Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author

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.