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Chapter Two

The Percy household spent the following days exclusively in making preparation for the march south to meet up with Lancaster, the Percy retainers arriving in number to camp both inside and outside our walls when space became an issue. Meanwhile two letters arrived for me, brought in a package of correspondence for the Earl. With a sister, a sister by law, as well as a slew of royal cousins, I was rarely without sources of information. Knowledge was power, knowledge tucked away within the lines of female and family gossip, which was in short supply for me in the northern March.

Seated in solitude in my chamber, selecting my sister’s note first, I could imagine the venom with which it was written before I saw the familiar hurried scrawl. Four years younger than I, Philippa had acquired a forthright turn of phrase, and why would she not? Her second husband, Richard FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel, had met his death in the horrifying fashion of that doled out to a traitor, at Richard’s hands on Tower Hill for his part in the uprising to force Richard into seemly behaviour. Although she was now married again to Sir Thomas Poynings, revenge against Richard was never far from Philippa’s heart. And so it proved to be.

To my dearest Elizabeth,

I do not know where this will find you, since I imagine your Percy lords will not be slow in declaring their intent with this recent invasion, if that is what it turns out to be. It is my hope that they will declare for Lancaster. I will never forgive Richard for the blood on his hands. If you have any influence, use it in the memory of the agony our royal cousin brought to me. My lord of Arundel did not deserve death, nor the manner of it. I know that to act against the King could be damned as treason, but it was with the best of intentions, and for Richard to have my lord’s head hacked from his body in so foul a manner is beyond forgiveness.

Nothing here that I would not expect. But this next surprised me, that Philippa was so well informed.

If Henry of Lancaster is determined to recover his inheritance, I do not see him stopping there. He was always a boy driven by principle, even if it was only to put Richard in the dust when they had nothing more than wooden swords. I would welcome any choice he makes to take the crown for himself. In fact I would support him wholeheartedly, 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 but here was the glorious culmination of it all. I thought that there had been no doubt about this outcome from the very beginning. It was simply that the men of this household liked the sound of their own voices in hot argument. But were we not in truth contemplating bloody treason, choosing to raise a body of troops in England that was not to be used for the explicit policies of our King?

Even more stirring, the numbers were augmented by the red livery with its silver saltire, the retained men of the Earl of Westmorland who had thrown in his lot, whatever it might be, with us. A hazardous alliance, since Westmorland was one of those men considered a threat to Percy sovereignty in the north, and thus a potential enemy, but the Neville Earl was wed to Lancaster’s half-sister Joan Beaufort. He too would have an interest in hearing what the new arrival had to say for himself.

And yet I was forced to acknowledge that Richard was our rightful King through true descent, with oaths of fealty laid at his feet. What we did on that day in July of 1399 could be called subversion, unless we retired home again without lifting a sword, without Richard being any the wiser when he returned from his campaign in Ireland. An unlikely outcome. What we did here today was assuredly treasonable. Here was rebellion in the making.

So the Earl ordered his men to march south, and I, as the ranks of retainers drew away from the curtain wall and gatehouse of Warkworth, drew my most stalwart horse up level with Harry’s. Momentarily he frowned, as I had anticipated he would, but gave no indication that my appearance offered him any cause for consternation, or even surprise.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, bending a flat stare.

‘Coming with you.’ Meeting it, I preserved the blandest of expressions, masking the tight fist of emotion that had nothing to do with my defiance of a husband’s clearly expressed will and everything to do with a sudden anxiety at where this expedition would end.

‘I thought we had agreed,’ Harry stated.

‘No, we did not agree. You denied me. I simply retreated from what would have been a useless exchange of opinion, and here I am, as I said I would be.’

I had said nothing when we had parted company after breaking our fast on that morning. If Harry had not realised I was dressed for travel, his mind caught up in the urgency of moving men and equipment as we had exchanged a perfunctory embrace, that was to my advantage. Besides, what could he do? It was not a matter of my asking permission from my Percy lord. He could of course have locked me behind the walls of Warkworth but why would he? My arguments for my accompanying this expedition, if he had chosen to listen and if I had chosen to make them, were superb and Harry had none to offset them, other than that I would be in the way. Of which I took no heed.

‘You will be in the way,’ he said.

‘I knew you would say that. And I will not. I will even polish your armour if you ask nicely so that you make a good impression on cousin Henry.’

I was rewarded with a gleam of appreciation and a grin from his squire. The Earl, riding up at speed, majestic in an azure tunic and chaperon, with Westmorland in tow, was another matter. There was no appreciation.

‘You will not accompany us, madam.’

Since here was neither courtesy nor room for discussion, I gave no argument, instead gesturing to the sumpter horses that carried my travelling coffers, to the two women, efficiently mounted and wrapped in layers against the chill wind, who accompanied me. We were well used to hard travel after a lifetime of living in the March.

‘This could be war, woman.’

‘Could it? I thought we were going to offer Henry welcome and support. Do you foresee a passage of arms?’ And then smiling beyond him: ‘Good day, my Lord of Westmorland.’

‘Good day, Lady Percy.’ Westmorland bowed his head with a quirk to one brow. Another relative by marriage, if an even more distant one.

‘It is good to have your company,’ I said.

The Earl of Northumberland waved any further niceties aside, swooping on my original query like a hawk on a vole, quick to deny any deliberate aggression.

‘I foresee nothing as yet.’

‘That is good. Then I accompany you. If there is a battle, I take refuge in the nearest fortress.’

The Northumberland brow became heavier.

‘This is to be a matter of heavy negotiation, madam, not a social visit.’

‘This is family, sir.’

‘Family! We are all family!’

The Earl looked as if he would happily dispense with some of them. But was it not true? Did it not cause the worst of heartbreak when loyalties were strained to the limit by demands of cousinship, either close or distant? Whatever the outcome in this coming contest, it would not be without its sorrows and pain, for all of us. Even the Earl, through his royal forebears, could not pretend that the victor held no personal interest for him.

‘I am going to meet my cousin and welcome him home,’ I continued with seemingly naive pleasure. ‘I see no reason why I should not be here as a representative of the Mortimer branch of the family since neither my brother nor sister will make the journey.’

Which gave him momentary food for thought, as I knew it would. His eye held mine as if weighing up how much I knew of the developing situation. Did he really think that his son and I conversed about nothing but the health of our children? When I did not look away, he turned his eye, still choleric, on his son and heir.

‘I suppose you see no reason why she should not be here?’

‘None.’

Harry was comfortingly loyal.

With no more than a grunt, for he had lost the skirmish, the Earl spurred his horse into a smart canter towards the head of the column where his banners were unfurled, their colours advertising that Percy was on the move.

‘How gratifying,’ I acknowledged Harry with a slide of eye.

‘I don’t see that you needed my help. You were doing quite well on your own.’

Upon which exchange, Harry fell into easy conversation with Westmorland, leaving me to enjoy the familiar scenery and ponder. Yes, it was a matter of family. But what predicament would these complicated family ties drag us all into? This family that had sworn fealty to Richard now seemed prepared to discard 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.

‘The Earl my father by law considers opinions to be above the minds of females in his household. Thus I have no opinion.’

‘And if you believe that,’ Harry added since Westmorland could find no immediate response, ‘you will believe that Richard will welcome Henry of Lancaster home with forgiveness and celebration and the handing back of his traditional acres!’

We rode on, Harry eventually abandoning me to a companionable conversation with Westmorland about his numerous offspring. The breeze dropped, the sun was warm against my face and shoulders so that I shrugged off the cloak. The land was at peace as we passed, signs of harvest and plenty on all sides in the fields and on the fruit trees. No signs or portents of dangerous prediction. No storm crows to call their warning.

The hard knot of concern in my breast almost melted away. We were not traitors, merely families of some power, concerned for the rightness of things.