Queen of the North

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Do you go to battle, sir?’ Hal glowed with worship of his father. And who would not? Harry’s surcoat gleamed with the azure lion, prancing on a golden field, as did the pennons and his banner. No one would be under any misapprehension that here was Sir Henry Percy, resplendent and riding out to war. The hero-light was on him. ‘Do you fight? Will you be gone long?’ Hal’s questions were endless.

  ‘I do. I will. And then I will come home. But first, before I set even one foot beyond this gate…’

  ‘You have a riddle,’ Hal crowed.

  ‘Now how would that be? And if I chanced to have one about me, how would you have guessed?’

  It had become a habit, a recognised moment of foolishness between father and son, a simple riddle such as a mummer might employ, growing more complex as Hal grew. And for the victor – and was not Hal always the victor? – a prize. I knew why they had disobeyed their tutor. Who could resist a prize from a great lord, even a fairing of little value?

  ‘If you have learned your letters,’ Harry warned, amazingly stern.

  A craftly means of ensuring that our son spent as much time at his books as with his horse and his swordplay.

  ‘I have, sir.’

  A slip of parchment, torn from some document, probably a rent return, exchanged hands. I read over Hal’s shoulder, as he traced the words with his finger.

  I work long hours and must obey my lord,

  I break my rest and loudly shout at dawn.

  I am rung right well

  To make sorrow or joy for those who hear.

  It was simple enough, neither beyond his reading nor his understanding. Harry had chosen well.

  ‘It’s easy.’ Hal tucked the parchment into his sleeve, as he had so often seen Harry do with a message or a document. ‘It’s a bell. A bell. Like the one in the church that rings out for Matins. And for the passing bell when someone has died. The lord is the priest who rings it.’

  ‘Clever! Then you shall have your reward.’

  From Harry’s sleeve appeared a bright, newly wrought dagger, a lion snarling cunningly within the hilt. It found its way with rapidity into Hal’s grasp.

  ‘It is too much, Harry.’ This was no fairing. It worried me a little that my son was growing so fast. Perhaps it was past time that he was sent to some noble house to learn all he would need to know as a Percy lord about the art of war as well as chivalry, all that had not already been trained into him by his father and grandfather.

  Harry smiled at me. ‘He is of an age, and will be older when I see him again. I may not be back to celebrate the day of his birth. It is a good gift.’

  Which Hal, engrossed in the sharpness of the blade, acknowledged with a perfect, formal little bow. He was indeed growing well and time passed. He was almost ten years old now.

  But Harry had turned to our daughter.

  ‘And who is this lady, dressed to say farewell to her lord?’

  Bess, who at eight years was still too young for dignity, was hopping with excitement, her cheeks pale with anticipation. She could read her letters better than Hal and was quick to take in the words of her riddle, delivered in a traditional question. I thought that it might be too simple for her now but she studied it with all seriousness.

  A winter miracle.

  Water becomes bone.

  Can you not stand in it without your feet becoming wet?

  What am I?

  Bess stood on tiptoe, pulling on my sleeve so that she could whisper in my ear. I nodded. ‘Ice,’ she announced. ‘It is ice. Like the puddles in the bailey at Alnwick on a December morn.’

  ‘So it is.’ Harry crouched before her, arms resting on his thighs. ‘How fortunate that I have a gift for you too. Your lady mother says that you have need of one. And I think that you will like this.’

  A string of beads, pulled slowly, magically appearing from a purse at Harry’s belt. A paternoster, which I took and wound around Bess’s neck. She looked down at it, her face full of delight and even awe as her fingers stroked the smooth coral and the sun glinted on the gold. Her own paternoster was little more than a trinket of carved wood. This was a gift fit for a lady indeed.

  ‘Is this for me?’ Its value gleamed in the light.

  ‘It belonged to your Neville grandmother,’ Harry said. ‘You did not know her, but she would be pleased for you to wear it.’

  I made no comment on its value, except to say: ‘Coral is a great prize. It wards off the evil eye.’

  ‘So it does.’ He looked up at me as he received Bess’s kiss on his cheek. ‘But I think you will do that in my absence.’

  ‘And for me?’ I asked, in the spirit of the moment. ‘Have you no riddle for your long-suffering and neglected wife?’

  He was standing, taking his gauntlets and his helm from his page. No journey was safe in this country now. He would not ride without his gambeson today. ‘You are a constant riddle in my life.’ He touched his lips briefly to my cheek. We had already said our own private farewells and this was a very public place. ‘This one comes into my mind often: I saw a woman, solitary, brooding. Are you as quick as your daughter in guessing?’

  But I knew the answer. An old riddle used against men who had no will of their own.

  ‘I am no hen!’ I said.

  ‘No, you are not. You are my heart. As is always so.’

  Then: ‘Listen,’ Harry said, drawing me aside at the last. ‘If I am taken prisoner again, as at Otterburn, and must needs be absent until ransomed – God save me from it – I have appointed William Clifford as guardian to our son. I know he will be safe in your care, but Sir William will stand for him if necessary.’

  I knew Sir William Clifford well, a stalwart soldier from a Yorkshire family, at present Governor of Berwick in Harry’s name. But what he could do that I could not baffled me. Yet now was no time for unpicking Harry’s plans.

  ‘If you wish it,’ I said.

  ‘He will report to you if necessary.’

  But before I could ask why he might consider it necessary, Harry beckoned Hal and whispered in his ear. Before long our son was back, carefully carrying Harry’s great sword wrapped in linen.

  Harry took it from him, passing it to his squire, gripping Hal’s shoulders in thanks.

  ‘When I return, you will be my page. And one day this sword will be yours. I carried it at Otterburn and at Homildon Hill. It will serve me well in battle again. It will serve you too.’

  ‘God keep you.’ Harry was preparing to mount. I had to say it; it needed to be said, and I was brusque: ‘Alianore says we should not trust Dunbar.’

  ‘Alianore with her usual, if long-winded, perspicacity is correct,’ Harry replied. ‘A wolf in wolf’s clothing.’

  ‘So you knew his loyalty was damaged.’

  ‘Yes, I knew. He is looking to Lancaster for the rewards that he has failed to seize in our company.’ Briefly there was a grim shade around Harry’s mouth before it melted into a fierce smile. ‘That’s why I gave him the slip at Cocklaw. I needed his presence no longer. And as for you, my lady Percy. Look for me within a month, two at the most.’

  At the last, on a whim since I had no belief in such trinkets, only in the skill of the wearer, I pinned a ring-brooch to the thick padding of his gambeson. An old gem, it had belonged to my mother, given to her by her father, and before that a gift from her grandfather, the old King Edward the Third, so with much age on it and probably carried into many battles. It was worn, the gold soft, the engraving blurred and the claws that held the gems uneven but if any of my jewels held power, this was the one. I knew the words by heart.

  This which you have fastened on saves you either by sea or in battle.

  It had not saved my father but then he had not worn it in Ireland.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked, squinting down.

  ‘A token to preserve your life.’

  ‘Rather I’ll put my faith in my sword and my horse.’

  ‘Wear it anyway,’ I said. ‘In my name. In my Plantage
net blood.’

  ‘And you will be my talisman.’ His reply was gentle and without artifice. ‘For you are all to me. My life’s length and breadth and height. God keep us both.’

  ‘Amen.’

  For a long moment our regard held. Then another brief embrace and he rode out. I could not go and watch; instead I sent Hal with one of my women.

  ‘Watch until you can see him no longer. Then come and tell me how brave your father looks.’

  I could not see it for myself. I knew it.

  Back in the hall – although why I should have returned to that once intimate corner beside the screen I did not know – when I moved the chess pieces into their habitual watchful positions, ready for battle, I noticed. Harry had moved the King, knocking the little carved piece with its shield and sceptre so that it rolled onto its side. And perhaps it was not so indiscriminate after all, for he had moved it into direct attack from an opposing knight with its lopsided gait. For a little while I stood and just looked. Such a contest would be bloodless on a chess board, apart from loss of a little pride in defeat. Standing the King back on its base, returning the knight to its position, I prayed that the one developing in the west would be just as painless to rectify.

  And which figure here was George Dunbar? I picked up one of the two knights on the side of the fallen King. Alianore had rumours of his double-dealing, that he had sold his soul to Lancaster in exchange for the return of his lands along the border and the lordship of Allandale if he could ever recapture them. If that was so, he would not be joining Harry in his rebellion. But would he join Lancaster? My instincts said that he would. I had never had any admiration for Dunbar, no matter how much praise his military skills evoked.

  Should I have said more to Harry? I thought not. He understood Dunbar very well, and if Dunbar was now in the pay of Lancaster, to weaken the Percys in the north, then Harry had been forewarned. Perhaps he always had been a questionable element in our midst, yet he had fought well as a good ally. Self-interest could wreak havoc with rock-solid loyalties, as we must all accept.

  But now Harry was gone and I would follow him in my heart, with every breath in my body, to put right a foul wrong. But what would be the cost of failure? Treason led to a bloody end. For those who fought. For all of us.

  I would not contemplate that.

  We would be victorious and Edmund of March would be crowned King Edmund of England.

  Not two days after Harry had ridden south, my lord of Dunbar was demanding entrance at our barbican with the air of a man who had come to the end of a hard journey. His mouth was set in a firm line when I received him in my hall, as was my duty. Nothing could fault his courtesy despite the urge to spit at his feet.

  ‘My lord.’ I approached, extending my hand.

  ‘My Lady Percy.’

  Dragging his hat from his matted hair he bowed, shoulders stiff, armoured as ever in self-worth. I waited to see what he would say, how he would explain his arrival. As I expected, he was as slick as a pool of wax from a newly snuffed candle.

  ‘I missed Sir Henry after the siege at Cocklaw. There were rumours that he was suffering from a dose of the flux. Concerned for his health, I followed him.’

  It was magnificently done.

  ‘Sir Henry’s health is, as always, exceptional.’

  Which was received by the faintest tension in his jaw. ‘Has he been here?’

  ‘He has. You have missed him, by two days.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  I gave no recognition of the brusque demand. ‘He has ridden south, my lord.’ I would give him no help. ‘Can we offer you and your retinue hospitality? You appear to be in need of at least a good meal and a night’s sleep in the comfort of a bed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you perhaps in a hurry, my lord?’

  Reading something that I had hoped to hide in my cool response, the Earl of Dunbar summoned up a smile and true chivalry. ‘Forgive my want of manners. I’ll not impinge on your generosity, my lady.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ I enquired. ‘The Earl is still somewhere in the March and would no doubt value your company. Is the siege of Cocklaw at an end?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could almost see his mind working behind the smooth facade which was becoming less smooth by the minute. ‘I’ll join the Earl.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. My thanks, my lady.’

  He rode out, not half an hour after riding in. And he rode south.

  ‘Well, Alianore,’ I murmured, watching the cloud of dust. ‘You were wise not to trust him. But Harry is warned. What harm can Dunbar do?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alnwick Castle: July 1403

  A somnolence had fallen over the castle environs with all the fighting men gone; unsettling in its intensity, so powerful that it could be felt like the flutter of moth wings against the skin, it pressed down on us. This always happened when a major campaign was under way. Our depleted garrison kept a close watch, their voices muted. There was no raucous laughter, no drunken revelry in this fighting household. Every one of us was waiting, our senses tuned towards the south, towards the west.

  But it was, on that particular evening, the heat that was so wearing, so enervating – the heat of a July day that was slow to dissipate as night fell and should have promised us respite. The servants settled the great castle into its secure night-time state with even less noise than usual. Harry was somewhere in the west; his father the Earl in his Yorkshire lands, marching to join up with his son and Glyn Dwr. Where was Worcester, now that he had irrevocably distanced himself from the King? With Harry, I hoped, at Chester, to instil in him some patience when events did not exactly fit the pattern of his desire. I prayed as I often did that Thomas Percy’s equable good sense would prevail. I thought it would be needed.

  But perhaps there would be no need. Perhaps there would be no battle. Perhaps Lancaster would be the one to step back from the brink and offer the hand of conciliation and some level of financial recompense. There would be no battle and Harry would come home, regretful that there had not been at least one minor clash of cold steel for him to enjoy. But I would be grateful. I wanted no bloodshed.

  Momentarily I covered my face with my hands.

  Was that not a wish contrary to all my desires, that of a foolish woman allowing her ambitions to be deflected by her fear for her lover’s safety? It had all gone too far now for conciliatory gestures. Lancaster would never give up his hard-won throne. Glyn Dwr with Edmund at his heels would seize every opportunity to be a thorn in England’s flesh along the March, a thorn that Lancaster would never tolerate. Whereas Harry’s greatest wish now was to fulfil his destiny on the battlefield for the prize of the crown of England. He would win it and present it to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.

  Was that not what I wished for, whatever the cost in blood and death?

  Would you truly risk Harry’s life for Mortimer glory?

  I shut down the pernicious thought, as I would slam the lid of a clothes press to keep out the moth.

  The sun was almost set, dropping fast now over the garden where we lingered, my women and I, into the heavy dusk of evening until the moon would rise over the stonework with its silver haze. All embroidery had been laid aside, all books of valiant tales closed. Where was the sun setting, the moon rising, on Harry? Was he perhaps at Ludlow, taking advantage of Mortimer hospitality, or somewhere with his tents and soldiers? Somewhere the Percy banners and pennons would drip as limply as the great banner on the tower above me.

  I sighed slowly, silently. It was not my place to speak of what was in every mind, to stir more concern. Our menfolk had returned from the great conflict of Homildon Hill with few casualties. They would fight bravely and effectively again, for there would be a battle. I knew it in my bones. It would be soon. But when and where? The outcome of this rampaging hostility was beyond my knowing.

  Blessed Virgin, keep him safe. Give him tolerance. Grant Henry of Lancaster the foresight to act
generously. Let my brother Edmund be wise in his allegiances. Give Worcester a benign influence on the proceedings. May the Earl be speedy in his march across country. Keep them all safe from harm. And those who would fight in obedience to their overlord, bring them home safe too to their women here in the north.

  My fingers moved restlessly over the smooth beads of my paternoster, lingering on the carved gauds. Never had I prayed so fervently or so uselessly. It would be a hard task for the Blessed Virgin to bestow such indiscriminate blessings when there was blood in the air.

  I must pray for a miracle, I decided. After Compline I would light candles, filling the chapel with them whatever the cost and the Earl’s frown at such expense, and ask the Blessed Virgin to achieve the unachievable, for with the Holy Mother nothing was impossible. The Earl need never know.

  ‘It is so hot.’ One of my ladies, fanning herself with a broad leaf plucked from some aromatic shrub.

  ‘Too hot to do anything but sit here in the plaisance,’ I admitted. ‘Play something for me.’ I was in no mood to pick up the lute for myself.

  Obediently and with some skill she set her fingers to the lute strings and began to sing. Words I knew so well and could have sung for myself. Words I had last heard…

  Now would I fain some mirthes make

  All only for my lady’s sake

  When I her see;

  But now I am so far from her

  It will not be.

  The plangent notes struck hard against my heart, as did the memories of Harry at his most tender.

  ‘Not that one.’

  Without demur, used to my present megrims, she changed to a livelier stanza: her fingers busy on the strings, she sang a new song to stir the heart’s-blood, much in fashion when knightly courage was admired.

  What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?

  With blood-red raiment so terribly arrayed…

  I could not bear the image, however chivalric the words, however heart-rending the notes.