by Anne O'Brien
‘That was not Lancaster’s sworn intention when he made that thrice-damned oath. We were all fooled. But if Richard is not King, it should be Edmund Mortimer by the right of his mother’s blood and his father being King Edward’s second son. You know that is the truth of it, but have clearly rejected it for the sake of your own power. Because it is politic.’ I drew breath. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’ My anger was now hot beneath my sleek fur. ‘I doubt your father gives any credence to the Mortimer claim either.’
‘I doubt it too.’ Harry found the need for another cup of ale. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, here we are, trussed up like Christmas geese, and today Henry of Lancaster will be crowned King. Are you ready?’
I spread my arms. ‘Do I look ready? Lancaster has paid for the clothes on my back!’
‘You look magnificent.’
‘So do you look magnificent, but to what purpose?’ Even in my anger, he was beautiful. ‘There’s no need to be concerned. I will do you proud.’ My jaw was as tense as his.
‘Are you going to drink that?’ I still held the untouched cup in one hand. ‘I suggest you do. It will give you a mellow edge. And try to be polite. At least there will be no possibility of your conversing with your regal cousin until after the event, when he will be your King. It might put a curb on your tongue.’
I bared my teeth, and drank. For Harry’s sake, and because I foresaw no good in creating dissention at this late point in the proceedings. I resolved, for this day at least, to be the perfect subject.
‘I will curb my tongue today. But don’t hazard your Percy acres on my being mellow tomorrow.’
Despite the desultory rain, the coronation of Henry, Duke of Lancaster, was an affair to be remembered in later years, when men gathered in alehouses or in their lordly castles, reminiscing over small beer and Bordeaux wine. As Harry had announced, my cousin Henry had been acclaimed King by the lords and commons, led to the vacant throne in Westminster Hall by his royal uncle the Duke of York and the Archbishop of York, thus awarding him the highest of commendations from church and state. This sacred crowning was merely the culmination in Westminster Abbey, ratifying the choice of the people of England in the sight of God. He had not taken the crown by force, although the rightness of Richard’s imprisonment and the purloining of his crown was open to question. Lancaster had been invited to be King. Both Harry and the Earl had joined the lords to acclaim Lancaster King of England.
I considered him an oath-breaker.
Now, bareheaded but clad in cloth of gold, with nine water fountains teeming with red wine to win over the populace in Cheapside, Lancaster became King Henry the Fourth of that name.
Anger seethed afresh, despite my promise to guard my demeanour, as the ceremony unfolded. I nudged Harry, angling my chin toward the procession where the great swords of state were being carried in before the usurper monarch. Four of them rather than the traditional three. The two swords of justice bound in red and gold were carried by the Earls of Somerset and Warwick. Curtana, the blunt sword of mercy, was held aloft by Lancaster’s eldest son who would now be designated Prince Henry. And processing before them all?
‘Did you know about this?’ I asked.
There leading the procession was the mighty Earl of Northumberland, swathed in red and ermine, carrying the great Lancaster Sword. A true sign of Northumberland’s dedication. There was no element of age in his rigid spine, his braced shoulders as he bore the weight along the length of the nave up to the high altar. The pride in his face was as great as that of the new King himself.
‘Did you know?’ I repeated, when Harry merely watched his father’s stately progress. I thought I read pride in him too.
‘Yes.’
‘So you are truly tied and bound to this King.’
‘Tied and bound with iron chains,’ Harry hissed. ‘And before you meet with him again, my father has been given the highest accolade. He is now Constable of England for his services to the King.’
‘Before God, he is not!’
So there was the reason for the Percy acknowledgement of this destruction of the true pattern of inheritance. The all-devious Earl of Northumberland now lay claim to being the chief official in the royal household, a position of much power and influence in deciding who should and should not have the ear of the King. It was a magnificent coup.
‘Before God, he is. You can see the Earl’s chain of office. It shines like a beacon on the northern hills.’ I thought Harry sounded cynical, but his expression was bland enough. ‘Perhaps this is not the occasion to use immoderate language, Elizabeth.’
I closed my mouth.
And so it was done, with consecrated oil, hallowed phrases and the holy objects of kingship. Lancaster was duly crowned King of England.
‘Now all we have to do is smile, bow, and celebrate at the feast,’ I said.
There was nothing else we could do, but it gnawed at me, tainted my acceptance of a life that pleased me mightily; a grub in the succulent flesh of a plum. Harry had been in agreement with me, I had thought, but how quickly he had abandoned this brave stance. Now he was all for Lancaster. As for the Earl of Northumberland, he had sold his soul for the office and chain of Constable of England. I was furious with them both. Nor was it a problem that I could imagine would disappear. Lancaster was King and we were his subjects and most valuable of counsellors.
I did not feel like celebrating.
Yet all was not lost in a seething cloud of disapproval, for here was the opportunity for family reunion; three sisters, meeting between the weight and solemnity of the crowning and the raucous feasting and drinking of the festivity to follow. Philippa, Alianore and myself.
‘We look like three cunning women,’ Philippa observed as we withdrew into a sisterly group, into a corner where we would not be buffeted by the milling lords, citizens and their hangers-on. ‘Plotting our future.’
‘Perhaps we are,’ I said, kissing her cheek.
‘We may have need to be,’ Alianore offered, beaming at us both, but behind the smile I saw raw concern. ‘Good to see that you stand high in Lancaster’s regard, Elizabeth. Red becomes you more than it does Harry.’ She fingered the opulent, gold-worked over-sleeve of my houppelande with what could have been distaste, before submitting to a sisterly hug. ‘Even Harry looks presentable. For once he doesn’t look as if he has just ridden in after a month of besieging a Scottish peel tower.’
‘You are hardly clad as a beggar, Alianore. But we Percys are royally grand, are we not, down to the collar and coronet?’ I touched my fingers to the intricate chain around my neck. ‘And why not? We have been bought,’ spreading my arms to set the damask with its sable trim rippling as if a living thing. ‘A crown in return for a damask robe. Have you seen my gilded shoes?’ I lifted my skirts a fraction. ‘These were in payment for Northumberland carrying the Lancaster sword. Which is the greatest symbol of power, do you suppose? Gilded shoes or an edged weapon? Richard would have said shoes,’ I added, admitting to a touch of guilt at his present incarceration in the Tower, recalling his love of extravagant footwear.
‘Richard has forfeited his throne, shoes or no shoes.’ Philippa’s voice had a tendency to carry, until I nudged her. ‘I’d wager on the power of the sword.’
‘Best not to say that too loud, on this fine auspicious occasion,’ I suggested, seeing heads turned in our direction.
‘What will happen to Richard?’ Philippa asked, dutifully lowering her voice. ‘Can our new King afford to let him live?’
My sister did not seem overly concerned. We were all well versed in political necessity. How would we not be, brought up as we had been at the centre of political events? The first Mortimer Earl of March had met his death by execution after a remarkable history of treason, hand in glove with the Queen against the rightful King Edward the Second.
‘I’ll not be sorry if he dies a quiet death.’ Philippa paused. ‘Or even a violent one. I’ll never forgive him for taking Arundel’s head
. It was disgraceful that Richard should be free to take such monstrous revenge.’
To bring a halt to this well-worn theme, I clasped her hand, thinking that she looked strained, more than was demanded by the weariness of the long ceremony. Perhaps it was true grief that ate at her stamina, despite the vast age difference between her and her late FitzAlan husband. ‘I know. I am sorry that the loss afflicts you.’
‘It was the manner of the loss,’ she said. ‘Richard does not deserve my pity.’
It had been a driving force within her, destroying any comfort that the passing of months and a new, kindly husband might have brought. Philippa had not had an easy life, considering the deaths of her two former husbands. An accidental lance to the groin for one, an axe to the neck for the other. It had destroyed any trace of the soft humour my sister had had when we were girls, nor had she a nursery full of children for her comfort.
‘Where are your sons, Alianore?’ I asked to deflect a further outburst of venom.
‘Safely in the Welsh March. I sent them to stay with your brother Edmund at Ludlow, although I think he’s taken them on to Wigmore. I’d not bring them here. I’ll never bring them here.’
It had not been the happiest of deflections. Alianore and I regarded each other with a depth of understanding.
‘We are committed to this new rule, Alianore,’ I said. ‘Our lords were all prominent during the bowing, oath-taking and anointing.’
‘Except brother Edmund who is not here.’ Alianore pointed out what we had all already acknowledged.
‘Edmund is a law unto himself, pleasing unto himself. It is no surprise.’ Philippa’s bitterness continued to pervade every word she uttered.
‘We are committed,’ I repeated. ‘We have to be so.’ Bitterly, disbelievingly, I realised that I was echoing Harry’s own words, when, less than an hour ago, I had been berating him for his betrayal. I felt no commitment.
‘But are we content? I will never be content.’ Philippa again.
‘Nor I.’ Alianore.
‘Lancaster promised to support the most suitable claimant,’ I said, studying the rings on my hands, trying for balance where there was no balance. I was as unsettled as my sisters.
‘Suitable? What does that mean?’ Alianore’s voice climbed. ‘What about God-given right? My son Edmund is suitable. He has the right.’
‘But Edmund is so young.’
‘He will grow. All he needs is a regent and a group of trusted counsellors. It has been done before, it could be done again. Richard had a council, and his lady mother, Princess Joan, until he reached his majority.’
I tried to be realistic, and loyal to Harry, when I had no wish to be so. My thoughts matched Alianore’s. Princess Joan, Alianore’s grandmother, had been a match for anyone in guiding a youthful King. But in my mind I heard Harry’s warning echo and re-echo.
‘No one will stand for a child, if Lancaster is here with an army and the support of the lords. No one would willingly choose a regency. Besides, it is done now. The lords have made their decision.’
‘Any man of principle would be quick to choose the rightful bloodline,’ Alianore said. ‘Decisions can be unmade. Kings can be un-kinged. Have we not just proved it? It is a dangerous precedent, but it can be used to our advantage.’
‘As Lancaster knows.’ Playing devil’s advocate was proving exhausting. ‘He will be on his guard against any threats to his new power.’
Another unfortunate gambit. Alianore leaned to whisper in my ear: ‘What do I do if he sends for the boys? They were royal wards under Richard. They will continue to be so. They are the only challenge to his power.’ Her whisper became a sibilant hiss. ‘What do I do if Lancaster sends for them? Can I refuse?’
‘Let them come,’ Philippa advised, our heads close. ‘I don’t believe Lancaster will do what is unjust. They will not meet a hasty death.’
‘Is there ice in your veins, Philippa?’ Alianore demanded.
‘No. I am merely practical. Besides, what can you do? Short of hiding them in the Welsh March or sending them into the fastness of Wales, you can do nothing but obey. I think that we should smile on our new King. Unlike Richard, he has no blood on his hands.’
‘Not yet. What do you say, Elizabeth?’
‘I say I don’t like the thought of them being here under Henry’s dominion but I agree with Philippa. I don’t see that you have a choice. Nor do I see King Henry being guilty of murder.’
Alianore proved intransigent. ‘I thought we had agreed that he might very well arrange for Richard’s demise in some distant castle. Why not my sons too? Then all opposition is destroyed, and King Henry can toast the untrammelled inheritance for his own four sons.’
‘I know.’ I sighed, acknowledging that I would not wish to send my own children into Lancaster’s keeping. Not that I feared him, but I would not wish them out of my sight. ‘There is no easy path, is there?’
Such disloyalty, such treachery, in such seemingly innocuous conversation when all around us were celebrating. The interruption, which effectively silenced us when it came, was smoothly inviting.
‘You look to be in serious confidences together, cousins. Does the new reign already see the stirring of a plot?’
We turned as one to regard the newcomer, recognising the voice, the light timbre, the teasing note.
Constance of York, daughter of the ineffectual and allegiance-swapping Duke of York and his Castilian wife. Now Lady Despenser, Countess of Gloucester, Constance was fair-haired and fair-skinned amongst the Mortimer sallow complexions and dark hair, a goldfinch in the midst of sparrows – although today her hair was invisible, neatly coifed in a jewelled net. She was quite beautiful, and artful in presenting her beauty; in comparison her tongue could be uncomfortably sharp. Sometimes cousinship presented us with a high price, but on this occasion she seemed to be all gentle compliance. It pleased me that Alianore, who had inherited much of her grandmother’s glorious golden beauty as the Fair Maid of Kent, was inclined to cast Constance into the shade.
Beside me I sensed Philippa and Alianore stiffening, but Constance was smiling. Perhaps for once she was not looking down her arrogant nose. Arrogance too was a family trait.
‘You should know that we are never serious, Constance,’ I said, summoning an engaging smile. ‘We were discussing the metal contraption that our aunt of Gloucester is wearing to cage her hair. Is this to be the fashion? It is not flattering.’
My sisters, without a blink, added their comments about fur and veiling.
Until Constance lost patience.
‘So are you – all three of you – not suffused with victory, as is the rest of this throng?’
I raised my brows; I would make her spell it out. Again, Philippa and Alianore took their silent lead from me.
‘Will you be raising your cups in heartfelt appreciation of the new wearer of the crown?’ Constance asked.
‘Why would we not be?’
‘Where the name Mortimer abounds – all three of you indeed – there will always be room for suspicion of other loyalties.’
Alianore seemed to be searching the crowd for someone who might rescue her. Philippa disentangled a gold chain from the fur at her neck with great concentration. I took up the challenge.
‘No disloyalty here, Constance. We Mortimers know where to put our allegiance, but your own family could be prime meat for any muck-raking gossip. Your father was quick to lead an armed force in Richard’s name, to prevent Lancaster’s success, yet here we have seen him building essential bridges by leading cousin Henry to the empty throne. And how does your husband Lord Thomas stand in loyalty to King Henry? It was Richard who conferred the title of Earl of Gloucester on him. Would your husband not feel some allegiance to his royal benefactor?’
Constance continued, effortlessly, to smile. ‘My father and husband have seen good sense in cutting their garments to suit the present cloth. We are now all true subjects of King Henry.’
‘As have we Mortimers
. Our garments are of King Henry’s own making.’ I returned the smile. ‘Are you acting as King Henry’s spy, Constance, to discover the opposition?’ I spoke the lie seamlessly: ‘My loyalties to the new King are beyond question.’
‘I would not. How can you think it?’ Her jewelled veils shivered brilliantly as she laughed. ‘Our lords have all bowed the knee. Poor Richard is condemned to a life of obscurity. Expediency is paramount, for all of us. Even those with Mortimer sons.’
She touched Alianore’s arm in sympathy. Alianore did well not to flinch.
I was relieved when Harry loomed at my elbow to draw me away with a masterful hand beneath my arm and a bow for Constance. I smiled at her, promising to continue our conversation after the feast. I would not tell Constance my innermost secrets, nor would I trust her two brothers with my life. Her demeanour might be perfect but there was a thread of self-interest running through them all.
Is there not through all of us?
It was a question I preferred not to answer.
I never made it to the feasting, raucous or otherwise, or to continuing an exchange of views with Constance. Harry kept a grip on my arm and drew me at a fast pace out of the crowd. From there he hurried me through courtyards, skirting screens, up staircases, all without explanation, weaving through knots of servants bearing platters of meat and flagons of wine.
We hurried on. Back to our chambers, it transpired, where he shut the door on my women, presenting me with the opportunity to expand on my distaste for the whole of the proceedings. I made no attempt to moderate my tone, despite its uncommonly shrill echo in my ears.
‘Well, wasn’t that a superb show of aggrandisement? My cousin Henry is now slick with holy oil and encased in royal gems. Not to mention four swords instead of three. Most apposite.’ I sat on the bed with relief. It had been a long time, standing in the Abbey. ‘I cannot believe that we stood there and accepted what happened. That travesty of justice.’ Harry was stripping off his houppelande, which caught my attention, deflecting my vexation. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying not to listen to you.’
