of the same courier. Two for me and one for Harry. I read the one from Alianore first since it promised more interest, being full of her thoughts, if tragic ones; her dissatisfactions, her sons still domiciled at Windsor, her gnawing bitterness over the loss of her brother. But buried within the domestic minutiae was a nugget of information that I sensed would be more important. And probably dangerous. It had, I remembered, troubled Edmund who had seen this coming although I had barely considered it in my concern for the health of the Earl of March.
‘There will be trouble in the Welsh March,’ I said. Harry’s head was bent over his own document.
We had not talked of it before. My thoughts had not been with Edmund’s worries and Harry’s vision was towards the north.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Owain Glyn Dwr, newly styled Prince of Wales.’
He held the letter out, as I held mine in exchange. Harry’s letter, far more formal than mine and in a clerkly hand, bore the royal seal, but they had the same message, clear enough from the first line dictated by the King. Owain Glyn Dwr had proclaimed himself Prince of Wales, heralding imminent Welsh incursions into the March, the Welsh lord staking his claim for territory he considered to be his. The attacks had probably already begun. There would, I realised, be much stepping on Mortimer toes.
‘Why is the King telling you?’
‘Read on.’
So I did, my eyes stopping at, and rereading, the reason for this document being sent to Alnwick.
‘Henry wants you,’ I observed.
‘Yes.’
Disillusion descended, thick as syrup from overripe cherries. ‘What has he offered you this time, to tempt you to move your campaigning from north to west?’
‘Read on again. Your regal cousin is feeling generous. Or desperate.’
So I did. It was a magnificent gesture. It was power. It was more than a worthy honour. Harry would become Justiciar of North Wales and Chester, exerting royal power in the King’s name throughout the province. Strategic castles had been offered to him to enforce his authority: Chester, Flint, Conwy, Caernarfon and Beaumaris. They rolled silently over my tongue. Harry would have control of the county and lordship of Anglesey and the custody of the Mortimer lordship of Denbigh, perhaps in repayment for the crown taking back control of the Mortimer estates and finances which had recently occurred. Here was a debt that my Lancaster cousin was paying in full.
‘What do you say?’ Harry asked.
I did not hesitate, making no attempt to mask disdain. ‘I say that you would be a fool to refuse this.’ It was a monumental gift of power that the King had made, but then he saw the value of keeping the Percy lords compliant and effective in his name. ‘Does this not win you entirely and for ever to the Lancaster cause?’
‘It might. If I have enough money to achieve what he wants me to achieve. I have my doubts about the state of the royal coffers and parliament is not of a mind to be too open-handed. How will I pay for this bold strategy in the west? Out of my own pocket, I suppose, until the crown can raise the gold. But it’s a gift I can enjoy, to extend royal authority into Wales. And I know the reputation of the Welsh lord Glyn Dwr well. He is a worthy opponent.’ Harry was smiling. ‘I’ll enjoy crossing swords again with a fighter of such renown.’
He was already involved, envisioning campaigns and battles against the newly proclaimed Prince Owain Glyn Dwr. The Mortimer cause was sliding further and further into obscurity. Alia
nore was not wrong in her complaints that her sons had been forgotten.
Meanwhile Harry cast Alianore’s letter from him. ‘Does your sister always write at such length about nothing of interest?’
‘Yes. I suppose that she does. If you accept the King’s offer, it will take you from home for months at a time. The extent of your authority will be vast for one man.’
‘Do you think I am incapable?’
‘Never that. You’ll have ridden round every castle within a week.’
‘Have you read the final comment?’
I did so. If the arrangement of castles was a sign of King Henry’s high regard, this was an incomparable honour. The young Prince Henry, Lancaster’s heir, now of an age to don the royal cloak of leadership, had been placed under Harry’s guidance.
‘I am suitably impressed.’
‘So am I. Let’s hope he has a sure grasp of warfare.’
No. There would indeed be no support for Mortimer interests. Harry would have no time from cock-crow to owl-hoot to be other than servant to Lancaster and his heir. I tried not to acknowledge how much I would miss him.
‘Will you miss me?’ he asked.
I avoided his mischievous attempt to plant a kiss on my coif, taking a stool set some distance from him.
‘Why would I not?’
‘Because you still blame me – or the Earl, which comes to the same thing – for easing the crown onto Lancaster’s brow.’
‘Yes, I do.’
My eyes held his, intransigence as strong in him as it was in me. My heart was sore with it.
‘Where are the days of our love gone?’ he enquired mildly.
‘They are mired in betrayal.’
‘Or in Mortimer ambition. I didn’t wed you for this, Elizabeth.’
‘You wed me because your father told you to.’
‘I see that this is a lost cause.’
‘It can never be anything other.’
‘Which makes me look forward to campaigning in Wales, away from domestic combat.’
This hurt more than all the rest. At last, Harry’s glance dropped to the second letter on my lap. ‘You haven’t read it yet. It may give you some better news about something.’