Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author
From Sunday Times bestseller Anne O’Brien . . .To those around her she was a loyal subject. In her heart she was a traitor.1399: England’s crown is under threat. King Richard II holds onto his power by an ever-weakening thread, with exiled Henry of Lancaster back to reclaim his place on the throne.For Elizabeth Mortimer, there is only one rightful King – her eight-year-old nephew, Edmund. Only he can guarantee her fortunes, and protect her family’s rule over the precious Northern lands bordering Scotland.But many, including Elizabeth’s husband, do not want another child-King. Elizabeth must hide her true ambitions in Court, and go against her husband’s wishes to help build a rebel army.To question her loyalty to the King places Elizabeth in the shadow of the axe.To concede would curdle her Plantagenet blood.This is one woman’s quest to turn history on its head.‘O’Brien is now approaching Philippa Gregory status’ Reader’s Digest‘O’Brien is a terrific storyteller’ Daily Telegraph‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political’ The Times
Читать Queen of the North: sumptuous and evocative historical fiction from the Sunday Times bestselling author онлайн беплатно
Also by
VIRGIN WIDOW
DEVIL’S CONSORT
THE KING’S CONCUBINE
THE FORBIDDEN QUEEN
THE SCANDALOUS DUCHESS
THE KING’S SISTER
THE QUEEN’S CHOICE
THE SHADOW QUEEN
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Anne O’Brien 2018
Anne O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008225445
Version: 2018-07-18
‘A cracking historical novel’
Good Housekeeping
‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale’
The Times
‘O’Brien is a terrific storyteller’
Daily Telegraph
‘A gripping story of love, heartache and political intrigue’
Woman & Home
‘There are historical novels and then there are the works of Anne O’Brien – and this is another hit’
The Sun
‘The characters are larger than life…and the author a compulsive storyteller’
Sunday Express
‘This book has everything – royalty, scandal, fascinating historical politics’
Cosmopolitan
‘A gripping historical drama’
Bella
For George, who almost lost his status as the only hero in my life to Harry Hotspur. George retains his supremacy, and always will.
Lady Kate:
In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.
Hotspur:
Away,
Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns . . .
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: HENRY IV PART 1 (ELIZABETH IS SHAKESPEARE’S LADY KATE)
Lady Percy:
He was the mark and glass, copy and book,
That fashion’d others. And him, O wondrous him!
O miracle of men!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: HENRY IV PART 2
Whereas of our special grace we have granted to our cousin, Elizabeth, who was the wife of Henry de Percy, knight, the head and quarters of the same Henry to be buried. We command you that the head aforesaid placed by our command upon the gate of the city (of York) aforesaid you shall deliver to the same Elizabeth to be buried . . .
E. B. DE FONTBLANQUE: ANNALS OF THE HOUSE OF PERCY
Alnwick Castle: Spring 1399
I lifted my daughter Bess high into my arms, so that she could see over the stone coping of the parapet.
‘Don’t wriggle,’ I said. Without noticeable effect.
We were standing at the highest vantage point of the barbican, bold in its crenellations, our various hair and veils and enveloping cloaks straining against the constant breeze from the north-west. In my memory it was always autumn or winter at Alnwick, whatever the month decreed, and even now in my maturity it was a cold place. The sable lining of my cloak felt chill, like a cold cat, against my throat.
We had been ordered here to the barbican by the command of the Earl, a man as unbending as the wind that harried us. Three generations of the mighty Percy family hemmed me in, three generations of darkly red-haired power, now glowing mahogany under the noonday sun. Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, my father by law. Sir Henry Percy, his son and heir and my husband. Henry Percy, my son, aged five, more interested in the ants’ nest beneath the stones than the spread of acres on all sides. All Henrys. All long-limbed with the musculature of a soldier. All blessed, or cursed some would say, with a driving ambition for power. Even my son, growing in fine Percy style, was directing the ants in a path of his choosing with a strategic pile of pebbles.
The Earl’s arm swept in an expansive gesture to match his gaze, taking in all to be seen. To the east, the wooded pastures in the direction of the sea and Warkworth, another Percy stronghold. South across the deep ravine towards the benign reaches of England. West where the March stretched to the further coast, far beyond our sight. And then north, across the great bailey and the formidable towers of our home, across the River Aln, to the threat of the darker hills of Scotland and a darker marauding Scottish power, for here in the northern March the Scots were our enemy.
