Queen of the North

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Let the Archbishop keep the permission. It is genuine. The King will not deny its existence.’

  The document changed hands. I did not need it. I knew the words by heart.

  Whereas of our special grace we have granted to our cousin, Elizabeth, who was the wife of Henry de Percy, knight, the head and quarters of the same Henry to be buried. We command you that the head aforesaid placed by our command upon the gate of the city of York be delivered to the said Elizabeth…

  The seals were Henry’s. The signature was Henry’s. The royal will was Henry’s. It would not be questioned, and if I had needed proof that the Mortimer cause was in tatters, this was it.

  ‘It is the King’s wish, and mine, that this be kept secret,’ I said.

  ‘As it will be, my lady. The Archbishop understands.’

  So he should. Archbishop Scrope had in the not so distant past given Harry his blessing in his rising. But Harry had been the one to pay the price with his life, while the Archbishop was carefully disguising any past disloyalties with a semblance of rectitude.

  ‘Shall we proceed?’ My voice was clipped, for which I made no apology.

  Harry would be buried here in York. Not Alnwick or Beverley, where other Percys had been laid to rest. Not at some centre of Percy power. Lancaster had forbidden me to create what might become a shrine to so dangerous a subject, luring others who could not settle in this reign. If I did so, he would tear it down.

  Thus Henry Percy, called Hotspur, would be placed here beneath an unmarked slab with which Lancaster could find no fault. I would ensure that Harry would sleep in as much peace as it was possible for him to achieve; the slab would become worn and indistinguishable from any others with the passage of feet of those pilgrims and worshippers who found their way to this chapel. And if, one day in the future, there was a change of climate, I would construct for him a tomb as fine as any in England, with an effigy to proclaim his magnificence.

  There. It was done. The coffin in place in the darkness of the vault and the slab lowered so that there was no sign of what we had encompassed.

  ‘I have enough gold to pay those whose silence must be bought,’ I said.

  The cleric understood. He bowed his acknowledgement.

  So at last Sir Henry Percy was laid to rest with no fanfare, no mourning, no choir, no prayers other than the basic committal to the grave.

  ‘Amen.’

  Mine was the only voice to echo that of the uneasy priest.

  I would know where he was buried. I would know, and one day when they were older, I would bring my son and daughter here.

  Beneath the black veiling I wept. There was no one to see or to wonder.

  From York it was my intention to return to Alnwick where Bess awaited me in the care of a distraught Dame Hawisia and a devoted flock of household retainers, but first I must divert from the route. My heart lifted, for the first time in days. Hal, bearing Harry’s blood and Harry’s spirit, was doubly precious to me.

  ‘I have come to see my son.’

  Sir William Clifford bowed.

  I was at Berwick, with only one constantly playing theme in my mind, like the chorus of a minstrel’s song, repeated over and over until the hearer would happily dispatch the singers to the most distant corner of the outer bailey. So this cadenza played and replayed. We would lose everything. Castles. Power. Integrity. If that was all I cared about. I had lost Harry too. All I had left to me of that bright presence was his lineage through his son and daughter. I had a need to take Hal under my wing, to ensure his safety and his education as he grew to be the fine heir of all that was left of the Percy inheritance. There would be little of it unless Lancaster showed compassion. It would all depend on how repentant the Earl was prepared to be, to win King and parliament into allowing some vestige of Percy authority to remain.

  And so, in Berwick, I stood in the private chamber of Sir William Clifford, appointed guardian when Harry rode to war. I had taken him by surprise.

  ‘I wish to see my son,’ I repeated, when Sir William made no move to send for Hal, only dismissing the soldiers with whom he had been conversing while he rolled up what appeared to be a plan of defences. I waved aside the offer of a cup of ale. I did not wish to stay, merely to reassure myself of Hal’s safety. It was in my mind to leave him here behind the impregnable walls of Berwick with Sir William until the future was clearer for all of us.

  ‘My lady.’ Sir William’s expression was beyond deciphering. ‘The young lord Henry is not here.’

  ‘Not here,’ I repeated, as witless as a popinjay.

  I did not understand. Had he been sent back to Alnwick? Or even Warkworth? But why would Sir William do that, letting the boy out of his direct line of sight? Berwick was as strong a fortress as any, and it had been Harry’s final arrangement for his son. It must be honoured.

  ‘No, my lady.’

  I frowned. ‘Is he, then, at Alnwick?’ Perhaps Alnwick was safer, stronger.

  ‘No, my lady.’ Sir William cleared his throat. His eyes did not quite meet mine. ‘He has been sent to Scotland. The young lord will already be there. Did you not know?’

  Scotland! I was mentally groping to make sense of this.

  ‘Why? On whose authority?’ Oh, but I knew, in that moment I knew whose hand was on this scheming. ‘My lord appointed you as our son’s governor. Why would you send him to Scotland?’

  ‘My lord the Earl decided it would be safer to have the lad out of the King’s clutches.’ Sir William was gruffly consoling. ‘After the attempt of Waterton to take him into custody, you understand. It may be that the King would decide to take the lad as security for the Earl’s future good behaviour. I could see no harm in it, and would of course be overruled even if I had. The young lord Henry has been sent into the care of Sir David Fleming and Bishop Henry Wardlaw. He is Bishop of St Andrews, as you will be aware…’

  ‘I am well aware.’ I felt the blood draining from my face. ‘The Earl had no right to send him without my knowledge.’

  ‘He thought it for the best, my lady.’

  For the first time in my life my senses swam. The close heat in the room pressed down on me, the flames in the fire flickering uncomfortably in the edge of my vision, so that nausea rose to compromise my dignity. My knees were weak and my sight dimmed. Not even when I had forced myself to look on Harry’s head on Micklegate Bar had I been so affected as I was at this sudden shock, the spaces around me closing in as if they would force me to my knees.

  I felt Sir William’s hand on my arm.

  ‘My lady. You are distressed.’ Leading me to a stool, pushing me to sit, thrusting a cup of warm ale into my hand: ‘Drink, my lady.’

  And I did, forcing the shadows back so that I could see the truth of what had been done.

  ‘Thank you. I am merely tired from long travel.’

  And I am heartbroken.

  ‘I thought you would know. I thought the Earl would have told you.’ His words were intended to comfort, but they did not. ‘The Bishop of St Andrews has custody of the young Scottish heir, Prince James, to undertake his education. The Prince is a year younger than our young lord. They will be good company for each other in Wardlaw’s household.’

  ‘Yes. I expect they will. Thank you, Sir William.’ I placed the cup down. It was not his fault, after all.

  Of course Hal would go to some great household to learn what needed to be learned about chivalry and knighthood that he could not learn from Harry, a final layer of polish and culture. It would always have been so. I knew and accepted. But not to Scotland, without my knowledge or my permission, all resting on the Earl’s insufferable ambition to safeguard the future heir. He had neither informed me nor consulted me, and I was powerless to change what had been done.

  I could not forgive him the betrayal of Harry. This heaped further blame on his unrepentant head. I despised him for his lack of compassion, for his over-weaning self-gratification.

  Sir William was speaking again.

&nb
sp; ‘My lord the Earl thought he must safeguard the heir, with the tragic passing of my lord Hotspur. We are all much weighed down with sorrow.’

  I looked into his kind face, seeing the heavy lines, for he too was grieving. His use of the familiar name for Harry brought tears to roll down my own cheeks. I was incapable of preventing them.

  ‘Forgive me…’

  ‘You can mourn too, my lady. It is a time of despair for all of us. Who would condemn you for shedding tears over the death of so great a man?’

  But I was already wiping away those tears.

  ‘I have mourned my lord Hotspur when I buried him with all the dignity that our King denied him. Now I have lost my son too.’

  For did I not see the consequences of Hal’s being taken under the mantle of the Scottish court? He would remain a pawn in their hands against future negotiations with England. I doubted I would ever see him again.

  ‘You have your daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’ I stood. I must return to her.

  Except for Bess, I had lost everything I loved most dear.

  We suffered. Of course we did. Lancaster was in no mood to allow us to make easy recompense for the rebellion. Worcester’s execution would not wipe away our sin; Harry’s death and a bent knee from his widow and his father were not enough to turn Lancaster’s vengeful eye away from us. The Percy shadow in the north was far too ominous to overlook.

  There was really no doubt of the Earl’s complicity in the plot, no matter how smooth his explanations; the number of men under his command at Tadcaster was the proof of it in Lancaster’s eyes. The Earl was forced to put his seal to documents directing his officers to surrender all the castles held in his name at the same time as all knights and esquires of the northern counties were required to swear an oath of loyalty to Lancaster. Stripped of his lands, his castles, his offices, the once mighty Earl of Northumberland fell from the heights of great magnate to the depths of disgraced pauper.

  Except in his own mind.

  The Earl bore a charmed life when made to answer for his treason before parliament in London, where he begged forgiveness on his knees as if his pride had been stripped away too. At Lancaster’s insistence he was reconciled with Dunbar and Westmorland with another magnificent pretence of amity behind the cold eyes. Parliament was inclined to be lenient to this once great warlord. In terms of the laws of arms, it was decided, he had never unfurled his banners against the King, thus he was guilty of trespass but not of treason. A fine was imposed, which Lancaster promptly forgave, accepting the Earl’s renewed allegiance instead. Even the Percy lands and castles were returned to us, but it had taken much self-sacrifice on the Earl’s part. He had done much kneeling.

  So the Earl returned home to Alnwick, on the surface humiliated and isolated, bereft of his powers as Warden of the March. Silent, morose, he locked himself in and claimed infirmity to avoid all contact with the world beyond his gates, even refusing to appear at the Royal Council when summoned to do so. An onlooker might conclude that he had paid highly for the Percy decision to oppose Lancaster as King, but I was no mere onlooker. I saw what was behind the facade of the grieving, infirm Earl of Northumberland, mourning his son and brother in his northern lair. Brooding on the fact that he was no longer Constable of England or Warden of the March, and that the one to benefit had been Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland. Behind it all was a man still plotting. Couriers came and went constantly, but, sworn it would seem to secrecy, did not speak with me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, frustrated at my not knowing. ‘Still thigh-deep in treachery?’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he growled.

  ‘Safeguard the interests of my son. Keep Lancaster’s forgiveness so that the heir can one day come home. It is his inheritance you are playing with. If you are not careful you will drop it in the fire and all will be consumed.’

  ‘You should know. You are an expert on dabbling with treason, my lady!’

  Which effectively put an end to my questions, as he had intended. Had I not dabbled? Had I not risked Hal’s inheritance, flagrantly ignoring the possibility of defeat? But then there had appeared to be no overwhelming risk; Percy, Mortimer and Welsh Glyn Dwr had seemed invincible.

  How were the mighty fallen.

  So the Earl sat like a spider in his web, spinning I knew not what while I lived out a solitary existence, burying my grief in the routine tasks of managing the great household. I did them instinctively because I had to; I did them with ease because it was second nature to me. To receive guests and ensure hospitality, to welcome petitioners, to discuss the provisioning and feeding of those who depended on Percy charity. All without enthusiasm or any involvement of my heart. It seemed that my life had closed in on me so that I was a prisoner within the walls, yet I had no desire to break free. It would have been a simple task to leave Alnwick – for what kept me there? – and I might have been happier for it, with all its memories, but I had no desire to escape my despair.

  While the Earl plotted, I struggled against the hopelessness of searching for Harry in all the places where he might be, but where he was not. I knew he could not be there, but some foolish hope lived within me. Striding from the stable, grooming his favourite horse. Running up the steps to stride along the wall-walk towards me. Sitting at ease in a corner where the sun might creep in and lull him into a brief doze. Watching his men practise their archery from his habitual tower vantage point, eagle-eyed for any slackness. Walking into my chamber at the end of a long day to take me into his arms and assure me of his love.

  He should be in all those places, doing any one of those things, but he was not.

  How many times within a day did the thought come to me: I must remember to tell Harry?

  But Harry was not there to be told.

  And yet in the depths of my desolation, a cold duty came to me, a realisation that drove me to reach out to Percy connections, Percy loyalties. My son was lost to me, but my daughter was not. Bess’s safety, her future position in a family that was not tainted with treachery, occupied my thoughts. And here was one step I could take. Here was the one remedy against her present vulnerability. In a strange way, knowing well that Harry would have approved, I enjoyed the negotiation entailed in bringing my plans to fruition. I made as certain as I could that in the coming years Bess would be surrounded by those with power to protect her.

  Thus I attended a wedding. A winter wedding.

  If I could have said that my heart rejoiced on this auspicious occasion, when even Dame Hawisia smiled her approval, it would have been a lie. My heart remained encased in the black ice that crunched beneath the horses’ hooves of our guests, the celebrations tearing at me anew for they did nothing but paint my isolation in even broader strokes. Every day I was assailed by a crippling loneliness.

  It was held at Warkworth, the Earl refusing to travel far from Alnwick, but keen to be seen to smile on this alliance between his granddaughter Bess and John Clifford, Baron Clifford and Lord of Skipton, a local lord of some power. It was a good marriage, the Clifford family estates running close with ours, their interests in the north matching steps with ours. I watched the ceremony unfold with its hearty mix of gossip, celebration and solemnity, aware of nothing but the scarcity of Mortimers and Plantagenets in the crowd. Edmund would not come, of course, immured as I had learned with his new family and Glyn Dwr in Harlech Castle, nor would my royal cousin of Lancaster, but at least I had Alianore, escorted by her marcher husband. She beamed indulgently on the youthful couple.

  ‘You were no older than your daughter when you came to Alnwick to be wed to Harry.’

  I was in no mood to be indulgent towards happier days, but I responded in kind: ‘And Harry was no older than John Clifford.’

  Deliberately I pushed aside the memories that were particularly sharp on that day. I hoped my daughter would be as content as I had been. She would be fortunate if she discovered love in any of its degrees. Within the week she would travel to live in the
Clifford household where she would be safe, a Clifford rather than a Percy, whatever befell the rest of us. I imagined that Harry would approve of this alliance with a stalwart Yorkshire family. It made me smile with brittle acceptance. The Clifford ranks had no difficulty in accepting a Percy bride. The Earl was still a figure to be reckoned with in the north. Perhaps if he sheathed his sword and obeyed the summons to appear before the next Royal Council, Lancaster would forgive him rather than merely tolerate him, and restore some of his erstwhile powers.

  ‘How is Hal?’ Alianore asked after the vows were exchanged.

  ‘Since he is enjoying his education at the side of the Scottish prince, I imagine he is in excellent health, his talents blossoming. News of him is sparse, but what I hear is good.’

  Would this be the rest of my life? Living through the lives of my children, grasping at infrequent news? It assuredly would unless I married again. Or unless I looked once more to the west, to Edmund and Glyn Dwr, involving myself in their still simmering ambitions. There yet remained a cause to be fought for, to restore the crown to my Mortimer nephew. I fidgeted with my gloves for the day was cold. At that moment I had no heart for it. I had no heart for anything, much less a hopeless cause. And then, when I least expected it, the sealing off of all my senses behind a wall of loss and grief was shattered.

  John Clifford and Bess were standing together, for a brief moment alone. Bess asked a question, head tilted, chin raised with all the Percy pride available to a nine-year-old child, making some broad gesture with her hands. John, adult at sixteen, laughed, replied, patting Bess on her neatly coifed head and stooping to kiss her brow, before he took her hand to lead her into the hall where a feast had been prepared and there would be dancing.

  It was as if a fist had struck me below my heart. The memories flooded back, of Harry accepting me with the same easy affection when I wed him. Had he tugged my veil into place? Had he kissed my brow? I thought that he had. My throat tightened, my eyes pricked with tears, which I blotted with the fur edge of my sleeve, turning away from Alianore. It was as if all my senses had come back to life, thawing beneath the warmth of that young friendship, and it was painful as feeling returned.