Queen of the North

by Anne O'Brien

  Perhaps I saw pity on his face.

  ‘As for you, Elizabeth, I will consider my policy for your future. You avoided Waterton sent to arrest you, and yet here you are of your own volition. It makes me wonder why. Perhaps you might come and tell me in an hour, in the chapel after Matins.’

  I bent my head in yet another obeisance, to hear him add: ‘Royal widows, Elizabeth, are always valuable.’

  I shivered inwardly.

  Then the Earl and I were alone. I could not look at him.

  ‘I despise you,’ I said. ‘I despise you for what you have just done.’

  His reply was immediate and harsh as he put out his arm to prevent me walking past him.

  ‘Why would you? You should be thanking me from the bottom of your heart. I’ll not put myself into the King’s hands by inviting blame. My inheritance and that of my heir – your son – depends on King Henry’s being willing to overlook my past demeanours. What would you have me do? If you are content that I make your son’s inheritance unviable, I’ll go back and tell the King that I had put my name to the alliance. Is that what you would prefer? Our credibility destroyed and the Earldom with it?’

  ‘I would rather you treat your son’s name with honour, not with ignominy. To achieve your credibility you have smeared your son’s reputation in filth.’

  ‘I have not. He was impulsive, too much so for his own good as he proved again and again. It’s no secret, and I’ll not apologise to you for using his weakness to Percy account. When I die, your son will become Earl of Northumberland. If I must forswear Harry to achieve it, then I will do it.’

  If there was any truth in such bitter reasoning, it was beyond my acceptance. Without thought, without control, I lifted my hand and I struck him, the flat of my palm against his cheek, the sound sharp and hard in the room.

  The Earl was as shocked as I, until he recovered, and sneered.

  ‘A woman’s blow!’

  I was aware that my hand curled into an unwomanly fist. Would I have struck again? I did not. The Earl raised his hand as if he would strike me back.

  ‘Would you dare?’ I said, not even flinching.

  His hand fell away, the force of my blow bright on his cheek. I might regret my lack of restraint, or even my humiliation of a man of supreme arrogance, but contempt remained a bright flame to consume all past respect.

  ‘You might have turned your back on your son, but I never will,’ I denounced him. ‘I repudiate you. I damn you for what you have done here today.’

  My blood running cold with a fury that I must restrain, I went to my meeting with Lancaster, knowing I would face a contest that I must win, not only for my freedom but for the reason I had come here today. We met in the chapel; all the memories crowded in of the chapel in Doncaster where this had all begun, Lancaster taking his oaths and drawing us into this fatal denouement. Where Lancaster was on his knees in his personal communication with God, standing as I entered, signing the cross on his breast.

  By the time I had made my own genuflection to the altar, he was facing me.

  ‘Well, Elizabeth.’

  He would not immediately be accommodating. I knelt before him, when I had sworn that I never would. My cousin’s words fell over me in all their cold clarity.

  ‘Is this to beg for your freedom? To allow you to return to the north, or to the Welsh March, where you will pick up the sword that has fallen from Hotspur’s dead hand? Are you not satisfied with his death, and those of your Percy retainers? The battle was such that I would never wish to face again, with all its blood and destruction of brave Englishmen, on both sides.’

  It was a cruel picture that he drew, as he held out his hand to raise me to my feet.

  ‘No, my lord.’ Our eyes were on a level. ‘I think you know what I will request.’

  ‘I think I do. And why should I comply? Your husband was a traitor. What’s more, he destroyed a friendship that I held dear. My admiration for him was so strong that I would give my son and heir into his care.’

  ‘I ask because I think it is in you to have compassion on a brave man who fought for you, who spent his time and his energies for your cause. Your friendship was forged at the tournament where you would have learned his strengths, and also his inability to turn aside from a difficulty. You would have known his belief in what was right. He would fight for that to the death.’

  ‘And I loved him well. Until he turned against me.’

  ‘Until he turned against you, because in the end he believed that yours was not the rightful claim and that you broke your oath.’ My mouth was dry, my lips stiff with the words, but I had planned them well and I would say them. ‘You are the victor, my lord. I think it is in you as the victor to hear my petition. For the sake of Henry Percy’s son, I ask it. It is not fitting that all remains as it is.’

  ‘It is fitting that my enemies see the results of his treason.’

  ‘And now they have. You allowed the seemly burial of Worcester at Shrewsbury. Have mercy, Henry. Allow me to put my lord to rest.’

  ‘I said that Percy’s head would remain on Micklegate Bar as long as it can last the predations of time and carrion.’

  ‘Have mercy, my lord. On me and on the friend that Sir Henry Percy once was to you.’

  I was kneeling again, head bent as the silence pulsed against the bare walls in that holy place. Then at last, when I had given up hope:

  ‘Very well. I will allow it.’

  I sighed. ‘I doubt that you will accept my thanks, but I give them.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where will it be?’

  ‘In his own country.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Warkworth, perhaps. He loved that the most.’

  Once more I was brought to my feet by his hand on my arm. ‘I will do it, but hear this, Elizabeth. I want no shrine to Percy rebellion. If I discover that you have set up some monument to Percy power, I will come and destroy it.’

  I held his eyes with mine. ‘As you destroyed his first burial. They said that you wept on the battlefield on finding him. I suppose that was a lie.’

  ‘It was a lie. I might weep for many things, but I did not find Hotspur’s body amongst the terrible melee.’ I could see the bitter memory newly engraved in his face. It was a far cry from the man who had celebrated at his wedding, a mere handful of months ago. ‘You have what you wanted,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask for your loyalty.’

  Which did nothing but rekindle my anger as I recalled one of my main grievances. ‘Nor will you get it. You bought Dunbar.’

  ‘He did not take much buying.’

  ‘Was he always your man? Was it always a ploy, to have him in your service, to skulk and watch to report back on what the Percys might be doing?’

  ‘I like to think he was my man.’ Henry lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘What would you have me do? A King buys friends where he must.’

  ‘So that’s why you now allow Dunbar to style his new herald with the name Shrewsbury. In memory of a battle in which he took the field against those who thought he was a friend. Before God, I did not think you would be so insensitive.’

  But Lancaster’s patience with me had drained. ‘If you wish me to carry out my promise of a moment ago, attacking me is not a good way to keep my compassion.’

  ‘No, it is not. You have my gratitude.’ I all but choked on the words, but I made them. He could have denied me, after all.

  ‘All I ask is that you use my compliance wisely, that you retire to live in peace while you consider how many died at Shrewsbury because of you, and because of Hotspur’s futile Mortimer cause.’

  I bowed, and turned away. Then stopped, looking back at him.

  ‘Could you not have stopped the battle? Did you desire my lord’s death so much?’

  ‘Do you think the blame lies at my door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought that he changed his mind over what he would say. ‘I did all I could.’

  ‘But not enough.’

  Chapter Seventee
n

  Warkworth Castle

  Lancaster kept me at York for the turn of two weeks, perhaps to impress on me the ultimate power he had over the rest of my life, before allowing me to return to the north. We had no communication during that time other than the polite and very public exchange of niceties at meals when he deigned to keep me company. What was there to say between us? But he carried out his promise to me, and most speedily.

  It was a trying time.

  At least I was spared having to tolerate the Earl’s company since he was sent on to Pontefract to await Lancaster’s coming.

  But now I was free and with the lapse of time the sad cavalcade of Lancaster’s organising had arrived at Warkworth before me. By the time I dismounted I knew that all restitution had been done by those household officials loyal to the Percy name. It helped in a little way to assuage the raging sorrow and the anger that Sir Henry Percy should have been dealt with as brutally as a common criminal.

  I dismounted, stiffly, our steward immediately at my side, his face grim but with a certain fevered satisfaction. Before I could even ask:

  ‘He is here, my lady. Two days since. We have made arrangements in the chapel. I thought that would be what you would wish.’ He swallowed hard, for a moment his eyes bright with moisture, his voice raw, but his command was superb. Stronger than mine, I suspected, for I was weary. ‘All is restored. We have put all to rights.’

  ‘Praise the Blessed Virgin.’ I sighed in a semblance of relief that Lancaster had been true to his word, at the same time as I felt a need to clutch my steward’s arm, exhaustion striking home. ‘And I have the final piece of the whole, to make all well. Or as much as we can make it. I think nothing will ever be well again.’

  He kept hold of my arm as if he feared to let me go.

  ‘If you will give it to me, I will see to it, my lady.’

  ‘No. This is what I must do myself. But you have my thanks. Come with me, if you will.’

  He led me towards the open door which led into the old keep.

  ‘Where is the Earl, my lady?’

  ‘With the King in Pontefract. From there he will be sent to London to answer for his sins before parliament.’ I was sorry for the sudden anxiety I had caused this loyal retainer who stiffened beside me.

  ‘The Earl will not be incarcerated. The King will release him, I expect, when he has made him suffer enough. It is good news, you understand.’ I could never see it as good. ‘He will be allowed to speak in his own defence.’

  Our steward was reassured. ‘Good news indeed. Meanwhile I will do all in my power to serve you, my lady. I know that yours was the determination that made this possible. The whole household knows the debt it owes to you.’

  I rewarded him with as much of a smile as I could summon. He slid his grip from my arm to my hand to lead me into the great hall.

  ‘You are cold. Will you rest first, my lady, and take some wine? Your chambers in the west range are all prepared.’

  ‘No.’ I felt that I would never be warm again. ‘My mind will not rest, nor will it until we have brought Sir Henry home. This must be done now.’

  Signalling to the page who, anticipating my need, had already collected the burden wrapped in the blue Percy lion, holding it as if it were as precious as the bones of St John of Bridlington, I followed the steward across the hall and into the chapel where a bier had been erected before the altar. It had been covered with a banner that fell in seemly folds to the floor on all sides, shrouding the uneven shape below it with grace. One candle cast its faint gleam on the golden stitching, the rest was hid in discreet shadows beneath the simple arches. All was still, as if waiting for me and what I had brought with me. Even the candle flame burned straight and true. There was no movement in that place. No life.

  ‘Light the candles,’ I said. ‘All of them.’

  ‘If it is your wish, my lady.’

  ‘I saw him in life, I will see him in death.’

  There was our priest beside me, anxious, putting into words the steward’s concerns. ‘But my lady, it was no ordinary death. It may be better that you do not—’

  ‘I know what I will see. I owe it to him to do this since he died far from me and without my knowledge. I will put my seal on his death by being witness here in the holy place that he loved.’

  Between them steward and priest lit the candles on the altar and in the wall sconces, before, reading my mind, the steward lifted a stand of them forward so that the bier would be illuminated as if with heavenly glory.

  ‘Thank you.’ I drew in a heavy breath, steeling every one of my senses against what we must do. ‘And now we will complete our task.’

  For Henry of Lancaster, my cousin Henry, to make an example of a Percy traitor, in his wisdom had defiled Harry’s body. Blessed Virgin, had he no pity? No pity, as he had made abundantly clear. Only a limitless demand for revenge.

  Lancaster may have wept in the aftermath of the massacre, but he had been struck by the value to him of Harry’s death. From that final resting place in Whitchurch, in a quiet corner of the Welsh March, my cousin Lancaster had my lord’s body exhumed, the corrupt flesh rubbed with salt, to prevent further corruption before it could make the impression Lancaster desired. My lord was placed carefully, sitting upright between two great millstones at the High Cross in Shrewsbury, so that all who passed by might see and be afraid. Thus was the great Hotspur finally brought low in public view.

  Until, that is, Lancaster decided that the rest of England must be reminded of the penalty to be paid by traitors. Harry’s head was sent to York, to greet us, set on the spikes of Micklegate. And then the unforgivable butchery, when Lancaster ordered the foul dismemberment, quarters dispatched to London, to Bristol, to Newcastle and to Chester. I could think about it now without vomiting. Messengers were sent out to proclaim his death through the country, and here was the evidence. There would be no convenient rumours that Harry Percy, my beloved Hotspur, was still alive.

  Richard’s body had been left intact. There was no grace in Lancaster’s treatment of my lord.

  But now we would make restoration.

  The priest turned back the glorious cloth to reveal what lay below, and although my belly quailed, I was astounded at the length to which our people had gone. Flesh had succumbed from time and weather and the dread attentions of crow and raven, from the mishandling of those who had no compassion, from the wounds on the battlefield, but those allotted the task had masked the ruined limbs in clothing. Percy motifs shone out in the candlelight, disguising the depredations below. They had put boots on his feet and gauntlets on his hands; a tunic covered his breast. My breath caught again at the dignity they had awarded him.

  Now I took the bundle from the page and between us we unwrapped the one part that was missing.

  I took it in my hands, retrieved as it had been from the ignominy of Micklegate Bar, cleansed as much as had been possible. Remnants of that deep red hair were still visible, the skin drawn tight over the carapace of his skull. Carefully we placed it in its rightful position, then drew the covering over all, the candle flames a blessing again on the gilt and the embroidered damask.

  ‘Sir Henry Percy, returned to his own, as it should be,’ I said. ‘My well-beloved Hotspur, made whole in death.’

  We bowed with all reverence.

  ‘What do you wish, my lady?’

  ‘I will keep vigil.’

  ‘Where will you wish my lord to be interred?’

  It was a difficult decision that I had been refusing to face.

  ‘I will decide.’

  Lancaster’s advice and threat rang loud in my ears.

  They left me.

  Through the pall I touched his hands. The length of his arm, his feet, the curve of his breast where an attempt had been made to reconstruct what had been destroyed by Henry’s doing. Then, drawing away the cloth once more to view the whole, I knelt at his side. This was not Harry, merely the structure that had once enclosed his heart, his mighty spi
rit, his vivid mind. He was not here. I imagined him riding his favourite horse across the northern hills, the breeze lifting this hair about his brow, rippling the pennons of those following him. His hands guiding his mount with such assurance, his banners flying overhead. That was Harry, not this carapace. But this needed to be done and so it was, as I wished it.

  I knelt in that cold place, without tranquillity, without serenity, and kept vigil for him who was my love. He would not be left alone.

  Eternal rest grant him, O Lord,

  And let perpetual light shine upon him.

  From the gates of hell,

  Deliver his soul, O Lord.

  May he rest in peace.

  Then in the deep silence I decided where he would be buried.

  Once determined, it was not difficult to achieve despite my status as widow of an attainted traitor. Alone, clothed in black from head to foot, my face and hair veiled, I stood in the chapel set aside for this moment, the most secluded, the darkest, offset from the high altar, the one least likely for pilgrims to visit within the splendour that was York Minster. And here was one of the priests who approached, leading a small cortège that carried an unadorned coffin.

  ‘My lady. Do we have permission for this deed?’ he asked after a deep bow, his plain dark robes, as if he too were part of my plotting, merging with the shadows.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘His Grace the Archbishop asks that he might see the permission.’ The cleric, a man of some standing by the quality of his vestments, but nervous of these present events, hesitated, then explained as if I would not be aware of something so germane to the pattern of my life. ‘It would not be politic for the church to displease the King at this juncture.’