The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (19 page)

“A discreet wound,” said Richard, “that will not be noticed when he lies in state.”

It was Richard himself who knelt in front of Henry, as if to pray with him; then in one minimal gesture, with no effort at all, he slipped the long Italian dagger under Henry’s breastbone and up to the very hilt in his heart.

Blood gushed after the blade as Richard withdrew it, a red river flowing over his hands. Henry stared up as if in surprise. With his lips still moving he twitched, turned grey and was dead in seconds.

###

“What’s wrong, man?”

Raphael struggled out of sleep that held him like a quagmire. He couldn’t understand how he came to be in bed, or asleep. The walls of the chamber moved like spectral curtains.

“Iesu’s blood, you look deathly,” said Francis. “You were writhing like a beetle on its back. Wake up, Raphael, tell me what the matter is.”

“Terrible,” he whispered.

“Has this happened to him before?” Francis said, and Raphael realised Will Shaw was there too, looking blearily over Francis’s shoulder.

“Not as far I’ve noticed; but I sleep like the dead, anyway,” said Will. “What’s up, Raffel, a bad dream?”

A dream, Raphael thought. “No, no, it was real, I was there…”

Even as the denial came out, reality shifted, and he perceived the scene as a separate entity, real yet unreal, like a play. Too vivid for a dream… but what else could explain it? Vaguely, as if it happened a year ago, he could remember falling drunkenly into his bed. The scene itself had had no context. Yet it was so powerful he couldn’t shake himself free.

“Where?” said Will. “You’ve not moved from that mattress, unless you walked in your sleep.”

“It was terrible – so real – I dreamed they murdered poor Henry in the Tower.”

Francis Lovell frowned. All mirth fled his face. “Who murdered him?”

Raphael named them.

Francis was silent for long moments, lacing and unlacing his fingers. Eventually he said in a cramped tone, “Poor Henry, may the Lamb acquit him, did die last night. I heard it myself, only this hour past.” Raphael realised that dawn was flushing the window, and that Francis was dressed. He added, “But he died of sickness; of melancholy.”

“But I saw…”

Lovell was shaking his head. He looked so aghast that Raphael feared he’d lost his friendship, almost before it began. “Never speak those names again in connection with murder. It didn’t happen. You had a nightmare.”

“Were you there?” Raphael spoke sharply, sitting up.

Another long silence. Francis swallowed.

“No. It was a nightmare, Raphael! Your dream, not reality. Some foggy humour in the air must have afflicted your mind.”

Raphael could feel the nauseous headache of too much drink. He was heavy with sleep, dazed by the apparent reality of what he’d seen, not only sights but smells too. The fall of light on Henry’s upper lip as he prayed, the feel of rushes under Raphael’s feet – he couldn’t shake it off. And yet, the clues were there. The clothes they wore and the way they spoke had been subtly wrong, in the way of dreams. And the very fact that Raphael had been there, an invisible witness to whom no one spoke, proved it could not have been real.

“They say that foggy spirits gather around the dying, and enter the thoughts of sleepers,” Raphael murmured. “Yet it was so vivid, Francis! Are you sure–?”

Lovell’s mouth was thin with annoyance. “How the devil could you even imagine that our Dickon would murder a king, a deposed king, in cold blood? He’d never do such a thing. Other of Edward’s hangers-on might contemplate such an unchivalrous, bloody deed, but not Richard!”

“No,” said Raphael, ashamed of himself and trying to blink away the images. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Will put his big fists on his hips. “I warned you to keep off the hippocras. I tell you, Lord Lovell, one pint of ale and he falls over. I never could toughen him up.”

“Warned me?” Raphael gasped. “You were the one pouring it down my throat!”

“For our Lady’s sake,” Lovell said softly, “I’ve seen some bad mornings after a night before, but this caps it all. Take more water with it next time, eh?”

“It wasn’t the drink,” he said, sitting up, trying to pull himself out of the vision’s sticky web. Pain lurched about like a cannon ball in his skull. He groaned.

“Whatever it was, it’s over,” Francis said gently. “Put it out of your mind. Don’t speak of this to anyone, whatever you do, or you’ll set them thinking you’re possessed. My lips are sealed.”

###

The palace of Westminster was the antithesis of the Tower: an edifice of glowing creamy stone. Leaping animals surmounted the buttresses; pard, gryphon, bear, graylix. The planes of the roofs were tiled as if with butterfly scales, a dozen subtle tints of ruby and rose, cream, lilac, amethyst, leaf-green; the overall effect a glimmering rainbow. Gilded suns encircling silver roses studded the walls. Workmen were on scaffolding, painstakingly brushing silver leaf onto the mouldings.

Here Raphael had his first taste of life at court, luscious as cream but tainted with rancidity, as Lovell had warned. Even so, it was unutterably exciting to be here, in a vast hall of polished pale gold marble, looking out at trestle upon trestle of fabulously garbed lords and ladies, bishops, knights and courtiers.

It was hard to imagine that, only days ago, many of them had reeled bloody and fatigued from the battlefield of Tewkesbury. The air bristled with near-hysterical joy.

A piercing blast of trumpets announced the entrance of the king and queen. Edward was magnificent in golden velvet slashed with blue. Over it, he wore a cloak of azure cloth-of-gold, sewn with silver suns, lined with white damask and edged with a wondrous golden-ochre fur, tipped with black. His slippers were fashioned from the iridescent skin of the horned toad.

Queen Elizabeth was like an empress gliding beside him, her hand balanced imperiously on his. She threatened to eclipse her husband. From her towering yet gossamer-light headdress, swathes of silver tissue cascaded down her back with her hair. She was in leaf-green, the shimmering silky velvet scattered with pearls. The skirts were gathered back to frame a central panel, a window into a courtly myth. Salukis chased a hart across a field of green strewn with heraldic lilies. Raphael gaped at the illusion. By a shift of light he saw that the picture was embroidered from thousands of tiny beads, each bead a precious stone.

Her face was flawless, with long green eyes. As her cool gaze slid over the scene, the court went down in a rippling motion of obeisance. The perfect eyes narrowed with pleasure.

With loud laughter and many embraces, King Edward greeted dozens of finely dressed men and women, as fair as the queen and very nearly as beautiful.

“Her brothers and sisters,” Francis Lovell was whispering in Raphael’s ear. “Anthony you’ve seen. That’s Edward Woodville, and the bishop there is Lionel. I always mix up the women, there are so many of them. Those two young bucks are her sons, Thomas and Richard Grey, from her first marriage. Edward adores the whole clan, so no one dares say anything against them.”

“Edward loves everyone, apparently.” said Raphael.

“And often people he really shouldn’t.” Lovell, taking a drink from a large goblet of Roman glass, raised an eyebrow at him.

“I shouldn’t like to make enemies of them.”

“Unfortunately, not everyone’s as wise as you.”

Raphael followed his gaze to the Duke of Clarence, who was standing to one side of Edward’s dais and talking loudly to Gloucester, William Hastings and a handful of others. Clarence was as fabulously dressed as the king, in white and gold, blatant in his efforts to outshine the Woodvilles. He looked edgy and full of bluster.

“Clarence loathes the Woodvilles and hasn’t the wit to conceal it,” Francis whispered, carefully positioning the goblet to conceal his lips. “He was nearly as furious as Warwick when he found out Edward had married Dame Grey. Richard has the sense to keep quiet, but Clarence never had, then or now. The feeling is mutual. They say the queen tried to persuade Edward to execute him.”

“For siding with Warwick?” said Raphael.

“Quite. For plotting to dethrone her husband, not to mention the part he played in killing her father Sir Richard and her brother John during that episode.”

“Then she has a point. I’m amazed Edward’s so forgiving.”

“Not as amazed as she is; but that’s Edward. He loves his brothers. He knows Clarence is an idiot, and forgives him; but the queen and her family never will.”

Servants were hurrying among the tables. Dish after spectacular dish was carried in to dazzle the gathering. Banners dripped from the high, gilded ceiling. Musicians played. Psalteries, reed pipes, drums and sweet human voices floated over the roar of the gathering.

There was so much to look at that Raphael forgot to eat. The men wore slim-fitting trousers of fabric matching their doublets, laced all down the outer side to make the legs look long and lean, the effect completed by soft boots with long, pointed toes. The doublets were stiff with boning, the shoulders sculpted into swept-up shapes over full, slashed sleeves, fabric falling from the waist into curved points over the thighs. The women’s dresses had the same sculptural shoulders, long sleeves drooping almost to floor, boned and laced waists to give an exquisite shape. Their full skirts shimmered, inset with panels of beaded heraldry or mythic scenes; the queen herself had started this fashion, it was said. Their hennins were delicate cages draped with the finest voile, through which the full glory of their hair could be seen. Jewel colours were in abundance, encrusted with gold or misted with silver, and much black, popular because it was the most expensive and difficult dye of all.

Raphael observed all this through a veil of wonder. He’d imagined the splendours of court a hundred times. The reality was infinitely more colourful, rich, noisy and wasteful than he’d ever dreamed…

He recalled the violence that had preceded this celebration. The truth was stark and lent the scene a garish, bloody edge. Everything he witnessed was tainted by the ghastly dream. He’d seen these laughing, triumphant folk murdering a confused old man. He suspected they were all in on the conspiracy. How could he observe anything with innocent delight? He hardly touched his wine, lest there was some worse horror waiting to reveal itself.

He looked around for Katherine, but couldn’t find her. Although Clarence was at court, his wife Isabel and her ladies were not. Kate was the one person who might make sense of his vision.

“Come, cheer up,” said Lovell, topping up his goblet with burgundy. “Who put you on a platter and stuffed you with chestnuts?”

“What?”

Francis indicated a huge, staring fish that had been placed before them. “You look as joyful as that pike. More bad dreams?”

“No. I was thinking about… the battles, the executions.”

“For Creator’s sake, put that out of your mind. What d’you think feasting is for? If a few cut off heads bring peace, it’s worth it.”

“I feel out of place.”

“Nonsense. You’re here as a faithful knight of Gloucester. That makes you more fit to be here than half the folk in this place.”

“Oh? Which half?”

“You’re a fast learner.” Lovell winked. “What better excuse for gossip?”

Francis schooled him well. By the time the hall was readied for dancing, he knew the main players. The queen’s relatives were a court in themselves, plying the king with flattery, quips and backslaps. King Edward loved it, gorging happily on their adoration. Raphael watched the queen’s brothers, who rode high in Edward’s favour; Anthony Woodville a powerful presence of silver-fair energy, Edward Woodville a darker, sterner creature with narrow eyes. The two strutting young stags, Queen Elizabeth’s sons by her first marriage, Thomas Marquis of Dorset, and his younger brother Richard Grey, were all arrogance and bravado. This might impress some, but not, Raphael understood, Richard of Gloucester.

As courtiers paid their respects to the king and queen, Raphael noticed their expansive smiles, the curtseys and bows and hand-kissing as they greeted one another, the mutual flattery and assurances of love. Then he saw how they fell into little cliques, looking around with slitted eyes like daggers.

He learned the faces of the Stanley brothers, Thomas and William, with their neat beards and watchful eyes. They sat with a small, rigidly dignified woman who dressed with the austerity of an abbess. Francis told him this was Lady Margaret Beaufort.

“And yes, she always looks that miserable,” Lovell whispered. “They say that all she thinks of is her son, Henry Tudor, gone into exile with his uncle Jasper who fled to France to avoid Edward’s wrath. Jasper was about to fight for Marguerite, until Tewkesbury put paid to her.”

“And who is the Bishop with them?” Raphael asked.

“Morton,” said Lovell, as if he’d tasted vinegar. “He transfers his loyalty from one king to the next with the ease of a snake upon soap.”

Most of the bishops present were dressed in silver and yellow pomp. Morton was subdued, in bruise-purple. He was sleek and plump, watching proceedings from the mild, dark pools of his eyes. Beside him was a gaunt man with a shorn, blue-veined skull.

Raphael laughed. “And the one beside him, who looks like a half-starved monk?”