Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ those oaths as so much dross. But there was no true bafflement for me there. It was not difficult for me to see that severe dissatisfaction had been looming on our northern horizon for some months. Now, for my own satisfaction, I slotted the problems together into a snug-fitting mosaic.

      It had to be said that the Earl of Northumberland, bending the ear of his standard-bearer, had become increasingly restless with Richard’s interference in what he saw as his own preserve, even though he and Harry between them held the positions of Warden of the West and East March and thus in effect, in the King’s name, controlled the north. The Earl had much to thank Richard for. At the banquet to mark the coronation of the child King back in 1377 Henry, then Lord Percy, Marshal of England, had been created Earl of Northumberland. In the previous year, Harry and his two brothers had all been knighted by the old King Edward the Third. Thus all would seem set for Percy prosperity and influence as royal counsellors and controllers of the border region, notorious for insurrection.

      But all was not well, either in London or in the northern March. Here on our own doorstep Richard, in his wisdom, was intent on negotiating with the Scots to achieve a permanent peace. Not a situation that would endear itself to a warlike family that looked for every opportunity to increase its territory and wealth in its raids against its neighbour. No room here in Richard’s planning for Percy territorial ambitions, interests or traditions. Peace with the Scots was not smiled upon over a dish of Percy pottage. Disillusionment coated the venison with a slick glaze. Richard’s policies were, within the fastness of our own walls, heartily condemned.

      Nor was this all. I cast a glance across at the Neville Earl of Westmorland, busy discussing with Harry the punishment of a band of enterprising brigands from over the border, with no evidence of bad blood between them. But there was more than a hint of wariness on both sides. The Neville family had appeared within our environs when this Ralph Neville was created Earl of Westmorland by a silkily smiling Richard, along with the gift of the border town of Penrith and other lands in Cumberland. Westmorland’s intentions became an item of suspicion in Percy discussions. No Percy enjoyed a competitor for the length and breadth of their authority in these lands. Northumberland’s vision of the north held no role for Westmorland.

      But so much power invested in the Percy lord could be deemed dangerous. Richard had known perfectly well what he was doing in promoting the power of the Nevilles in our midst. Promote a Neville, curb a Percy. Which placed Richard firmly in the role of enemy to Percy ambitions.

      But would this mild dissatisfaction encourage my family by marriage to rebel against the King? I did not think so. Would our power not be enhanced through bolstering Richard rather than undermining him? Royal gratitude could pave our path in gold.

      ‘I’m Warden of the East March, appointed for ten years.’ Harry’s dogmatic statement in reply to some Neville query reached me as if in response to my line of thought. ‘We wield the power Richard has given us and hold on to what we have. We’ll not question Richard’s right to rule.’

      No disloyalty. No frisson of treason here. But here we were, riding south to meet up with my cousin of Lancaster who had just branded himself the greatest traitor of them all.

      ‘That’s not the talk of the March, as I hear it,’ Westmorland suggested.

      ‘Never believe the talk of the March.’ Harry’s shoulders, neatly encased in a new brigandine for the occasion, complete with gold stitching, lifted in a shrug of sorts. I could not see his expression for the fall of his hair beneath his brimmed beaver hat.

      ‘What do you say, my lady?’ Westmorland leaned forward to catch my eye.

      If I was flattered to be asked, I showed none of my pleasure. ‘I’d say that Harry has still not learned to keep his mouth shut when pricked by outrageous irritation.’

      ‘Well, it was outrageous,’ Harry responded. ‘And I spoke as I thought.’

      ‘There you are. Guilty as charged.’

      A guffaw from Westmorland indicated that he knew full well the source of this irritant that had caused Harry’s challenge to royal power. No one with ears in the locality could have missed it when Richard had begun to draw power more securely into his own fist, starting with the demand for vast payments of money from nobles who caught our suspicious King’s attention.

      Most noble families kept their dissent between themselves and paid up. Harry, of course, had to be the one to voice his disfavour, which some mischief-maker was quick to report to our King in all its unsavoury language.

      Richard had subsequently muttered about banishment from England, a favourite ploy to rid himself of those who stepped on the toes of his elegant shoes. There were also threats of forfeiture and death, before Richard postponed all his punishing of recalcitrant magnates until his return from his campaign in Ireland.

      ‘No,’ Harry was in the process of agreeing, ‘it was not wise, but temper, and a cup and more of inferior wine with a pompously wordy royal courier, got the better of me. Now we await Richard’s return to see whether he smiles on us or wields his power to batter us into submission. I don’t fear banishment. We are too useful to him, and Richard will have had time to reconsider.’ His smile was cynical. ‘Our King was as hasty as I.’

      ‘He might not be in the most friendly of moods,’ Westmorland warned. ‘The Irish expedition has gone badly.’

      ‘We’ll meet that when Richard comes home.’

      Which left me wondering if Harry was as phlegmatic as he appeared. He might have need to be afraid of Richard who used banishment with high-handed authority. I had a sudden vision of packing my clothes to accompany Harry on a long sojourn in France.

      ‘Another question for you,’ Westmorland offered.

      Harry raised his brows.

      ‘If your uncle of Worcester were in England, would he be here with us today?’

      I sensed Harry stiffen, infinitesimally, at my side, his horse shaking its head as the reins tightened.

      ‘Why would he not?’

      ‘Loyalty is bred into your uncle of Worcester as savagery is into a wild boar.’

      ‘True.’

      I glanced again at Harry.

      ‘He is, at the present moment,’ Westmorland continued, ‘most loyally disposed at Richard’s service with men at arms and a hundred archers, in Ireland. Is he as prone to rebellion as you?’

      Again the breath of a shrug. ‘Get one Percy in your camp, and you get the rest.’ And then: ‘Who’s calling this a rebellion?’

      ‘If Richard gets wind of this venture,’ Westmorland’s hand closed hard on his sword hilt, ‘the penalty of failure could be death for all of us.’

      ‘So we are merely riding to ensure the peace of the March. We will return home after a few weeks, as good loyal subjects.’

      Harry was deliberately avoiding my eye.

      ‘I don’t see it.’ Nor was Westmorland persuaded. ‘And what is your opinion, Madam Elizabeth?’

      I smiled my thanks for his generosity, but was careful in my reply, for this was a more serious question than Harry delving into my thoughts on my sisters’ possible treason. I leaned towards extreme circumspection.

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