The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (13 page)

She stiffened. “I can’t speak for my mother, sire.”

“Be at ease. I don’t care what the Church says; I respect what you are. There’s a long Plantagenet tradition of association with the old ways, for all our public face is painted to appease the Pope. Your mother offered, in return for my protection of her lands and title, her… influence. Can I rely on the same from you, my lady?”

Kate felt confident again, on firm ground.

“If you mean…” she delved in the front of her robe and brought out the symbol on its chain, the charcoal snake crowned with the moon. He held her eyes and nodded. She hid the symbol again between her breasts.

“Only call me, and I’ll come,” she whispered. “One condition my mother laid on the countess, that I have leave to pass freely in and out of the household. That’s my right as a priestess. None will stop me.”

She thought with a chill, Even though I’ve just agreed to betray my guardian, and thus his family.

“I won’t put you in danger,” he said, as if he read her concern. “I’ll be as subtle as that serpent. But I am coming back, Kate.” He smiled again, and winked. Then, cutting the floor from under her, “Have you ever met my brother?”

“The Duke of Clarence?” She thought Edward was recruiting her as a spy now. “I see him. He never speaks to me.”

Edward was shaking his head. “No, no, obviously you know George. I meant my youngest brother, Richard, the little dark one.”

Kate face burned through several transitions of heat. Why’s he asking? Has someone told him? “I don’t think so, sire.”

“I only wondered. He’s the very devil for keeping secrets. Took me a week to get this one out of him. Something to do with an exquisite young girl he’d met, who turned out to be a witch, and who frightened seven shades of hell out of him. Do you think he takes such things too seriously?”

“I don’t know why you are asking me.”

“Her name was Kate. She had black hair and violet eyes that could light beacons. You look exactly as he described her. It must be a coincidence, of course.”

“What did he say?” she asked desperately.

Edward put back his head and laughed delightedly. “So it was you! I half-thought he’d made it up, except he’s never been one for fantasies. Good for Dickon, Creator bless him. Don’t look so worried; your secret is safe with me. The lucky dog.”

Kate stood glaring at him. She wanted to be furious, but had a dreadful feeling she was going to spoil things by laughing. If Edward noticed her condition now, it would be disastrous, but he didn’t. Relief left her shaky. “What did he say?” she asked again.

A guard hammered on the door, making her jump.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, sweetheart, if you promise to come again.”

“Yes.”.

“Don’t forget what I’ve said,” he added. “When someone helps me, it’s never forgotten. Thank you for the books.”

But she didn’t see Edward again. By the next evening, Warwick had spirited him away to a new hiding-place.

Shortly after this episode, the shrewdness of Edward’s surrender was revealed. While Warwick was drawn north to subdue a rebellion among his own relatives, Edward did some swift deals among the nobility, and was restored to the throne. Whether her mother’s influence played any part in his release, Kate doubted. The country itself would not endure the limbo in which the Kingmaker had placed it.

A short time later, Warwick and Clarence were pardoned, and everyone was friends again.

It couldn’t last.

Kate slipped away to York in late autumn, apprehensive and exhausted from fending off Isabel’s protests. Soon, she heard that Warwick and his son-in-law were stirring fresh troubles. She resisted Isabel’s pleading letters, but the moment Kate could go back to her – two months into the new year, 1470 – she did so.

Kate didn’t realise what she was plunging into. Edward had gained the upper hand again. Suddenly Warwick was fleeing into exile with his wife, son-in-law, daughters and servants, this time to seek support in France. Kate found herself bundled along with them, unable to refuse because Isabel needed her. Careless that Isabel was pregnant and Anne often ill, Warwick hauled his daughters about like currency. And here was Isabel, wife of a throneless, disgruntled duke, close to dying for his ambition.

Kate swore she would never leave Isabel’s side again. She was a dancing russet flame, Kate her shadow; they loved each other, failings and all. They had been through everything together, even the red hell of childbirth.

Memories faded. Painful reality congealed around Kate. Isabel was quiet as Kate laboured in her place with steady determination. You will be born, child, and as Auset is my teacher, I swear that your birth shall not kill your mother!

Katherine felt something giving, sliding, inside her. For a few moments she floated in delirium and was in another place, with the faces of Dame Eylott and her mother hovering over her. Then she snapped back to full consciousness to hear Anne crying out, urgently calling her name. “Kate! Mother, Bel… oh, Kate, quickly!”

She was on her feet, dizzy, just in time to help the countess catch the babe that slithered into their hands. Isabel uttered a groan and lay blinking tears.

“Is it over?” she asked.

Blue and sickly, the infant boy died within hours.

###

At last they landed further along the Normandy coast, and dragged themselves in exhaustion through the steep dark streets of a harbour town. The sky arched grey and wind-blown above their bedraggled party.

Kate’s impression of the town was of dankness, of cobbled ways twisting between teetering houses, so steep in places that she had to grasp the slimy stone of house walls to keep her balance. The stones felt mouldy, mossy, their corners rounded off by the weather. A goblin town from a fairy tale. There were petitmorts everywhere, bigger than those at home. Here they were called
les vulturs anglais
. They sat hunched along the rooftops waiting for fish to scavenge. Even the elementals she glimpsed seemed foreign, pale and slant-eyed in their hiding places. There were surprises, though. Tiny red flowers with whiskery tendrils growing in crannies, salamanders and little frogs like jewels.

Here Warwick brought them to the house of a friend; a teetering, damp place with warped floorboards, rich hangings that smelled of mildew, and narrow pointed windows filled with red and green stained glass. He was busy, sending out letters and messengers, as if the nightmare voyage had not touched him. The letters were to arrange an audience with Louis XI. Warwick was begging ships, troops and money of the French king, offering him the Earth in exchange.

The following days were dark with rain. Afterwards, Kate couldn’t remember the sky growing light at all. Her mind was shadowed with worry over Isabel’s fever, her child’s death, George’s disappointment, Anne’s silent sorrow. Even the countess had little to say. She thanked Kate for aiding her daughter and that was all. Perhaps she felt guilt that Kate had given Isabel more help than she, her mother, could.

Kate couldn’t bear to see Anne Beauchamp powerless, the opposite of her priestess-self. She supposed the Nevilles had never seen the Auset side of her.

Kate went into the eerie town, seeking food to tempt Isabel’s appetite, but really to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Clarence and Warwick argued continually and the women sat tense and apprehensive. If not for Isabel, Kate would happily have abandoned them.

When she returned to their private chamber, Isabel came to greet her, rising from her chair with livid cheeks and feverish eyes. At first Kate thought she’d been weeping for the babe again. The countess was absent. Anne was at the window, looking composed but ghostly.

“Where have you been?” Isabel demanded.

Kate placed her bundle on a table. “Shopping, for you and Anne. Sugared pastries, cordials, wonderful herbs I’ve never seen before… What’s happened?”

“George is furious. He was in here raving. I can’t speak to him when he’s in that humour. It isn’t my fault.” Isabel sat on the edge of a chest, her shoulders bowed, head drooping. “It’s not my fault!”

“The child? Of course it isn’t.”

“No, not that.”

Kate sat beside her and Isabel moved close, slipping her hand through Kate’s arm, as always. Her body no longer felt taut with energy but limp and weak. There were brown shadows under her eyes, and her breath was stale.

“What is it, dear? What’s upset you?”

“Father’s plans. We suspected, but I never, ever believed he would. They say old Henry’s as peaceful as a monk in the Tower; why, why must they push him onto the throne yet again? It’s plain cruel. That bloody woman!”

“Who?”

“Queen Marguerite. Have you any idea how Father hates her? I shouldn’t call her queen. Henry’s wife, Marguerite of Anjou. Her armies killed my grandfather and many other people we loved. He loathes her, despises her!”

“I saw Marguerite once,” said Kate. “She was all in gold, on a huge horse. I thought she was magnificent. I wanted to be like her.” She added quickly, seeing Isabel’s expression, “But on York’s side, of course.”

Isabel gave an arid smile. “She’s in exile here, sheltered by King Louis.”

“I know.”

“Father means to go on his knees to her and forge an alliance.”

Kate thought of the promise she’d made to King Edward. She felt slightly sick.

“Warwick and Marguerite? Would he really do that?”

“You wouldn’t think it was physically possible to swallow that much pride,” Isabel said bitterly. “But yes, he will truly do anything to get Edward off the throne. Even become a Lancastrian. If she and Louis support him, he promises to restore Henry the Sixth.”

Kate saw a long, cold stare pass between Isabel and Anne.

“Oh, Mother of God,” said Kate. “Then George won’t be king after all?”

“What do you imagine he was ranting about?” Isabel uttered a heavy sigh. “He was trying so hard to be calm about it. Then one of us said something soothing, and he exploded.”

“You won’t be queen, either.”

“I don’t care about that.” She looked again at her sister. “It seems Anne will be, instead.”

Anne stayed silent, biting her lip.

Isabel went on, “Father plans to marry her to Marguerite’s son, Prince Edouard. He’s explaining the negotiations to my mother now. It’s outrageous, but what can we do?”

“Anne?” said Kate. “Do you want this?”

The younger girl exhaled and half-turned to face them. “Have you two quite finished? I told Bel, there’s no point in getting upset. We must accept what Father wants for us. You’re looking in the wrong place for happiness. It’s not about getting what we want, it’s about submitting to our Creator’s will.” Then she dropped her head. A sob broke from her. “The truth is, I’d rather have drowned in that hellish storm than marry Marguerite’s spoiled son.”

“Oh, dearest…” Isabel began, but Anne silenced her with a look, a flash of bright, cold determination.

“However, that said, I shall do whatever Father wants with all the good grace and humility I can muster. We are Nevilles, Isabel. Of course we should marry kings.”

###

The cathedral was huge and flooded with pale gold light. Doves fluttered up through nets of sunlight. Katherine sat open-mouthed at the spectacle of the Lancastrian court in exile. Everyone wore glorious clothes patterned with red roses. French was murmured all around her; she was glad she knew enough to understand.

There was the Earl of Warwick in a position no one would have believed, standing alongside the Earl of Somerset and other men who’d been his bitter foes on the battlefield. His daughter Anne, ethereal and dignified, was being joined in marriage to Edouard, a big, plain youth who seemed unreasonably pleased with himself. The bishop who conducted the service, adorned with saffron silks, gold and jewels, looked like an over-decorated vase. His mitre was so high that Kate was in serious danger of being ejected from the cathedral for laughing.

And there was Queen Marguerite. Kate couldn’t believe she was so close. She was an icon, unreal. Not as tall as Kate remembered, nor as majestic. In fact, she seemed a gaunt figure, ten years older, her glorious hair turned grey and the hard face sunken against her skull. Years of frustrated ambition sat in her expression. She still looked like a goddess to Kate, but of the worst kind – one of war and cruelty.

There was little joy in the service. Their smiles were strained. Isabel wore a look of plain incredulity, and George of Clarence looked murderous throughout. But there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. A new beginning. Enemies became allies. Enemies would swallow their loathing and slide into bed together, if it brought the achievement of their dreams.

The music was exquisite, almost making Kate cry if she closed her eyes to forget where she was. She made a quiet appeal to the magnificent statue of Blue Virgin Mary, the only aspect of the goddess acknowledged here. Sweet Mother, protect your daughter Anne, let her be happy. Forgive me for being here. Please don’t let this hurt either Anne, or King Edward.

A prayer was said in French, entreating Almighty God to let this divine union herald Lancastrian victory; and the capricious divinity smiled upon them.

Within months, Henry VI was back on the throne of England, and Edward had fled into exile.