by Anne O'Brien
‘You will remember this,’ she had declaimed, drawing me to sit within the curtains of her bed. Had she known that she was dying? I had not, but her words held a grave solemnity for me as a child of ten years. ‘You will allow no one to persuade you that a woman’s blood is inferior. If Richard dies without an heir, then your brother Roger should, by the legitimate laws of inheritance, succeed him. Do you understand? It is for you, Elizabeth, to keep this knowledge safe.’
I promised, and she had kissed me. It was the last conversation with her that I remembered. My mother had spoken with a conviction that I must hold fast, for she addressed me as if I were full-grown. It would be a slight on my mother’s memory, on her fervour, on her final wish as death approached, to deny her birthright.
But Hal was still young and deserved to enjoy the excitement of learning to wield a sword without being burdened by thoughts of whom he would wield it against, of whose blood would stain the blade. Nor did I like interference from the household, even though this busy tongue had as much status as any Percy. Before the Percy guests arrived I sought out Dame Hawisia in her own domain in one of the distant towers where she sat surrounded by leather bags of herbs. I challenged her.
‘It is not good that you plant in my son’s mind that he should be King of England. It is not his right, as you know full well. It belongs to his cousin.’
Dame Hawisia scattered dried leaves of thyme on a piece of old document and made patterns with her forefinger as she replied.
‘I will tell him what I think he needs to know. If any mischance should befall your Mortimer nephews, my lady, then your Percy son should know that he stands very close. Your brother Sir Edmund has no son to inherit. And now that King Richard, God bless his tortured soul, is dead, how close does that make your son to wearing the crown?’ Oh, she was sly. And well informed, not merely in potions and portents.
‘I will tell him what he needs to know, Dame Hawisia. And when.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
As she looked up, I saw in her eye that she would do as she wished. Any dictates from me were adeptly avoided. But I knew the way to curb her wilfulness.
‘My lord Harry would not approve of your filling his heir’s mind with dangerous doubts and dreams. Hal will be Earl of Northumberland. There is no doubt of that, and it will be enough for him. You would not want to risk Harry’s displeasure.’
Dame Hawisia might be cunning but I could match her. Her eyes were hooded as she returned to her pattern-making. Harry’s name would keep her silent and I would be the one to decide when Hal should know more of the complications of England’s inheritance, a complication that was becoming increasingly bloody. For barely had we celebrated the birth of the Christ Child than the country had been cast into a ferment with a plot to wipe out King and heirs and restore Richard, before his tragic death, to his rightful throne.
The Revolt of the Earls, plotted for the great tournament at Windsor on the Feast of the Epiphany, was dispatched with speed and some bloodshed without our involvement, but its repercussions were cruel. Alianore’s brother Thomas and her uncle John Holland, both heavily involved, were removed from this life by an axe. Constance’s husband Thomas Despenser also lost his title and then his head. Constance, forcefully widowed, would not, I imagined, be regarding King Henry with any degree of cousinly warmth. Nor would Alianore, who had never had much to start with.
My own thoughts hummed with the intensity of a beehive in spring, and not a happy humming. Here was death doled out by Lancaster to those who had attempted to unseat him before he could establish his authority over the kingdom. How fast, how effective he had been in crushing those who dared plot and scheme. It was a warning of the dangers for those who dabbled in treason. It should be a warning for me. For one of the few times in my life, my head ached with the circling vortex of right and legitimacy, driving me to resort to Dame Hawisia’s infamous tincture of pennyroyal, harsh on the tongue but soothing to the senses.
Yet it did little to banish my megrims; there was no restoration of warmth between Harry and myself. The heady atmosphere that kept us company might have subsided from boil to simmer but Harry was unrepentant of his support for Lancaster and I was unwilling to make concessions. At best we avoided each other; at worst we enjoyed sharp exchanges, as now, where we were in the muniment room, Harry scratching his signature with an air of despondency.
‘You have been prowling for the last half-hour,’ he said.
‘I cannot sit.’ Yet I stopped in front of him. He was signing documents appertaining to the East March. Without any pleasure. He would rather be riding round it but a bout of hostile weather had kept him at home.
Irritable, restless beyond measure, I riffled through the documents on which he was working, picking at the Percy seals until their wax edges crumbled and Harry slapped his hand down on them to deter me. I withdrew, but not far, contenting myself with scraping the dripped wax from the candle sconces and dropping it onto Harry’s documents.
When he looked up at me, reprimand ripe on his tongue: ‘I have a wish to see my two nephews,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because of this.’ From my sleeve I took a sheet of parchment and held it out. I had received a letter, confirming my worst fears, and those of my sister by law.
‘Who is it from?’ Without taking it.
‘Alianore.’
‘Let me guess.’ Now he threw down the pen and looked up. ‘King Henry has invited the Mortimer lads to court. For some unspecified length of time.’
‘Yes. I see it’s no surprise to you either. Read it.’
I recalled our concerns at the coronation that my two nephews would remain royal wards but now under Lancaster’s constant supervision, and here was the confirmation in Alianore’s careful script that did not fully reveal the panic I knew she must be feeling. The death of her brother and uncle had shaken her.
The King has requested that Edmund and Roger should visit with him at Windsor, and it will not be a brief visit. Since the Revolt of the Earls, it seems to me that he sees shadows under every bed, in every corner. He has informed me that it is his intent that they be brought up with his own youngest sons, as befits their birth. I am allowed to keep the two girls, but my sons will be lost to me.
And then as an afterthought:
I pray that education is all he intends for my sons. How can I believe in his magnanimity to his own family when he was prepared to destroy his Holland connections, close as they are? I accept their treason, but the King’s vengeance was excessive.
Can I refuse? Alianore had asked at Westminster.
‘Can she refuse?’ I asked Harry.
‘She could. I’m not sure of the repercussions if she did. Henry might arrive on her doorstep with an armed escort to invite them in person.’
‘Do we allow it?’
‘We can’t stop it, and it’s probably too late anyway. Henry is their King with some distant cousinship. They are his wards. If anyone can intervene it is your brother Edmund, as head of the family in your nephew’s minority. We have to trust in the King’s high principles.’
‘Ha!’ I doubted that Edmund would remonstrate with Henry. As for the King… ‘I have yet to see a man with high principles where his power is being threatened.’
‘What is your brother Edmund saying?’
‘Nothing that I am aware of.’
‘Sensible man! And here’s something you should know, since we are talking of principles and power. The King has given us partial control of the Mortimer finances.’
‘Has he?’ I think I sneered.
Harry fixed me with a level regard, clearly striving for patience. ‘The King has given the finances into our care to stop them falling into the hands of any man who would use the money against him.’
Without doubt I sneered. ‘So we have done remarkably well out of Lancaster’s control over my nephews.’
‘We have. Better that we should benefit than some. At least we’ll not squander it, using
it to hold the north in peace.’
I was driven to make another circuit of the room, principally to escape Harry’s cold acceptance. By now Alianore’s refusal of agreement to the visit was probably an irrelevance. My Mortimer nephews, their estates portioned between Lancaster’s friends, their finance in Percy coffers, would already be ensconced with the royal offspring in Windsor Castle.
Again I stopped in front of my husband who had once more taken up his pen.
‘I wish to see my nephews.’
‘Tell Philippa to go. She is nearer to Windsor than we are by a good few miles.’
‘Philippa says she is ailing.’
‘Elizabeth…’ Harry sighed, drawing the pen through his fingers, leaving smudges of ink and grunting when he observed it. ‘They will be safe enough. They were as healthy as all young lads, and twice as annoying, last Easter when we saw them. They need some discipline and I expect they’ll get it at Windsor. Your brother is too lax to take them on and it’s time they were placed in some noble household. They will thrive as royal wards, I expect. And besides, you can’t go. The roads will be awash.’
‘Things have changed since last Easter.’ I needed to assure myself that my brother’s sons were still healthy and well treated. ‘And the roads will be less awash by next week.’
‘I doubt Henry will smother them in their beds.’
I leaned, my hands splayed on the desk, forcing him to look up at me.
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t. And neither do you.’ And when I still held his gaze with mine, an unspoken weight between us: ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he said.
‘And so you should.’
For here was the rub, as Harry knew as well as I. With Richard’s demise, the way for a Mortimer heir had been effectively opened up. Except that Lancaster’s fist, with Percy support, was even more securely wrapped around the crown. If Lancaster could obliterate Richard, what hope was there for two young boys now under his dominion, boys with the strongest claim since Richard was dead?
Harry thought for a moment.
‘I doubt a child of nine years poses the same challenge to the King’s authority that Richard did, a man who had already worn the crown. I doubt he’ll harm the boys. Now stop interrupting me.’ And as I marched to the door: ‘I forbid you to travel all the way to London to pursue a problem that does not exist.’
‘Forbid me? Will you lock me in the cheese cellar?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
My worst fears had been stirred into hot life. It would be the simplest of tasks to remove two dangerous if youthful claims to the throne, and we would know nothing about it until it was done, as we had known nothing of Richard’s demise by unknown means at Pontefract. Before I opened the door I stopped, and leaned with my back against it.
‘You could escort me, of course.’ I hoped that he would, even though it would be a chilly escort with Harry’s present mood for company.
‘I’ve more valuable demands on my time than to arrive on the King’s newly brushed doorstep again. I was there last month when he called a parliament that had nothing better to do than discuss the possibility of an English invasion of Scotland. It was a waste of my resources in men and money. I’ll not travel all that distance again to investigate if your nephews have improved their manners.’
He was packing rolls into a small travelling coffer, which gave me all the indication I needed.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Bamburgh. To make sure they are still content with my new overlordship.’
‘Why would they not be? They would not relish you with an army come to impose your will if they disobey.’
Harry ignored this. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
‘No.’
‘Then you might restore your sweet temper while I am away.’ Sometimes he had a tongue sharper than a honed sword.
‘I doubt it.’
‘So do I. I might find a need to extend my absence and visit the outlying Western March.’
‘You will do as you please.’
Down in the bailey, he swung himself into the saddle. Since we proceeded to make our farewells at a distance of a tilting yard, thus lacking any intimacy, whether real or sham, it was not the happiest of partings.
Chapter Eight
I allowed him a day before I made my move. The Earl was at Carlisle. Worcester was at Westminster raising money for a beleaguered king who was discovering more opposition than he had expected. With no one to ask questions I ordered my coffers packed and an escort to be ready at dawn, gave a verbal message to our steward, whose mouth firmed in a line of disapproval, said my farewell to my children who failed to persuade me that they would wish to accompany me, and set out. First south, past the great fortress of Pontefract where Richard had been incarcerated and done to death, before heading west for the Welsh March.
If I was uneasy at Harry’s reaction when he discovered what I was about to do, I was not prepared to admit it. I would think about that on my return when I must steel myself to make reparation. For now, for a little while, I would be Elizabeth Mortimer. As we approached the wild lands of the Welsh March, urging my mare into a gallop I rode the wind with none but my bland-eyed escort to overlook my actions or question the wisdom of such reprehensible behaviour in Lady Percy. I would be selfish and irresponsible. And I laughed aloud, wishing in that moment that Harry was with me so that we might ride together, tasting the heady brew of our love and this unexpected freedom from matters of power and conflict. Oh, I wished it so, that we could be drunk on the sweetness of the mew of the buzzard circling above, the glint of sunshine on my harness fittings. I wished that our thoughts could once more weave together, our love a thing of wonder rather than an obstacle to be skirted round as my will clashed with his. I wanted him to be here with me, to smile across at me, to touch my hand, to promise all things in compassion and desire.
But Harry was not with me. Compassion and desire had been subsumed under the demands of Percy and Mortimer hegemony. I imagined what he would say if I could magic him to my side.
‘By the Rood, Elizabeth. Will you dabble in every pot like some old crone, muttering curses?’
Which made me laugh again, with visions of Dame Hawisia and her potion-making, but it brought me to my senses. My days of selfish irresponsibility were long gone.
I slowed to a sedate pace, savouring the slopes and summits of the welcoming hills, for I had lived at Ludlow even after my marriage to Harry, not being of an age to take on the physical responsibilities of marriage and there being no Percy lady at Alnwick to undertake my upbringing. Then all had changed, within a year tragedy striking our household when my mother died, followed by my father within the next twelvemonth. At the age of ten years it was considered of value for me to go and live with my new family in the north. Now I was twenty-nine years old, with much experience beneath my girdle, mistress of the Percy households, and at odds with the Percy heir.
Which cast the cloak of duty once more over my shoulders, and as I came within the walls of Ludlow Castle, despite the warmth of familiarity, the anxieties that had set me on this course returned four-fold. My freedom had been short-lived indeed. I too doubted that Lancaster would wilfully do away with the boys, but I needed to show him that there was at least one Mortimer who had an interest in their welfare. Since Harry could not be moved, I knew perfectly where I needed to come for help; my younger brother Sir Edmund Mortimer, the most powerful of the Mortimer family in the minority of our nephew. Here he was, come to accompany me across the outer bailey to the inner gate.
‘Did I know you were coming, Elizabeth?’ my brother asked with speculative appraisal of me and my impressively armed retinue. His smile held a weight of suspicion.
‘No.’
‘Is Harry not with you?’
‘As you see.’
Sliding to my feet, escaping from a cursory embrace, I wasted no time in words of polite queries after his health. ‘Have you any commitments
for your time over the coming days that can’t be put off?’
‘I always have commitments. The Welsh are always a nuisance, and becoming increasingly so.’ His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Why?’
‘I want you to escort me to Windsor.’
‘God’s Blood, Elizabeth!’
Enjoying this caustic reuniting, I smiled at my younger brother, for his own sake and because he reminded me of Roger who was dead. Handsome and affable, dark-haired and dark-eyed as all Mortimers, he would prove to be good company when I had won him round. Brave in battle, if sometimes rash, Edmund was cut from the same rich cloth as Harry, skilled in the use of arms. I reached up to kiss his cheek, for he had the height of the Mortimers.
‘Does that mean you are not willing?’ I tucked my hand within his arm, encouraging him to walk from the inner bailey into the privacy of the living accommodations, appreciating the solid feel of him beneath the smart houppelande with its full sleeves gathered into embroidered cuffs. Edmund had as much an eye for the fashion of the day as had Richard, extravagantly toed shoes and all.
‘You look exceptionally well escorted without me. The Percy lion will give any band of brigands pause for thought. And now that your family is in the ascendant, shining as brightly as the stars, who will waylay you?’
‘That is indeed true,’ I agreed, ignoring the cynicism. ‘The wages for our loyalty to a Lancaster King are mighty. But I want you to come with me. I think I might need your authority as head of the Mortimer family. It will give my request some level of substance.’
We had made our way into the great hall, and from there to the great chamber and its associated rooms, the work of our Mortimer ancestor, the first Earl, before he had met such an unfortunate traitor’s death. Without doubt he had an eye to comfort in these spacious rooms, which looked tidy enough but more sparsely furnished than I recalled, perhaps lacking a woman’s touch. ‘Have you no thought for a wife yet, Edmund? It’s time you were wed.’
