angling my chin toward the procession where the great swords of state were being carried in before the usurper monarch. Four of them rather than the traditional three. The two swords of justice bound in red and gold were carried by the Earls of Somerset and Warwick. Curtana, the blunt sword of mercy, was held aloft by Lancaster’s eldest son who would now be designated Prince Henry. And processing before them all?
‘Did you know about this?’ I asked.
There leading the procession was the mighty Earl of Northumberland, swathed in red and ermine, carrying the great Lancaster Sword. A true sign of Northumberland’s dedication. There was no element of age in his rigid spine, his braced shoulders as he bore the weight along the length of the nave up to the high altar. The pride in his face was as great as that of the new King himself.
‘Did you know?’ I repeated, when Harry merely watched his father’s stately progress. I thought I read pride in him too.
‘Yes.’
‘So you are truly tied and bound to this King.’
‘Tied and bound with iron chains,’ Harry hissed. ‘And before you meet with him again, my father has been given the highest accolade. He is now Constable of England for his services to the King.’
‘Before God, he is not!’
So there was the reason for the Percy acknowledgement of this destruction of the true pattern of inheritance. The all-devious Earl of Northumberland now lay claim to being the chief official in the royal household, a position of much power and influence in deciding who should and should not have the ear of the King. It was a magnificent coup.
‘Before God, he is. You can see the Earl’s chain of office. It shines like a beacon on the northern hills.’ I thought Harry sounded cynical, but his expression was bland enough. ‘Perhaps this is not the occasion to use immoderate language, Elizabeth.’
I closed my mouth.
And so it was done, with consecrated oil, hallowed phrases and the holy objects of kingship. Lancaster was duly crowned King of England.
‘Now all we have to do is smile, bow, and celebrate at the feast,’ I said.
There was nothing else we could do, but it gnawed at me, tainted my acceptance of a life that pleased me mightily; a grub in the succulent flesh of a plum. Harry had been in agreement with me, I had thought, but how quickly he had abandoned this brave stance. Now he was all for Lancaster. As for the Earl of Northumberland, he had sold his soul for the office and chain of Constable of England. I was furious with them both. Nor was it a problem that I could imagine would disappear. Lancaster was King and we were his subjects and most valuable of counsellors.
I did not feel like celebrating.
Yet all was not lost in a seething cloud of disapproval, for here was the opportunity for family reunion; three sisters, meeting between the weight and solemnity of the crowning and the raucous feasting and drinking of the festivity to follow. Philippa, Alianore and myself.
‘We look like three cunning women,’ Philippa observed as we withdrew into a sisterly group, into a corner where we would not be buffeted by the milling lords, citizens and their hangers-on. ‘Plotting our future.’
‘Perhaps we are,’ I said, kissing her cheek.
‘We may have need to be,’ Alianore offered, beaming at us both, but behind the smile I saw raw concern. ‘Good to see that you stand high in Lancaster’s regard, Elizabeth. Red becomes you more than it does Harry.’ She fingered the opulent, gold-worked over-sleeve of my houppelande with what could have been distaste, before submitting to a sisterly hug. ‘Even Harry looks presentable. For once he doesn’t look as if he has just ridden in after a month of besieging a Scottish peel tower.’
‘You are hardly clad as a beggar, Alianore. But we Percys are royally grand, are we not, down to the collar and coronet?’ I touched my fingers to the intricate chain around my neck. ‘And why not? We have been bought,’ spreading my arms to set the damask with its sable trim rippling as if a living thing. ‘A crown in return for a damask robe. Have you seen my gilded shoes?’ I lifted my skirts a fraction. ‘These were in payment for Northumberland carrying the Lancaster sword. Which is the greatest symbol of power, do you suppose? Gilded shoes or an edged weapon? Richard would have said shoes,’ I added, admitting to a touch of guilt at his present incarceration in the Tower, recalling his love of extravagant footwear.
‘Richard has forfeited his throne, shoes or no shoes.’ Philippa’s voice had a tendency to carry, until I nudged her. ‘I’d wager on the power of the sword.’
‘Best not to say that too loud, on this fine auspicious occasion,’ I suggested, seeing heads turned in our direction.
‘What will happen to Richard?’ Philippa asked, dutifully lowering her voice. ‘Can our new King afford to let him live?’
My sister did not seem overly concerned. We were all well versed in political necessity. How would we not be, brought up as we had been at the centre of political events? The first Mortimer Earl of March had met his death by execution after a remarkable history of treason, hand in glove with the Queen against the rightful King Edward the Second.
‘I’ll not be sorry if he dies a quiet death.’ Philippa paused. ‘Or even a violent one. I’ll never forgive him for taking Arundel’s head. It was disgraceful that Richard should be free to take such monstrous revenge.’
To bring a halt to this well-worn theme, I clasped her hand, thinking that she looked strained, more than was demanded by the weariness of the long ceremony. Perhaps it was true grief that ate at her stamina, despite the vast age difference between her and her late FitzAlan husband. ‘I know. I am sorry that the loss afflicts you.’
‘It was the manner of the loss,’ she said. ‘Richard does not deserve my pity.’
It had been a driving force within her, destroying any comfort that the passing of months and a new, kindly husband might have brought. Philippa had not had an easy life, considering the deaths of her two former husbands. An accidental lance to the groin for one, an axe to the neck for the other. It had destroyed any trace of the soft humour my sister had had when we were girls, nor had she a nursery full of children for her comfort.
‘Where are your sons, Alianore?’ I asked to deflect a further outburst of venom.
‘Safely in the Welsh March. I sent them to stay with your brother Edmund at Ludlow, although I think he’s taken them on to Wigmore. I’d not bring them here. I’ll never bring them here.’
It had not been the happiest of deflections. Alianore and I regarded each other with a depth of understanding.
‘We are committed to this new rule, Alianore,’ I said. ‘Our lords were all prominent during the bowing, oath-taking and anointing.’
‘Except brother Edmund who is not here.’ Alianore pointed out what we had all already acknowledged.
‘Edmund is a law unto himself, pleasing unto himself. It is no surprise.’ Philippa’s bitterness continued to pervade every word she uttered.
‘We are committed,’ I repeated. ‘We have to be so.’ Bitterly, disbelievingly, I realised that I was echoing Harry’s own words, when, less than an hour ago, I had been berating him for his betrayal. I felt no commitment.
‘But are we content? I will never be content.’ Philippa again.
‘Nor I.’ Alianore.
‘Lancaster promised to support the most suitable claimant,’ I said, studying the rings on my hands, trying for balance where there was no balance. I was as unsettled as my sisters.
‘Suitable? What does that mean?’ Alianore’s voice climbed. ‘What about God-given right? My son Edmund is suitable. He has the right.’
‘But Edmund is so young.’
‘He will grow. All he needs is a regent and a group of trusted counsellors. It has been done