although I suspect that our nephew Edmund of March is in your mind. I cannot give such a claim my blessing, Elizabeth. If he were older then I might. As it is, his youth would lay England open to those who are power hungry and would use him to their own ends. Henry of Lancaster will be his own man.
Perhaps we will see each other at his coronation, sister. It would be sweet retribution against Richard, to have his power so bespoiled. I never thought that I was a vengeful woman but Arundel’s death changed all that.
What will Northumberland do, Elizabeth? If you have your husband’s ear, then use your wifely charms. Northumberland’s power behind Lancaster could tip the balance. My lord, Sir Thomas, is of a mind to remain loyal to Richard, so I do not talk about my desires here at home.
I folded the letter tightly, scoring the folds with my thumbnail. Treasonous talk here. So Philippa’s heart was set on the Lancaster cause, the Mortimer claim rejected for purely practical reasons. Philippa was drenched in vengeance, and who better to achieve it than Lancaster? I was disappointed. Our Mortimer claim had been rejected, so it seemed to me, on purely selfish grounds, and yet, as ever, Philippa had stirred my thoughts. A young King, in need of a regent or a council to advise, could be open to gross manipulation. I wondered what Harry thought about that.
I picked up the second letter, knowing that the tone would be very different in this package. The writing was careful, well formed, almost fragile, but Alianore was never fragile. She had a will of iron, as had her grandmother Joan, Countess of Kent. Alianore Holland had been wed to my brother Roger, Earl of March. Left with two sons and two daughters, Alianore was now wed to a Welsh marcher lord, Edward de Charleton of Powys, so I enjoyed her letters of the region where I was born and recalled my earliest memories spent at Wigmore and Ludlow.
Elizabeth.
No polite usage here. Alianore was in a state of agitation, all driven by family honour.
What are we to do? I fear for my children, for my sons, for we know the strength of the Plantagenet claim to the throne is strong in their inheritance. If Richard is not King, then we both know it should be my son Edmund. The boys are royal wards since Roger’s death. If Lancaster ousts Richard and takes on their wardship in his own name, becoming their governor, can I be certain that Edmund will live to attain his majority and the right to rule in his own name as Earl of March? Should he not be King of England?
I live with a great foreboding hanging over me that robs me of sleep. Will Northumberland support Lancaster, or will he raise his banners in the name of Mortimer? My son’s claim through a female line should not be allowed to divert rightful inheritance. I beg your support and any influence you have to protect my sons. I know that the pre-eminence of the Mortimer family is as important to you as it is to me.
I am certain that Harry will listen to you.
Alianore had signed without any query after my own health. So much dependence on my influence, when, in truth, with Northumberland I had none, and it was the Earl’s voice that was still loudest in this household.
I folded Alianore’s letter and placed it in my coffer with the first. Both as treasonous as each other, but with diverse inclinations. What were my own thoughts? Lancaster or Mortimer? It was unfortunate that the Earl of March was so very young. Besides, there was as yet no evidence that Lancaster had any intention of removing Richard’s crown and wearing it himself. Perhaps all hostility between the two of them would be smoothed over, as calm and innocuous as the surface of a newly made Blomanger of Fysch, and Richard remain King with Lancaster, his titles and lands restored, at Richard’s side as his most loyal subject.
Perhaps.
I was still staring at the pages where I had placed them when Harry entered, in a hurry.
‘News from the family?’
‘Yes. Philippa and Alianore. My brother Edmund never writes. Not news so much as fear and vengeance and demands for support.’
‘I have misplaced a small leather-bound coffer. Have you seen it? There it is. What is it doing in here?’ He discovered it lurking beneath a pile of discarded rent rolls which should have been demanding his interest, and scooped it up. ‘What do they want?’
‘Philippa to support Lancaster and remove Richard, punishing him for Arundel’s death. Alianore to keep an eye on her two sons and their throne. Keeping both out of Lancaster’s hands and getting the crown for her son.’
‘Ambitious. And what does sister Elizabeth think?’
‘Since Lancaster’s intentions are deliberately opaque, sister Elizabeth is torn between loyalties.’
‘Let me know when you have decided.’ Then, in passing, he placed his hand on mine, his fingers firm, the planes and angles of his vivid features softening. ‘If those letters are as treacherous as you seem to be suggesting, it might be best if you burned them. Who knows? This may turn out to be nothing more than a ripple caused by a wasp dropping into a goblet of ale. Next month we might all be bowing in utmost respect before King Richard again with this whole Lancaster episode forgotten, and Lancaster restored to the royal bosom. Let us then be circumspect in what we say and what we do. I advise you not to reply to either.’
I did not question his judgement. Yes, it was treason to discuss the removal of the crowned and anointed rightful King, to replace him with another, whether he be Lancaster or Mortimer. All was so ephemeral, like stars in a night sky when a spring mist descended to blot them out, one by one so that the constellations could no longer be recognised. All was so uncertain.
When he had left the room I consigned the pages to the flames, but the fire could not obliterate the conflicting concerns of my sisters. They remained firmly embedded in my own mind, one struggling for pre-eminence over the other.
If anything surprised me, it was Harry’s circumspection. It was unusual for him to be so wary. Which awakened me even more to the hazards about to land on our doorstep with cousin Henry returned from exile.
The whole country would be holding its breath.
And the one pertinent fact that I had signally failed to discover: were the Percys breathing easily?
It was a sight to smite at the senses. The noise, the vivid colour, the snap of energy. Here was an array to grasp the imagination, to awaken every emotion, the whole overlaid by sheer arrogance, as I sat my mount in the shadow of the walls of Warkworth. Here was the Percy retained army, archers, foot soldiers and mounted men, slick and gleaming as they were at the beginning of every campaign. But this, in some subtle manner, was different. Every weapon shone, but no more so than the horseflesh, burnished to glow in the morning sun. On every breast, every pennon, every banner, reared the red-clawed lion of the Percys, rampant in azure on its golden field. They waited to move off in well-ordered ranks, so different from the usual noisy melee. This was a meticulously created power, prepared to face any opposition, with force of arms if necessary, or to cow into surrender by the impressive display of the might of the Earl of Northumberland.
The Percy retinues were marching south and I, despite Harry’s belief to the contrary, was marching with them.
I could not fail to be drawn in, to become part of this enterprise. I could not recall ever seeing so large a force. If the Earl intended to present Lancaster with a tally for his use of these Percy men, it would be a goodly sum indeed.
The discussions about the number of retainers and the manner of our meeting with the returning exile had been long and heated
