by Anne O'Brien
Meanwhile Bess responded to some comment with a secretive little smile which had just the hint of roguishness. She had grown up in the past year without my noticing it.
‘It is permitted for the little bride’s mother to weep,’ Alianore said, ever watchful, steering me away from prurient eyes.
‘There is no need for weeping,’ I said, jaw clenched against any inclination. ‘I expect he will treat her well. He would not dare do otherwise, for I am sending Dame Hawisia with her. Bess will have all the Percy support she needs, and more, in the Clifford household.’ A memory again intruded, gnawing at my control. ‘What’s more, she will be able to dose them all most effectively against the flux with juniper berries.’
I shook my head when Alianore looked puzzled. I could not talk of it. Instead she asked: ‘And what of you?’
I would be alone, a vessel without sails or rudder in a storm.
Alianore tucked her hand beneath my elbow, pulling me along until we stood on the edge of the crowd in the shelter of a buttress where the wind could not freeze us.
‘What do you hear of events along the Welsh March?’ she asked, low-voiced.
I had no interest. ‘Very little.’
‘Probably because you haven’t been listening. It is mooted that there will be an attempt to rescue my sons.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Not so.’
For the first time in so many months, the tiniest flame of my interest was aroused.
‘A plot?’ I asked.
‘If you will.’
‘Are you involved?’
‘No. I cannot be.’ Her eyes rested on her distant husband, in conversation with a dour Clifford coterie. Mine followed.
‘He would not approve,’ I observed. Edward Charleton, with an eye to his own lands, valued his loyalty to Henry of Lancaster. He would not risk involvement in any enterprise that would endanger this, not even to rescue his wife’s Mortimer sons.
‘He might, but what he doesn’t know he won’t grieve over,’ Alianore admitted, accepting what could not be changed. ‘He is loyal to the King and opposes Glyn Dwr’s ambitions. I doubt if Edward will ever join hands with the Welsh lord in anything but a thin-lipped truce.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ I invited.
‘I can’t tell you more. But I expect you’ll know before it happens.’
I frowned. ‘Who will lead it? Not Edmund.’
‘No. How would Edmund get his hands on them to rescue them? Nor could Glyn Dwr.’ She turned her back on the crowd. ‘Who, Elizabeth, do you know who would be ambitious enough to attempt such a bold move, stealing them away from under Lancaster’s nose?’
Our eyes touched, held, before looking away, as if recognition would implicate us too. I could think of some who might. I could think of one of my acquaintance who had kept close ties with the court, whose ambitions were unfathomable, who might not be averse to stirring more flames of rebellion. But indeed, I did not think it would ever happen. Who would be so foolhardy as to ignite Lancaster’s wrath? He had proved himself more than ready to protect his uneasy inheritance and with four sons to share his burden it would be a brave or a foolhardy man, or woman, who would issue such a challenge.
Harry would. Harry would do it.
Harry was both brave and foolhardy.
But Harry was dead.
‘Who,’ Alianore demanded with an interesting spite, ‘would have no hesitation in following her own probably immoral desires?’
‘You can’t say that, Alianore.’
‘Oh, but I can.’
‘Just because you don’t approve of her present manner of life.’
‘No, I don’t. Her immorality is a disgrace to us all.’
Since her tone had become more astringent, I drew her further into the shadow of the wall. ‘Hush…’
‘I will not hush.’
‘If your brother wants her as his mistress, it’s as much his fault as hers.’
‘I’ll not disagree.’ Alianore proceeded to condemn her brother as heartily as his lover. ‘I don’t have to agree with his choice of female to warm his bed.’
‘Do you believe it? That she will involve herself in a Mortimer plot?’ I asked, interested to know where her thoughts were travelling, seeing the need to direct her concentration away from her brother’s lust for a woman who was not his wife.
Alianore sighed a little, turning to face the crowd once more. ‘No, I don’t think that I do. It is merely wishful thinking.’ Her glance became keen and distinctly judgemental. ‘I thought you should be warned. You have been wrapped around with your own affairs for far too long. I thought it time that you emerged to see what was going on around you. Have you abandoned our cause? Has Harry’s death robbed you of your dream to achieve a Mortimer crown? For shame, Elizabeth.’
‘Am I so self-indulgent?’ I said, shocked by her unexpected attack.
‘Terribly so!’
And I nodded, suddenly of a mind to agree. ‘It is time that I stepped out into the world again. Let us go in and toast John and Bess and smother them with gifts.’
‘And for a little while we will forget that a Mortimer rescue might cause us all more upheaval than we would wish for.’
I doubted that there was anything to forget. It would not happen.
Chapter Eighteen
Alnwick Castle: January 1405
I was wrong, and Alianore distressingly correct in her assessment of my abandoning of the Mortimer cause. Matters had been developing, as I was to discover when a soft, leather-wrapped package arrived for me with the New Year, enclosing a length of fine damask, delivered by a smartly liveried retainer who had journeyed some distance with an escort.
‘What do they want?’ said the Earl, taking note of the striking livery of silver and red quarters with their gold fretwork as the courier was dispatched to the kitchens for sustenance and a fire to thaw his hands and feet. It was cold weather for travelling.
‘I have no idea, my lord.’ I hid the letter which the courier had also passed to me, draping the fine cloth, which I had just released from its wrapping, over my arm. The dark blue was flattering to my colouring, as was the sumptuous pelt of fur that had accompanied it. Some thought had gone into the sending of it. ‘Just a New Year family gesture, from my cousin.’
‘Cousinship does not necessarily dictate so much effort. Or expense.’ The Earl’s speculation was tinged with suspicion. ‘I did not know you were close enough with the York branch of your family to exchange gifts.’
‘Nor I. She has not received one from me.’
The letter from Constance, Lady Despenser, once Countess of Gloucester, now flagrant mistress of Alianore’s brother the Earl of Kent, burned in my palm.
‘Well, that family will want something. When do they ever not?’ He ran the back of his hand down the length of the sable, perfect for edging the heavy embroidered silk. ‘Expensive. I doubt she expects you to intercede for her.’
‘No. I have no one’s ear. Nor does she require intercession. She is quite capable of interceding for herself to get restitution of her husband’s land and her own dower.’
Constance was still suffering from her dead husband’s treachery in the Revolt of the Earls, which was common knowledge; I did not mention the brief conversation between myself and the courier in that first moment before the Earl encroached on our privacy.
‘My mistress expects a reply, my lady,’ he had said.
‘Then I will give one.’
I would not be hurried. Not by Constance of York.
‘By word of mouth, if it pleases you.’
‘Yet your mistress is willing to put her own thoughts in writing.’ My fingers closed around the letter, still deep within the cloth.
‘My mistress is a woman who drives her own path through life, my lady. It is only a New Year’s greeting, and of no interest to any man.’ His smile was unpleasantly ingratiating. ‘Or to any lady other than yourself.’
Ingratiating he might be, but it
was enough to spark my interest.
Making my apologies to the Earl, I retired to my chamber where I handed cloth and fur to one of my women and set myself to read. And I read again, considering its content. Yes, it was a festive greeting, hoping that I would enjoy the gift. She had been thinking of me in my widowhood, praying that I would be soon restored to calm equanimity, able to look to the future. Perhaps I would visit the Royal Court. Perhaps I would even consider taking another husband. I was hardly too far gone in years. Nor was she.
I know what it is to suffer the loss of a husband for sins against the crown.
Which was true enough. Constance’s life had undergone much upheaval when she had lost her own lord in the aftermath of the Revolt of the Earls. Thomas Despenser, once Earl of Gloucester, had ignominiously forfeited his head, when seized by a mob loyal to Lancaster in Bristol as he attempted to escape to France. But was this widow-like compassion enough to account for this more than friendly overture where none had existed before? I had my suspicions, being well aware, as was the rest of the court, of where Constance’s sensual eye had travelled since her husband’s head fell.
Yet the content of the letter was completely innocuous.
It was that which worried me. I did not think that Constance would send me a gift of sable pelts of such good quality without some purpose.
I looked again at the final sentences, trying to read through Constance’s carefully constructed lines.
It is my intention to travel to the Despenser lordship of Cardiff next month where I will meet up with some old friends from the Welsh March. I can hope that you too will be there so that we might renew our cousinly friendship. Who knows what the outcome will be? If nothing else, we will raise a cup of wine to toast Hotspur’s brave exploits at Shrewsbury and commiserate on his death. I know that you will act in his memory and bring our meeting to a good fruition.
I sat for a long time, tapping the document against my knee. So little explained, so much hinted at.
If nothing else we will raise a cup of wine to toast Hotspur’s brave exploits at Shrewsbury.
A dangerous statement, all in all, when Harry’s brave exploits had been treason. So what was her intent in this meeting with old friends in Wales? I had the impression that she believed me to have more knowledge than I actually had. She did not realise my self-imposed isolation. Even Alianore knew more than I of what might be afoot along the Welsh March.
But a reply was needed. I sought out the messenger, his frozen features pink with warmth and ale and warming flattery from the kitchenmaids. I sat across from him at the scrubbed board in the kitchen, to the discomfort of my servants, who retired to gossip behind the pans waiting to be scoured clean.
‘Here is my reply for your mistress. Say this. I will give this matter my close attention. I am gratified that you felt so well disposed towards me that you should send a gift, and an invitation to enjoy your company and that of old friends in Wales. I will consider that too. Can you remember to repeat that?’
‘I can, my lady. I have much experience.’
Of secrecy. Of scandal, I expected. Constance’s name was coupled with that of Alianore’s brother in an illicit union, becoming mistress of Edmund Holland, Earl of Kent, within a very short time of Thomas Despenser’s death. All the reason for there being no love lost between Alianore and Constance. For a brief moment I was taken up with Constance’s predicament. If she was expecting marriage from Edmund Holland, she a widow of four years’ standing and he as yet unwed, it seemed she was destined to be disappointed. Perhaps even Edmund Holland baulked at a too-close York alliance, and he would need to discover a wife with money, which Constance did not have. I could almost feel compassion for her.
There was neither scandal nor compassion in my reply, which seemed hardly worth the sending. And yet it left me with much to contemplate, not least that this opaque communication might be all plot and no substance. One thing to see a possibility and a desirable outcome; quite another to put it into action when the King was awake to every danger. I had committed myself to nothing but I would wait and listen.
Before my daughter’s marriage, I would have rejected any suspicion, but my mind had come alive, Alianore’s warning directing my sight towards political events. There were new players, it seemed, in the game to make a Mortimer King. If Constance decided to busy herself in Mortimer affairs, who better to achieve it, for Constance’s reuniting with Lancaster after the treason of her late husband, however genuine the reconciliation might be, had given her entrée to the Royal Court. It would not be impossible for her to arrange an escape for the two boys now ensconced at Windsor, boys no longer but now young men who would not be averse to some grand adventure which would lead to their escape and freedom.
What would Harry advise? Harry would not advise me to sit and wait at Alnwick. He would already be ordering his horse to be saddled and his retinue to arm themselves.
A new thought came to displace Constance: was my brother Edmund involved in this? Before I committed myself to anything, I needed to know what my brother had to say for himself. Furthermore, if there was a conspiracy, why had I been kept in the dark?
It was good to be involved again, my mind once more racing to absorb new events. As I had once before, when I had defied Harry’s wishes, I left the north, despite the January cold. Firm ground and lack of snow made travel relatively easy. If there was a conspiracy unfolding there was only one who would know and who could be trusted to tell me the truth. In the recesses of my mind there was a frisson of excitement. One day Alianore and Roger’s sons might be free.
The Earl scowled at my preparations for I intended to travel in some style.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Ludlow.’
‘Why?’
‘I need a change of scene. Of air.’
‘Nothing wrong with the air here in my lands.’
‘None at all. But I have a desire to see old friends.’
I noticed how I had picked up Constance’s phrase. It was in my mind, and could not be shaken.
Settled in the fur-heaped comfort of the travelling carriage I resurrected the image of Constance as I had last seen her; a woman of self-will, of keen ambition, of self-regard. And how charming she could be. Within months of Despenser’s death, Constance had persuaded Lancaster that she was a woman to be trusted. How much had she smiled on her cousin to wring from him the confiscated property belonging to her husband, as well as jewels and plate and the custody of her son? A woman of considerable talent, she even had her dower rights restored to her, despite being a traitor’s widow. There was no doubt in my mind. If there was some means of taking the Mortimer heirs from their royal imprisonment in Windsor without Lancaster’s knowledge, she would have more opportunity and more chance of success than anyone I knew.
But why would she? Why would she wish to become involved in so tortuous an affair that had already cost Harry his life? Only if, anticipating victory, it meant political influence for her and her brothers Edward of Aumale and Richard of Cambridge. Which raised an alarm in my mind as clamorous as the church bells in the town through which we travelled. Would I want my nephew to fall into their hands, to be crowned King with Constance’s brothers as counsellors? Would I wish to be involved with this York conspiracy, even with the allure of ultimate Mortimer enhancement?
Aumale had been one of the Epiphany plotters, the only one to retain his head and his position at court without punishment. Which smacked of ill-dealing, for who had informed Lancaster of the plot, to allow him to take such rapid means to foil it?
No, I did not trust any of them. For once the Earl and I were in agreement.
It was a relief to be on the move, yet I could not bring myself to draw back the curtains when we rode past Shrewsbury and its blood-soaked land. Instead I buried my face in the cushions, eyes tight shut against the vivid images that obscured all good sense. At least the dread noise of battle did not assail me as it had in my garden when the moon had been b
lotted out. One day I would make my pilgrimage, but not yet. First I must discover what it was that I did not know.
Before my expected arrival I had sent a message on to Harlech, asking Edmund to meet me. When the great English fortress had fallen to Glyn Dwr in the previous year, after the loss of his lovely home at Sycharth the Welsh prince had moved his court, his military headquarters, his home and all his family, including Edmund, behind its substantial walls. I had barely moved into my own familiar accommodations at Ludlow before Edmund rode in with nothing more than a small escort, without livery or consequence, a private individual out and about on his own business with nothing to draw attention to his estate.
‘I hope this is important.’ His first words as he dragged off his cap from his flattened hair, regarding me with an expression that was not particularly fond. I suspected that he had only come here through habit, obeying an elder sister. The tone of my summons I realised had been peremptory. ‘It’s dangerous my being here. Lancaster would give a glittering reward for my head.’
‘I’ve not come for your head,’ I said without sympathy. ‘I’ve come for information and you are the only reliable source I know.’
‘To ask after my good health? That of my wife and children, perhaps? How we escaped by the skin our teeth when Sycharth was burned down around us?’
His gaze was strangely speculative, such that I felt my face flush at my lack of good manners as I walked beside him towards his own chambers. Edmund and Catherine now had two daughters but I would not be drawn to enquire. I spoke frankly as we climbed the stairs.
‘I will ask after them when you tell me what you know. I’ve had an astonishingly vague but complex letter from Constance Despenser under the guise of an expensive New Year offering. There seems to be some conspiracy, for which Constance wants my blessing. I think she presumes I would be well informed about it. Which I am not.’
