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

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СКАЧАТЬ power. I curtsied, eyes lowered to the gilded shoes that peeped beneath her embroidered and furred skirts. Her ladies-in-waiting hemmed her in.

      ‘Come and sit with me.’

      Isabelle de Valois beckoned, charmingly imperious, with a jewel-heavy hand. Her voice had lost nothing of its accent in the few years of her domicile in England.

      How very young she was with her light voice, her unformed features, her hair severely curtailed within a lace-edged coif. I had forgotten. She would be barely ten years, little older than when I wed Harry. I swore that I had more awareness than she of what a marriage would mean; Isabelle, despite three years of marriage and all the Valois dignity bred into her frail body, looked a mere child in rich folds of damask and fur and encrusted embroidery, so that I presumed that she had dressed for this occasion. My eye was taken by the glitter of her figure, for she was festooned with jewels that had been part of her dowry. Chaplets and collars, brooches and jewelled clasps were pinned to and draped over every surface. On the coffer beside her there were gilded drinking vessels and a ewer set with gems. Richard had instilled into his wife the need to make an impression on her subjects.

      ‘I trust it was not inconvenient, my summoning you here, Lady Percy.’

      Her lips curved in a smile, and I found her worthy of my pity. She was like my own daughter, caught dressing in cloaks and costumes from the Twelfth Night coffers. Moreover I thought that there was fear in her pale grey eyes. Her dolls, brought to England along with their miniature silver furnishings, I suspected had been packed away. In the present unrest she could be allowed to be a child no longer.

      I took as indicated a low stool below the little dais where she sat, smoothing my skirts, pleased that I had made an effort with my own raiment despite arriving at the palace on horseback, waiting on the Queen who said nothing but waved her damsels to a little distance. She took a visible breath. ‘I wish to know, Lady Percy, what happens in the country. I think that my damsels keep dangerous news from me.’ She leaned towards me, lowering her voice. ‘I think my husband has returned from Ireland,’ she said.

      ‘Yes, my lady.’ That was common knowledge. ‘He landed at Milford Haven in Wales. In the final days of July.’

      ‘But July is so long ago and he has not come to me. I understand that our uncle of York has taken forces to lend my lord the King aid against the…’ She thought for a moment, as if to choose her words with care, before abandoning all discretion. ‘Against the rebels who commit treason against him.’

      It was as if she had learned the lines, to repeat when necessary.

      ‘So I understand. Although my Lord of Lancaster would deny that he has treason in mind. All will be resolved when they meet.’ And then when she burrowed her neat little teeth into her lower lip: ‘Why have you sent for me, my lady?’

      Isabelle became suddenly more than direct, her eyes alight with knowledge. ‘Because your family, Lady Percy, are the rebels. They are marching with Lancaster to force my lord the King into compliance.’

      I felt a heat at my temples and I smoothed my palms against my skirts. I had not expected this accusation.

      ‘They mean you no harm, my lady,’ I replied smoothly to reassure, for behind the outward composure, she was not calm. ‘Nor will they harm King Richard. The Earl of Worcester, my lord Percy’s uncle, is still in service with the King. They will talk with him and come to an agreement acceptable to all. The King and his cousin of Lancaster will clasp hands once more in friendship.’

      ‘Do I believe you?’ Isabelle lifted her chin, allowing me to see the Queen that she might one day become, in authority as well as in name, if fate allowed it. Now there was fire in her eye and colour in her cheeks. ‘I hear that your father by law, the Earl of Northumberland, has been sent to Conwy to take my lord the King prisoner. I hear that your husband has taken control of Chester, to persuade the loyal citizens to support the usurper Lancaster. I hear that your husband has been defeating loyal men in Cheshire who would support my husband. I hear that the Earl of Worcester, my lord’s steward, has broken his rod of office and joined forces with the rest of the Percy traitors. The despicable Lancaster is pulling the Percy strings. What do you know of this, Lady Percy? Are you seeking to take the sacred crown from the King my husband because Lancaster commands you to do so?’

      I was taken aback at both the extent of her knowledge and the venom in her attack. Moreover I liked not the presumption that we were mere puppets of Lancaster. We did not dance to his piping but to our own convictions. Anger rose fast and hot in my throat, words forming to deny our complicity in taking Richard’s crown. Until good sense snuffed out my outrage. This was neither the time nor the place for rancour.

      Instead, in measured tones I said: ‘You are better informed than I, my lady.’ She obviously had her sources. I had not realised that the threatening conflict had progressed so far. ‘At least it seems that there has been no battle, no bloodshed.’

      ‘Is that good news?’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘What I do not know is what has happened to my lord the King. Is he still free? What will happen to him if he is taken prisoner?’ She clasped and unclasped her hands, her rings reflecting the light again and again. ‘I fear for his safety.’

      ‘There is no need. My lord of Lancaster took a sacred oath that he wanted only what is his by inheritance. He intends no harm to his cousin.’

      Which Isabelle ignored, her fingers now toying with some glittering fairing tucked into her sleeve. The venom had dissipated as fast as it had appeared. Again she was merely a woeful child, which engaged my compassion. ‘What do I do if my lord is no longer King?’

      ‘Hush, my lady.’ I tried to dispel the panic that sat on her shoulder like some chattering creature. ‘We do not know that he is no longer King. My lord of Lancaster has assured me that…’

      The panic swelled, her voice rising. ‘What do I do if he is dead?’

      ‘He is not dead. You must not fear that, my lady.’

      She lifted a square of linen to her eyes, to her nose; she sniffed like the child she was, but when she spoke again her voice was clear.

      ‘My lord gave me this.’ From her sleeve she drew the fairing which showed itself to be a jewel-encrusted whistle. ‘It was a gift to him from the Bishop of Durham. He said that if I were ever in danger I should blow on this whistle.’ She gave a sharp toot that caused the finches in the cage at her side to hop in matching panic from side to side. ‘He would hear it and come to rescue me, he promised. But I fear that he never will.’

      Poor Isabelle. Standing, stepping up onto the dais, I encroached on her royal dignity to clasp her hand around the whistle, even though she stiffened at the contact. She feared Richard’s death, and it would be impossibly foolish to say that it had never crossed my mind. While I considered some suitable words of comfort, Isabella, looking up into my face said: ‘If our marriage is unconsummated, I must return home to France. It is my father’s wish. My dowry and jewels must return with me. I expect that I will marry again.’

      ‘You must not ill-wish the future, my lady.’ I released her hands as if they burned.

      ‘I do not know what to do. What would you do?’

      ‘If I were you, I would live in hope that all can be resolved.’

      ‘How can I?’ Abruptly she rose to her feet so that I perforce must retreat. ‘How can I? I am in despair.’

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