Queen of the North

by Anne O'Brien

  Received with kindness and comfort, I knelt in the church while the canons sang the responses for Compline, praying for guidance, for healing, for my heart to feel some resonance from the stonework that was cold and dank. Blessed Virgin, make my path plain. Yet I felt nothing but heartache, which was only right in this place on the edge of so tragic an occurrence. Disturbed by Edmund’s visit, our exchange of information, I had felt a need to make this pilgrimage. It might help, it might not.

  Next morning, waiting for the late dawn, the Abbot was strong in his consolation.

  ‘We will pray for you, my lady. And for peace in this blood-drenched land.’

  ‘I fear that it will take more than prayer.’

  ‘Yet we should not give up hope. Are we not in God’s hands?’

  I too would pray for peace, a peace that I could not envisage. To pursue the Mortimer cause would heap further death and bloodshed on more battlefields than the cold expanse that awaited me beyond the Priory’s sanctuary. My conversation with Edmund had sown, with a liberal hand, the seeds of dread over the future. The Abbot’s good wishes failed to bring me solace as he wished me well on my short journey.

  Now, drawing my mare to a standstill on the edge of the battlefield, I sat, well cloaked and veiled, spine straight, gaze unflinching.

  ‘Show me,’ I demanded of one of Harry’s squires who escorted me, the winter sun still low on our horizon from where it would rise only a little more.

  ‘It was here, my lady.’

  He looked pale, paler than I, for it was not his choice to be here. Nor mine, taking up my vantage point on a little rise of ground, looking out over an expanse of empty fields, the land rising to my left, behind me the town of Shrewsbury, out of my sight, but I had been driven to this place by a compulsion that would not be laid to rest until it was done. No crops now, no growth of peas to catch at the horses’ legs, only bare winter earth. It was almost two years since the battle that had cast me into this dread melancholy. There was nothing now but the wind in a patch of rushes, the plangent cry of a curlew, a stand of bare trees, their skeletons stark against the pale sky.

  I sat, waiting for some sign, some thought to intrude. And when there was nothing but emptiness:

  ‘Show me where they deployed their forces.’

  He did so with wide gestures and pointing fingers. ‘My lord Hotspur here, to our left. The King there, come up from Haughmond. Prince Henry came from that direction, from Shrewsbury.’

  I could not imagine this bleak scene peopled with knights and soldiers and archers, restless horses, banners making known the proud names gathered here. I could not imagine the voices, the cries of victory or of anguish in this silently desolate place. I had no sense of the cold, nor of hunger since I had been unable to eat at the Abbot’s solicitous urging. Nothing but the emptiness of this blighted spot.

  ‘Is this where Sir Henry led the charge?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  I pushed my horse on, to follow a pathway that led down into what must have been the main arena of the battle, my senses stretching, seeking some essence of him. Since that day when he had died far from me, I had claimed his body, knelt in vigil, taken in hand his burial. All intimate actions of a wife, a widow, but with no sense that it was Hotspur under my direction. Surely he would be here in this place where he had used his fiery energies, leading his men to fight for a cause. Where he had made that final charge that brought him to his death.

  Esperance! Harry Percy King!

  I looked around me, ever searching. Could I envisage him, sword in hand, banners snapping brightly, spurring his horse to bring Lancaster to justice? Was his spirit still here in possession of this magnificent effort to right a wrong? Did the battle cry still ring out from Percy throats on a calm day, to heat the blood of those who might hear?

  No. There was nothing. There was no essence. I was as cold as the Shropshire clay beneath my horse’s feet.

  ‘Where was the Earl of Dunbar?’ I asked, although my heart was sore within me.

  ‘Here, beside King Henry, my lady. When it seemed that the King was surrounded and might fall, my lord of Dunbar advised him to withdraw from the melee for his own safety. It is thought that Dunbar saved the King’s life.’

  And doubtless he had profited from his selfless support of Lancaster and betrayal of Harry. I looked away, unable to bear the thought.

  ‘What is that?’ I pointed to a mound of newly turned earth, on the near horizon before me. Beside it, busy with measuring and writing implements, were a group of men.

  ‘A grave pit, my lady. My lord the King had the dead buried here rather than let them remain for carrion to squander.’

  ‘The dead of which side?’

  He did not answer. Perhaps he did not know. Touching my heels to my mount, I approached.

  ‘What do you do here?’

  They were craftsmen by their garb, skilled and knowledgeable, unperturbed at being accosted by a fraught woman in widow’s garb. ‘We will build a church,’ one replied, coming to stand at my stirrup, looking up beneath his woollen cap. ‘A fine church. It is the King’s wish, to mark the final resting place of the dead with honour.’

  ‘Show me,’ I said again, dismounting.

  He led me round the planning, pointing out on the diagram in his hands where he had been adding measurements. The nave, the chancel, the high altar as he saw it. ‘It will be a fine place, my lady.’

  ‘I suppose it will. Thank you.’

  ‘It is my lord the King’s intention that prayers be said daily for the souls of the dead.’

  ‘Of which side?’ I asked again.

  ‘Both sides, my lady. All who died are interred here. Our lord the King is compassionate to all, even those who sought his death.’

  I gave him a coin for his trouble. ‘Build well, sir,’ I said. There would be many Percy bones in this forlorn place.

  I admitted to some surprise that Lancaster would have taken such care over the dead who had raised their swords against him, then accepted that I should have known what he would do. My cousin Henry had a depth of piety in his soul, an ability to forgive where many would not. I must give him his due acknowledgement.

  I could not forgive.

  Once more mounted, summoning the squire, there was a final purpose for me here.

  ‘Show me where Sir Henry fell. Show me where my lord fought for the last time.’

  I was led to a space that looked no different from all the rest to my eyes, but there was no remnant of him. Had I expected it? Dismounting, I stood where I was told it had happened. Had his blood seeped into the earth here? Perhaps the crops would grow abundantly because of Percy blood.

  Harry Percy is dead!

  I had no sense of it.

  ‘Remind me how many of our men we lost. And Lancaster’s.’

  ‘I know not, my lady, but they say that altogether two thousand men fell on that day.’

  A terrible, terrible number. Such grief and loss. So many women widowed.

  ‘It is said that Sir Henry was struck down by an arrow when he lifted his visor, my lady.’

  I bowed my head. Then remounted, retracing my steps, only to stop, to look back to where the ultimate tragedy was played out.

  ‘You are not here,’ I cried aloud, my words snatched away by the wind. ‘I do not know where to find you.’

  Harry was not here, there was no comfort. I had lost him. What purpose in looking back? I must look forward, however unpalatable the prospect.

  What of your own culpability in bringing Harry to this end?

  The wind rustled over the winter fields, coldly hostile. I shut my mind against such agony. I could not mourn. I was as frozen as the landscape around me.

  Yet returned to Ludlow, I found myself weeping without restraint. Was it possible to receive another announcement of death so soon? Was it possible to withstand yet another loss, another blow against my heart?

  Alianore was dead.

  Alianore, who had been as much
a sister to me as had Philippa, was dead, tragically in childbed. Two daughters she had given Sir Edward Charleton, only to die giving birth to their son who had fast followed his mother into death. How vulnerable we women were in childbed, whatever the care lavished on us by a hopeful husband. I had been fortunate; Alianore’s good fortune and strong will had deserted her at last.

  ‘Oh, Alianore. I will miss you sorely.’

  Our exchange of confidences, when she had been full of hope for the future at the wedding of my daughter, had been our last. Another strand in my family frayed and cut. And such a beloved strand, a twist of gold.

  Why did I weep so, when every emotion on that battlefield had been buried under pure despair? Because I loved her, my sister, my friend. Far easier to mourn her than the man who had been sun, moon and stars to me. His loss was too vast to encompass. With Alianore gone, on a more human scale I was more alone than I had ever been.

  But enough of tears. I was alive and there was a cause for which to strive. Washing away the remnant of emotion, drawing on the spirit of Alianore, my decision was made to act at Edmund’s bidding. I would wait on events. I would play my role as duty dictated, allowing Constance to bring her scheming to fruition.

  Was I afraid for myself? I did not think I was. I did not think that I cared. I would accept what fate determined, even if it brought me to Lancaster’s feet once again in the cloth of degradation of a traitor. Edmund’s plan was so outrageous that it might just have the element of success worked carefully within it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was in the late spring of the year 1406, a year that seemed endless to me, that Lancaster dispatched a messenger and escort to find me at Ludlow. There was no cousinly greeting, or even a written missive, but at least I had the merit of a royal official arriving at my castle gatehouse with a tidy escort; a herald no less, impressive in tabard and velvet cap, a crowned sheaf of corn stitched to glint on his breast. Far more imposing than Sir Robert Waterton who had last been burdened with this task of taking me into his custody, and who had failed.

  There would be no failure for this royal herald.

  I had been awaiting it. This royal summons was not exactly unexpected, all things considered. Once I had fled to Alnwick, thus foiling Waterton. This time I made no attempt to escape, waiting calmly, in insouciant welcome.

  ‘What brings you to my door, Master Bruges? Obviously some honour, to warrant a visit from Chester Herald, in full glory. Or do I misread the situation?’

  I did not misread it at all.

  I received him in the great hall, grimly imposing. As was I for, forewarned of his approach, I had dressed in damask and fur. My black veils long being put aside, my hair was encased in a gilded net. My visitor would not dismiss me as a goodwife in his delivery of his message. I stood on the dais, enhanced in my royal blood, beckoning him to approach with a jewelled hand.

  I need not have worried that he would despise my rank.

  ‘Sadly, no honour, my lady, although you have my admiration.’ His lips, smiling wryly at his accurate reading of my greeting and my clothing, were tight pressed as he bowed, his cap, all velvet and gold fringing, sweeping the tiles in a flamboyantly feathered gesture. ‘At present I am attached to the household of Prince Henry, my lady, but today I am commissioned with this task by my lord the King.’ A ripple of unease laid its hand on me, even though I knew William Bruges as well as I knew any of the royal heralds, and I knew exactly why he had found himself at Ludlow on royal command. All my fears had come to pass at last. ‘You are to come with us, my lady, if it please you,’ he announced.

  I knew the final courtesy would hold little sway if I refused. Yet I would play the innocent.

  ‘To what purpose, sir?’

  We continued the facade, Master Bruges bowing again.

  ‘My lord the King wishes you to be his guest at Eltham.’

  ‘And if it does not please me?’

  ‘My lord the King says that he is sure that you will see the value of this visit. As his royal cousin he knows you will honour him, as you will be honoured on your arrival. You will perhaps enjoy renewing your acquaintance with my lady the Queen. When the King is away, campaigning against the Welsh and the Scots, it may be that you will be good company for her. It will be a fortuitous relationship for both of you, my lord the King says.’

  Master Bruges was illuminating my visit in glowing colours. At his own behest or Lancaster’s? This was Lancaster working hard to draw me into the royal fold, using Queen Joanna as attractive bait. I abandoned the false chivalry.

  ‘So I am not to be taken to Eltham in chains.’

  ‘Certainly not, my lady. I possess no chains. Nor would I avail myself of them if I had. I have confidence in your good sense, my lady.’

  I sighed a little at the obvious compliment. ‘And when do you wish to start?’

  ‘Immediately. If it please you. I trust you will ride, my lady. An equipage, of whatever sort, would take more time than my lord the King would wish. There is much demand on his time.’

  Once again I thought the invisible chains might be rattled if I demurred, so I abandoned my fur and gold net, had my coffers packed, instructed my household of duties to be upheld in my absence – not a long one if I was allowed a choice in it – and accompanied Master Bruges to Eltham, knowing that I was prisoner in all but name. Together with my Mortimer nephews whose release from royal captivity had been planned with such attention to detail by Lady Despenser.

  They were not released. They had not been rescued. The abject failure of the scheme, the disasters that followed, kept me cold company, enabling me to make only perfunctory responses to Chester Herald’s court-inspired chatter.

  At the beginning, all had played out as Edmund had intimated, while I occupied my comfortable chambers at Ludlow, waiting on results. In the deep cold of February, Constance Despenser put into operation the first steps of her conspiracy. Employing a locksmith to make copies of the appropriate keys, Constance planned to release the two Mortimer boys from their chamber at midnight when their absence would not be noticed, to begin a long flight westwards towards south Wales and the welcoming arms of their uncle Sir Edmund Mortimer and Prince Owain Glyn Dwr. My nephews would be free.

  All went to plan. The locks unlocked, horses waiting, the Earl of March and his brother rode like the wind to Abingdon in the company of Constance and her son.

  But Lancaster, based at Kennington, was warned when the empty chamber was discovered in the early morning, so it was said. True to form, Lancaster took immediate steps, sending a fast-riding contingent to cut off the escape, warning the Royal Council to prevent any escape by sea. So the whole plotting was foiled by chance, by Lancaster’s quick thinking and the fast riding of John, Lancaster’s Beaufort brother. Before they had ridden further than Cheltenham, Edmund and Roger Mortimer were apprehended and returned to their imprisonment in a seamless exercise, without fuss or too much violence. Constance was sent to Westminster to answer for her treason before the Royal Council, where wily Constance was not slow in denouncing her brother Edward of Aumale, now Duke of York, as the instigator of the plot, going so far as to challenge him to a duel.

  Even now, remembering, I was forced to admire Constance’s spirit. Would I have had the courage to do what she did, facing her brother, calling on the brave knights of the realm to come to her aid and act as her champions?

  Constance had not been short of knightly volunteers to fight the Duke in her name, until Lancaster stopped the proceedings. The royal Duke was locked in the Tower of London, and then sent on to Pevensey where he whiled away his time with writing of his passion for hunting, indeed only recently released, while Constance was dispatched to the security of Kenilworth. Only the guilty locksmith suffered the true penalty of treason. He lost his hand, the maker of the false keys, and then his head. There was a limit to Lancaster’s spirit of forgiveness.

  It was a dark thought that accompanied me on that journey; so many of my family incarcera
ted. Was that why I had been summoned to Eltham with such generosity, to lure me from Ludlow into the hands of a vengeful King? For sure my brother Edmund would see the inside of the Tower of London if Henry could only get his hands on him.

  For with the failure of the plot, events had taken a turn for the worse in Lancaster’s eye. I needed no courier to inform me of this disaster, when news ran like wildfire up and down the March. Thwarted by the recapture of the young Earl of March, the agreement of the Dragon, the Lion and the Wolf came into play, and as I had expected, the Mortimer heir played no clear role in the envisioned outcome. Northumberland would take the north, Glyn Dwr the west and the Marches, brother Edmund in the Mortimer name what was left of the south and the east.

  A meagre Mortimer inheritance indeed.

  This insurrection, with a lively French interference, should have toppled Lancaster from his throne. Instead it spurred him into a storm of action, driving him to slam down his mailed fist to wipe out rank rebellion once and for all. Fortune was with him. A major victory was achieved against Glyn Dwr when his son and heir Gruffydd was taken prisoner while attempting a renewed attack on the castle at Usk, and sent to London in chains. In the same skirmish Glyn Dwr’s brother was killed. Facing such a disaster, with only one son remaining, Glyn Dwr retired with Edmund to the security of the great castle at Harlech where they nursed their wounds, no doubt regrouping and reorganising, dreaming of further attacks across the border, encouraged by the songs of Iolo and the Welsh bards.

  All was despair and disaster. Through my misery I became aware of my companion expressing some opinion.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Reluctantly I turned my head. I had no wish to converse.

  ‘The Earl of Northumberland is, so I understand, my lady, still in Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  His sideways glance was wry. ‘So the rumours say. And it may be so. Who’s to know where his hasty ambitions will take him?’

  He had my full attention. ‘Tell me,’ I ordered. ‘Tell me why the Earl of Northumberland should be in Scotland.’