Читать книгу Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 15
ОглавлениеEltham Palace, London: August 1399
Isabelle, Queen of England, requests the company of Lady Henry Percy at Eltham Palace at the earliest opportunity.
Thus my sojourn at Westminster, where I was welcomed and accommodated as Philippa’s daughter, was invested with an element of unwelcome drama when I was summoned to the palace of Eltham, across the Thames. A politely worded invitation indeed, although I accepted that within its carefulness there lurked more than a simple request. The little Queen, Isabelle, living in forlorn loneliness, wished to speak with me, but to what purpose was beyond my fathoming.
I made that journey to Eltham, disquiet a close companion. Whatever she asked of me, I had nothing to tell Isabelle about Richard or the conflict of interest with Henry of Lancaster that would bring her comfort. In habitual campaign mood, Harry was too engrossed to communicate with me. All I knew, from lack of pertinent news, was that there had been no bloody meeting on a battlefield. It had soothed some of my fears, but I doubted that it would satisfy the Queen.
I was bowed into her presence in the large audience chamber at Eltham where Isabelle sat, this young girl who had been sent to England to be Queen purely because a French alliance would gild Richard’s reputation in Europe; this child bride now surrounded by all the royal glamour lavished on her by Richard who was never loath to make a show of his 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.’
When I saw tears on her cheeks, forgetting that she was Queen, I took her 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.
