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

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СКАЧАТЬ into my arms as I would have embraced my daughter in a moment of her distress, so that she rested there, her jewels a hard carapace, her cheek against my breast.

      ‘You must be brave,’ I murmured.

      ‘I think my heart will break,’ she replied. Then, pushing against me: ‘You must release me now.’

      Isabelle walked away, collecting her damsels, leaving me to curtsey to an empty room, to mull over the dangers that had erupted to threaten her marriage and her existence as Queen of England.

       What do I do if he is dead?

      Isabelle’s fear suddenly found an answering chime within me. Harry led a charmed existence, returning from battle and skirmish without undue harm. Even when he had been taken prisoner at Otterburn, he had been ransomed and released, healthy and unharmed, after a year of captivity.

      What would I do if he was dead? My mind could not encompass it.

      Broken hearts suddenly became a real fear. But for whom? All I knew in my own heart was that the resolution of these events would never be to Isabelle’s contentment.

      I waited, carved emblems of royal power pressing down upon me in case I should forget who was King of England. Would he be in shackles? I thought it not appropriate that he should be.

      Even at this moment of high anxiety, the Great Hall at Westminster, newly furnished and embellished, heralded the power of King Richard the Second. His personal emblem, the white hart, collared in gold, was repeated again and again, with a throng of heavenly angels carved at the end of each beam in the great hammer-beam roof. Each angel carried a shield, the majesty of the fleur-de-lys of France quartered with the three leopards of England. Richard’s heraldic symbol. This was Richard’s hall, built by him, with a new throne that he had had carved, complete with a gilded cushion, positioned on the dais for all to see.

      I was here because I had been told that Richard was coming. I was here because I thought it my duty to be here to witness the return of my cousin.

      Without warning the great doors were dragged back; in marched an armed guard, and there at the centre of their protection, or perhaps their containment, walked King Richard.

      The guard came to a halt and so did the King.

      I could not take my eyes from his face.

      Never had I seen Richard so unkingly, whether in demeanour or in apparel. Pale, dishevelled, his soft lips pressed hard together, he stared around him as if he had still to accept where he was and why he was here, hemmed in by soldiers not in his livery. Without thought, so it seemed to me, he was plucking at the hem of his tunic, a garment that he might have been wearing for the whole of the journey from Wales, so travel-worn and stained as it was. His boots were covered in dust, and his hose to the knee. His eyes looked wild and uncomprehending as if he had been pushed beyond his bearing. Strained, even hollow-cheeked, he might not have eaten a good meal since he had fallen into Lancaster’s hands.

      At last Richard’s vacant gaze fell on me, so that I stepped forward, and from a lifetime of custom and loyalty I curtsied. The King made no sign of recognition. At close quarters, his eyes were glassy as if unknowing of what was expected of him. Perhaps that was the problem, I thought, watching the febrile glance he cast this way and that. For the first time in his adult life nothing was expected of him. He was not in control of who must do what at his royal command. And I realised the enormity of what had happened. What Lancaster had done. What we had done. Whatever my ambitions for my Mortimer family, Richard was the true heir. No one could promote a legitimate case for his not wearing the crown. His blood was true in descent from King Edward the Third, eldest son to eldest son. Yet what hope was there for him now?

      Compassion touched my mind, as it had for Isabelle.

      As he was led away, his shoulders bowed, I knew that Richard would never again take his seat on the throne beneath the angelic throng.

      Fleetingly, I wondered if Isabelle would be allowed to see him.

      More critically, as I watched Richard being escorted to some place of confinement, I wondered if Lancaster was still intent on keeping his oath, that he would not disturb the true inheritance. A warm fear rose to fill every space in my mind, in my heart. What we had done, whatever it might be, was irrevocable. I could not yet see with any clarity the road that I would be forced to tread. And beneath the fear, struggling to be born, was just the faintest breath of guilt.

Chapter Five

       Westminster: 13 October 1399

      Cold and cramped, I stood in my chamber in the rambling palace of Westminster, clad in robes that were not of my choosing although the fit was remarkably good, aided with a pin and a stitch here and there. Opposite me stood Harry, even more resplendent, hands fisted on his hips. Harry looked uneasy as if he would rather be in hunting leathers or readied for some Scottish skirmish, but there was a determination in the rigidity of his jaw as he carried the finery of a full-skirted, ankle-length houppelande well, with its dagged sleeves and ermine edges. The draped folds of the chaperon, set squarely on his head as if some furred animal, all fringed with gold, was of a similar hue. Unfortunately Henry of Lancaster had not considered Harry’s red hair in the choice of garments.

      ‘Well?’ he asked, under my critical gaze.

      I was in no mood for doling out admiration.

      ‘I am not in agreement with this,’ I announced.

      ‘As you have made more than clear for the past se’nnight. But you will do it because I ask it of you,’ was all the reply I got.

      ‘Or because you order me to do it and I will concur, as a good wife should obey her husband.’

      ‘If you wish. This is not the time for soul-searching, Elizabeth. We are here. We have walked at Lancaster’s side every day, acknowledging all he has done. This is the culmination of all the weeks since we met with him at Doncaster.’

      ‘Weeks in which the Earl your father broke as many oaths as did Lancaster. When Lancaster swore to bow before those with a superior claim to the throne.’ I gave Harry no quarter. ‘Of which there are two. Our erstwhile King Richard, now a prisoner, and then Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. What happened to all the fine words at Doncaster? Trampled, it seems to me, under the joint mail-shod feet of Lancaster and Northumberland.’

      These were weeks in which the Earl of Northumberland had played a significant, some would say an inglorious, role to ensure Lancaster’s ultimate victory, plotting with habitual cunning to take control of Richard who had sought refuge in Conwy Castle on his return from Ireland. The Earl swore that Lancaster did not desire the throne, swore his own firm allegiance to King Richard, before taking him into custody and dropping him into the waiting hands of Lancaster at Flint Castle. Richard’s friends and erstwhile counsellors had promptly made themselves scarce or sided with the Earl of Northumberland who promised them safe passage in his retinue.

      ‘Lancaster did not get where he is today merely by force of arms.’ Harry was glaring at my intransigence. He was in no mood to admire my own appearance either. The deep red of velvet and damask complemented my own dark colouring.

      ‘No. He was led to the throne by self-serving magnates like the Duke of York, who conveniently СКАЧАТЬ