The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (14 page)

“What is your favourite weapon, your Grace?” asked Ratcliffe.

“An axe,” the Duke told him. “One so seldom has to hit twice with it.”

Patrick Carleton, Under the Hog

Along the slope of a hill the army waited, looking at a swirling white wall. Vapour came from Raphael’s mouth to thicken the mist, yet he was sweating. His armour felt heavy, his skin soapy under its weight.

All night Warwick’s cannon fire had shaken the ground, overshooting King Edward’s troops but ensuring they had no sleep. Even then the mist had been gathering, wisps layering the air like summoned elementals. By dawn, the fields and woods lay submerged, a drowned valley under a lake of thick wet vapour.

Somewhere in this sea of milk stood the enemy; the Earl of Warwick with his troops, his brother Marquis Montagu commanding the centre, their Lancastrian allies the Earl of Oxford and the Marquis of Exeter on the flanks. They were close, Raphael knew, but nothing could be seen. Both armies had taken up their positions in darkness but now the growing light gave them no help.

He was in half-armour for ease of movement, with one gauntleted hand on the harness of two graylix, Tyrant and Teaser. He wore a breastplate shaped long over the thighs for protection, sleeves of padding and chainmail, leather breeches and boots, a surcoat with Lykenwold’s colours, or and azure. Hung about him he had his axe, sword, dagger and shield. Will Shaw was with him, and a couple of apprentice handlers, solid lads with cool nerves, each holding a couple of beasts. He envied their more basic garments, long padded jacks which, they claimed, were easier to move in and better protection against sword and arrow than armour. They were positioned just to one side of the front rank of archers, a poor place to be when arrows began flying.

The meaty, sweaty stench of the animals was strong. The archers nearby kept a cautious distance, averting their eyes from the nearly-human, cruel and knowing faces of the graylix. In the unnatural fog, even the beasts were quiet.

Raphael’s mouth was dry, his sallet heavy upon his head. This was his first battle. He’d been nervous earlier, but now the marching and the waiting had gone on so long he felt merely uncomfortable, tired and impatient. All around him was a murmur of sound; the clatter of armour, men clearing their throats, horses fidgeting and pawing the ground. Far away to their left, King Edward commanded the centre and Lord Hastings the far flank, but they might as well have been in another county in these cold wreaths of fog.

Raphael roughly knew the disposition of troops on his own flank; the well-equipped archers in front; behind them the higher-ranked men-at-arms in full armour; billmen and halberdiers in livery; down to the poorest foot-soldiers who’d come in whatever padded jackets they could find, armed with cleavers or pitchforks. At present, he could see no further than the nearest three ranks of men. Their helmets gleamed dully under a coating of dew. Their longbows were a stiff winter forest. Occasionally one would cough or shift his weight, but otherwise they were silent.

Lord Lykenwold’s men were on the right flank under Gloucester’s command. Raphael was glad, although he’d only glimpsed the duke at a distance, and knew he might die before he saw Richard again. Gloucester was inexperienced, and the blood-red Earl of Warwick was a terrifying opponent who had crushed Edward’s supporters at Edgecote Field. Raphael imagined the crushing as literal. Armour smashed like snail-shells, blood-trails silvering the grass around broken bodies.

Edward had returned from exile and taken back the throne without resistance, while Warwick – caught unawares – had hidden in Coventry and waited for his supporters to regroup. They said poor King Henry gave up the throne graciously, even gratefully. Now Edward had intercepted Warwick at Barnet, forcing him to give battle before Marguerite arrived with reinforcements.

There was a muffled thump of hooves. Lord Lykenwold appeared through the mist, mounted on a huge black destrier with a long rippling mane and a tail that brushed the ground. Most lords and commanders would go into battle on foot, to reassure their men that they wouldn’t turn tail and flee if things went badly; that they would fight and die beside them. Lykenwold was one of the few mounted, for the swift dispersal of commands.

His horse danced, caparisoned in blue and gold, its nostrils flaring at the scent of graylix. Lord Lykenwold’s armour, too, was blue and gold, colours swirling like oil upon the metal plates. He was slender, bright and energetic, like a dragonfly. Beneath the raised visor his face looked small and pink.

“Not long, lads,” he said, reining in the horse. “Courage. Remember who we’re fighting for, even with this wretched weather.” His conversational manner always reassured them. “King Edward reckons this fog is worse for the enemy than for us.” He winked.

“How’s he make that out, your lordship?” asked Will Shaw.

“God’s on our side, of course. Also the fact that we’ve an extra four thousand men, whom Warwick’s lost. We’ve the Duke of Gloucester to thank for that, though how he managed to persuade Clarence back to Edward’s side, I’ll never know.”

“Well, Clarence just goes along with the last person who spoke to him, doesn’t he?” said Will Shaw, with a smirk.

“Even Clarence isn’t that feather-headed, Will,” said Lykenwold. “He’s been made to see sense, that’s all.”

One week ago, Lykenwold’s army had reached the town of Warwick and Raphael had seen, from a distance, the brothers meeting. The two groups met on the road, their great horses with their arched necks resembling creatures in a tapestry. Clarence had appeared a bright and profligate figure, with silver armour and a flying cloak of cream velvet resplendent with silver foxtails. Gloucester was his opposite: dark and spare, a raven.

This was the first time Raphael had seen Richard since childhood. He hadn’t expected the sight of him to rouse such deep, powerful feelings. It was like the first glimpse of a legendary king or a saint, unbearably moving. Clarence was the flamboyant one, but Richard of Gloucester drew all Raphael’s attention, as if he were some mysterious shining icon of black stone. The brothers embraced and rode away together.

“I wonder what they said to each other?” Raphael murmured.

“An appeal to brotherly love and solidarity, at a guess,” said Lykenwold.

“More like the rewards Clarence would get from Edward if he came back,” said Will.

Lykenwold grinned. “Not to get his head struck off was reward enough, I’d say. They say that young Gloucester has a tongue of velvet that would charm the Devil himself into changing sides.”

“I believe it,” said Raphael.

“May we be as glad of that as Warwick is miserable,” said Lykenwold, shortening his reins.

“Warwick the Kingshafter,” said Will, and Lykenwold rode away laughing. Within two strides, he was lost in the pearly wall.

“Wonder if the other side have graylix?” said one of the apprentices, high-voiced.

“They say not,” Raphael answered. “Nobles can only keep them under royal licence and the Lancastrians all had theirs revoked. Warwick never used them anyway.”

“That’s summat,” said Will.

Somewhere in the cloud, a trumpet spoke. Tyrant and Teaser rose on their haunches, growling. Raphael’s arm ached from holding them.

“All right, lads,” he said, switching hands and rubbing the backs of their skulls to soothe them.

There was movement in the smothering greyness. Captains were shouting orders, their voices muffled. One voice must be Richard’s, but he couldn’t tell which. Then came a louder shout, and the archers beside him released a sudden storm of arrows. The rattling, whooshing noise was startling, but when it ended, there came no answering rain. A shiver went through him. Men muttered. Tension drew bow-tight.

Tyrant stood on muscular hindlegs, froth dropping from his un-muzzled jaws.

Above the ranks of the soldiers the mist thinned briefly and Raphael glimpsed King Edward’s banner far away, the Sun in Splendour, swaying and moving uphill. Closer, a white boar ramped on a cobalt banner, then vanished.

The archers dropped aside to let men-at-arms through. The trumpet sang the command Raphael had been waiting for.

“Now!” he said.

Harnesses were unclipped. Four couple of graylix went roaring into the fog, and were lost. Raphael, Will and the two lads stood undecided, like archers who’d loosed all their arrows. Then Lykenwold was yelling, and the foot solders behind them were moving forward, and they were caught in the flow, running uphill over wet, ridged ground. Raphael positioned his buckler on his left arm, held his axe in the left hand and drew his sword with the right. His heart began to race with fear, excitement, exertion: all sensations slid into one.

Around them was nothing but milky cloud and confused shouts. The fog seemed full of elementals: eyes, a hand, or half a face kept forming from vapour and vanishing again.

“Where the bloody hell’s the enemy, then?” said Will Shaw. “Bloody Nottingham?”

They were running into nothingness. He saw the dim shapes of graylix, circling, confused. The beasts were crude weapons, trained to run among the enemy and cause havoc, terrifying horses and foot-soldiers alike. They could have a devastating if brief effect. But they were only flesh and blood. Raphael knew that at least two-thirds of them would be slain.

“Christ,” Raphael panted. “You know what’s happened? Must’ve drawn up our troops too far over.”

The graylix raced to the left, and were swallowed by the fog again. Someone yelled, “Wheel left! Left!”

Lykenwold came galloping along the lines.

“Wheel around!” he shouted. “We’ve overlapped Exeter. Our forces are too far over to the right. We’re going to manoeuvre round and attack him in the flank. He’ll not be expecting it. Follow Gloucester’s banner!”

“I would if I could bloody see it,” said Will Shaw.

Raphael ran on, mouth sand-dry and his throat sore. Will was on his left and a man named John, whom he knew slightly, on his right. They were on the far fringe of the lines and had to sprint as the whole formation swept round into position. They ran through a gully, wet grass squelching underfoot, tussocks tripping them. Then uphill, steeper and steeper, towards noise.

He was more apprehensive than frightened, looking no further into the future than the next few steps. He felt like throwing off his armour, just to feel cold air on his skin.

The screams of horses and the shouts of men brought down by his graylix pack were ghastly. He couldn’t see them; could only see a writhing mass of helmets and armoured shoulders, billhooks slicing the sea of mist. A block of men – Exeter’s – had engaged with the edge of King Edward’s vanguard. In dismay, they were turning to find Gloucester’s men about to crash into the fray from the side.

All around Raphael, the sounds grew loud and harsh. Men were roaring battle-cries, beating their weapons on their shields to affright the enemy. On his left, Will Shaw yelled square-mouthed, unrecognisable, a berserker.

A few steps on, he saw the first dead graylix. Curled up like a puppy, its wounds were crimson flaps in the fine grey coat. It was Teaser. Raphael felt he’d been struck across the stomach. Hideous, devilish beasts, most people thought them; fearful, but expendable. If Raphael survived today, he’d go home to train a fresh pack of cubs for the same end.

“Raffel!” Will Shaw barked over the noise. “Reckon the Devil sent this fog? At least the Devil fights for York, so they say.”

Ghost-shapes turned solid. Huge, heavy, panicked soldiers were charging towards them, shoulder to shoulder, screaming from contorted faces. Raw fear transformed to rage. Raphael began to scream too, tearing his throat, beating his sword upon his shield. The whole world roared. He was deafened, terrified, mindless.

Arrows thudded around them. He tripped over something on the ground: a dead man. one of Gloucester’s, with an arrow stuck through his neck.

Three seconds later, the front lines clashed. A man came at Raphael out of the greyness like a bull, face bestial, sword swinging. Raphael’s heartbeat choked him. No time to think. He heard himself yelling as he parried, all his training forgotten yet still there by dumb instinct. The sword swung over him as he ducked. He chopped upwards with his axe and the man fell, gurgling. Raphael stared at what he’d done, jumped over the dead soldier’s legs, met the next. Beside him Will Shaw grunted as he swung his axe. His opponent sprawled headlong. Jet of blood hit Raphael.

This was worse than anything he’d dreamed. A roar of battle-madness all around him. The taste of blood caught in his throat. His arms ached with fatigue, yet the fight had barely begun.

Gloucester’s men were thrusting forwards, Exeter’s ferociously holding their ground, trying to force the Yorkists back into the gully behind them. Raphael knew if they were pushed down there, they would be overwhelmed. He couldn’t tell who had the advantage in the clinging fog.

He heard Richard, yelling hoarsely, rallying them to hold position. His voice kept Raphael steady. Blows clanged on his sallet and shoulders. He was knocked onto one knee, but the man beside him pulled him back to his feet. Raphael looked up into John’s face, squashed and plum-red inside the helmet.

“All right, mate?” he said. And fell, a stray arrow taking him straight through the centre of his face.