The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (22 page)

“Is he?” Kate hissed. “He cared precious little for her while she lived! What are they doing with poor Ankarette?”

His mouth opened helplessly. “They…”

“Well, come on!”

“The Widow Twynyho is accused of poisoning the duchess and of doing away with her and her babe by black magic.”

“What?”

Kate’s shock made her feel as if the whole castle were shaken by cannon fire. The room spun around her. She fought for breath. She ran to the window again, but the bailey was empty.

“Where have they taken her?”

He cleared his throat. “Into town to be tried by jury. If she’s found guilty, she’ll be hanged for witchcraft.”

“That’s illegal,” she whispered. “That’s against the common law. Magic may be forbidden but the penalty is not execution!”

“I meant for poisoning, for murder. I don’t know!” the man said, helpless.

“But – but I must testify for her. I know she did Isabel no harm! We did everything to save her and the child!”

We.

“I’m sure you did, my lady.” The guard was gruff with shame.

“Please let me out.”

“I can’t. Don’t make me stop you bodily. If I don’t, others will.”

“We’re all grieving for Isabel,” she said. “Is George so grief-stricken that he must blame someone, however innocent and faithful to the duchess?”

“I couldn’t say, my lady. Please.”

She sat with her face in her hands. Great Lady Auset, curse those who do this. Punish them with the fires of the hell that they believe in!

Later, a page crept in and brought her supper. She sipped at the claret but could not touch the food. One of the children’s nursemaids, a dark girl called Ursula, came to sit with her – to save her being left alone with Clarence’s henchmen, she presumed. Eventually she curled up on the bed and slept.

She woke, drained and fragile, to the face of George’s clerk bending over her. It was still dark and felt very early, close to dawn.

“My lady?” he said delicately. “His Grace wishes to speak with you.”

“Wait.” She rose dizzily from her stupor.

“His Grace will not wait.” The clerk was pale, his plump hands trembling.

“Wait,” she said sharply, “at least for me visit the garderobe and to tidy my hair!”

He fell back, blustering with embarrassment. “Of course, of course.”

“Sir?” She stood with stiff dignity. “Tell me, did they hang the Widow Twynyho?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Thank you.”

In the latrine, she coughed a thin stream of bile into the darkness and thought of throwing herself after it, down the long stinking throat of stone. Instead she calmly passed water, straightened her skirts, came back into the chamber and gathered her dishevelled hair beneath a hennin.

George of Clarence was waiting for her in the presence chamber. He sat in a huge chair of carved oak that was almost a throne, one long leg stretched out, one elbow lolling over the arm of the chair. Any beauty in his face was extinguished by malice. His curly hair hung flat with sweat. His eyes glittered with danger.

In all her life, Kate had never known such fear. She stood before him like a willow wand, stripped white. He only had to lift a finger and his men would take her, as they’d taken and dispatched Ankarette.

She thought of scaring him by revealing the crowned serpent that hung between her breasts – but that would be to admit her guilt – what guilt? Complicity – in what?

“Anne’s written to me,” he said in a slurred voice.

“What? My lord–?”

He spoke again, slow and careful: a drunk trying to sound sober. That was nothing new, except that he was also terrifyingly lucid.

“My sister-in-law Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, has written to me. Now that Isabel is gone, she has asked for you at Middleham. She desires you as her lady-in-waiting, Lady Katherine.”

This was the last thing she’d expected. Her voice emerged as a faint dry husk. “Her Grace honours me.”

“Why then do you stare at me as if I’m a basilisk?” He lurched up in his chair, making her start. She saw the glimmer of his tears, madness trembling on a razor edge of grief.

She dropped her gaze and stared at her blue velvet hem, the long toes of her slippers embroidered with lilies.

“Come closer,” he said, and she obeyed, gagging at his stale alcohol smell. “Look at me, you silly child. Look upon the King of Burgundy!”

George was laughing, teeth wine-stained against his crimson skin. She thought that he’d lost his mind. The King of Burgundy, what in heaven was he talking about? His laughter made her abruptly furious.

“You know Ankarette was innocent!” Kate cried. “She never hurt a soul in her life! You should be damned to hell for what you did!”

His smile died.

She heard gasps from his henchmen around the edges of the room. Then, thick silence. She waited for rough hands to seize her, wondering how Ankarette felt when she saw the gallows.

George said softly to his men-at-arms, “Get out.”

Now she was alone with him. Her mouth was sawdust.

“Do you not think I would make a good king, Lady Katherine?” he asked.

“I – I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Edward and I were born the wrong way round. I am Richard of York’s true son. Rumours that Edward is the bastard son of an archer – those rumours attach to him, not to me. It’s not fair. I’ve been a faithful husband, a good Christian knight. I have not surrounded myself with whores, witches and arse-licking nobodies. All I did was for England’s glory! And what reward do I get? Not even my father-in-law’s estates, but Dickon has to wrest half of them from me. Even you, gentle lady, would send me to hell on top of it.”

“Perhaps you should go to your bed, sir, and rest,” she said. “I’m sure things will seem better in the morning.” For you, she added silently. Not for your victims.

“Even the venom of your tongue is passing sweet,” he said. “I once asked the widow Twynyho that question. ‘Shall I not make a splendid king of England?’”

“And how did she reply?”

“‘Never,’” Clarence said viciously. “‘It is not your destiny,’ she said. And thus I knew Ankarette was a witch.”

“How?”

“Because she’d prophesied against me! And then I knew what had befallen poor Isabel! The witch murdered her. Gods, you must see – If I had not slain the widow, she would have poisoned my son and daughter too!”

He truly believed his story, Kate saw. She rubbed sweat from her palms, but more came. Does he know what I am? He must know how I aided Edward at Barnet, unless he’s forgotten, or wasn’t told. He takes Ankarette for a witch, but not me?

Was he foolish, or simply unobservant, too concerned with his own affairs to see what was in front of him.

“But she had no reason.”

“No reason but money, reward, and pure delight in evil,” he said.

“What reward?”

“Who d’you think set her on? Who did she come from?”

Kate’s lips formed a soundless O. “The queen.”

“Yes, you see it now, eh? Elizabeth Woodville sent her waiting woman to murder my wife and children. This is her vengeance, the damned Woodville witch! But no more. I have evidence against her now.”

He meant, Kate knew, revenge for him and Warwick turning against King Edward. She was incredulous. If he presented this story of conspiracy to Edward, the king would laugh in his face. She studied Clarence and still didn’t know if he was insane or demonically cunning.

“Well, she and you have your wish,” he said. “I am in hell.”

“Then we both are.”

“Do you think I did not love my wife?”

She stepped closer, fervent. “We all did! She was not poisoned. Even the queen would not visit such malice on you. The late duchess was ill. Bearing the child weakened her. It’s tragic, but that is all.”

She expected raging denial. Instead, to her horror, Clarence snaked forward and put his arms around her. He encircled her hips, and pillowed his heavy head on her abdomen. Sobs shook him. Kate was locked there, mortified, while he soaked her with his open-mouthed grief.

She feared she might be held there for the rest of time, in ghastly penance for Isabel’s death. At last the duke let his arms slide away and slumped back in his throne. His face was empty.

She stepped out of his reach before he could grab her again, sat down on a footstool.

“Can you prophesy, Kate?”

A chill rushed over her. “No, my lord.”

“Strange, when you worked so close with the widow, that her ways didn’t rub off on you. Or did yours rub off on her? Did you conspire with her? Did she confess that my enemies paid her to destroy my dynasty? I’ve heard that your kind are to witches as cardinals are to monks.”

So he did know. He was playing a cruel game, like a cat with its prey. George was unpredictable. She couldn’t tell if his rage had cooled, or would flare again at one wrong word.

So she took a deep breath and told herself, I must be prepared to die with dignity, as dear Ankarette did. Then I can speak without fear.

“Your Grace, are you threatening that if I don’t give a pleasing prophecy, you’ll hang me too?”

He moistened his lips and gazed at her from heavy-lidded eyes. “I can do what I damned well please with you, Katy Lytton.”

“My mother says there’s no such thing as preordination, only forks in the path according to the choices you make. How can I predict your choices? Perhaps if you repent and become a good man, you will become King of Burgundy, France, England and the whole world.”

“How dare you mock me?” he gasped. “I shall rule Burgundy! Margaret, my sister, has offered me her step-daughter Marie. And Marie is–?”

“The Duchess of Burgundy,” said Kate.

“And Burgundy has a great army.” Clarence sat back, his large hands clawing the arms of his chair. “I’ll become its ruler, and from there…”

“You never give up. And Isabel barely cold.”

“There’s a horse,” he said savagely, tears spilling down his face, “saddled ready for you in the courtyard, my best grey palfrey, with eight of my men for escort and a girl named Ursula to attend you.”

“I know Ursula,” Kate said faintly.

“Never forget, I could have hanged you for conspiracy with the widow. Instead I send you to my sister-in-law, that Dickon may have as much joy of you as have I.”

Cold, Katherine started up from her seat. She wanted to flee, but held back. She walked steadily to the duke, stopping for a second to touch his hand. It was an impulse, part caress of sympathy and part pinch of hatred. She squeezed the warm thick fold of his palm between her thumb and forefinger, swallowing sourness as she realised that his incontinent grief had caused Ankarette’s unfair death.

And worse, that George of Clarence’s twisted mind turned Isabel’s death to political advantage without missing a beat. She hurried on her way, head averted, unable to look at him.

Afterwards, she wondered if he had spared her because he was afraid of her.

###

Kate broke her journey to visit her mother, arriving in Lytton Dale on an overcast winter afternoon. The high moors were bleak with snow. In the valley snow had fallen lightly, turning the day luminous.

Eleanor looked no older. Serene and proud, she stood in the doorway to greet her daughter. Under the gaze of Clarence’s dour men-at-arms, they embraced. Then, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder, Kate spilled out her tale. She was still talking as her mother led her up to the solar, sat her down and gave her elderberry wine to drink. She didn’t pause until she had finished.

“How long will you stay?” Eleanor asked gently.

“Only one night. I’d not want Clarence’s lads to have their noses in your trough longer than necessary.”

Eleanor smiled. “They don’t matter. It would do you good to rest here awhile. Oh, Goddess, poor Kate…”

“Poor Bel, and poor Ankarette,” Kate said briskly. She wanted no sympathy. She looked up, glad to see light still strong in the windows. “Is there anything to eat? All this travelling has left me so famished I could swallow two deer and a roast porcupine.”

Later, wrapped in wool and furs, she slipped away from the house and ran headlong into the snow-clotted folds of the demesne. What sweet relief to be alone. The land was as beautiful as ever. Nothing had changed. Her mother still exercised her gentle guardianship, holding her estate like a tiny kingdom. Katherine trudged across sheep meadows, down between limestone gorges to the wide shallow river Melandra.

Ice crusted its margins, but the water still ran strongly. Its bubbling was the unending song of the Earth’s heart. She walked along the bank to Old Mag Heads, where two tributaries gushed over waterfalls and joined to form the main river. The hill that reared behind them was white, grey and bleak. She crossed stone bridges over the falls, and went on her way to Briganta’s Cave, the sacred Cauldron Hollow.

She’d visited the cavern in all its moods. Now the day was icy and brooding. Hag weather. A chill breeze chased the clouds and blew cold, thrilling breath into Kate’s lungs. She passed under the great curved arch and into the cave.