The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (30 page)

“Yes, come on. I’ve something to show you.”

She followed him down. Strange, but now he was there, her over-magnified spectral images of him vanished. He wasn’t cold or threatening, simply a man she found easy company and charming… and still painfully attractive, in the most dangerous way.

He led her down into the bailey and towards the stables, with the walls of the western range on their left and the keep on their right. She pulled her cloak hood over her head. The guards might see them. A man and a woman alone in the night were never viewed as innocent. The mere fact that they were together made them as guilty as sin.

“From all reports, it seems I must thank you for saving Anne’s life,” he said.

“That’s putting it a bit strong,” she said. “I stopped the physician killing her, possibly. The rest was common sense, to ease her fever and make sure she ate well.”

“All the same, without you…” She could barely see him in the darkness. His velvety voice came out of nowhere.

“And yet you’re not at her side?” Kate glanced up at the slaty sky. Night-lights glimmered in some windows; others were dark. She imagined the hundreds of people in the castle breathing steadily in sleep.

“She needs to rest. Despite riding all day I’m still wide awake, which is nothing new. I went to look at my son, who was soundly dreaming and didn’t know I was there. All that’s left is to haunt the battlements.”

“Which you do so well,” said Kate.

“And you?”

“Oh, just… a decision that’s unutterably hard to make, even harder to unmake.”

“Can I help?”

She laughed. “Thank you, my lord, but I doubt it. Still, it’s kind of you to take an interest.”

“It’s what noblemen are bound to do,” he said dryly. “Our duty.”

“Was it part of your duty to protect my mother in York that day?” Faint luminescence drew a pearly outline along his straight nose and high cheekbone. “I should have thanked you for that, but never had the chance, somehow.”

“No need to thank me. I was upholding the law. And I don’t especially like Rotherham, I must admit.”

“Oh? Are you supposed to say that?”

He laughed quietly. “Only in private.”

“Thank you, anyway.”

He kept a careful distance from her and yet, to her own dismay, she felt a familiar magnetic pull towards him. She wanted to touch him, as she would have touched a mantle of sable fur, or a handsome black gyrfalcon. All her careful avoidance of him had made no difference. She reminded herself that the feeling was an illusion. They had nothing in common. She didn’t know him.

At the stable, he opened an arched side-door and let her through. A stable-boy, asleep on a pile of straw, didn’t stir. Richard took a lit lantern from the boy’s side and led the way along a cobbled row of stalls. Bay and grey heads turned to watch them pass. The scent of horses was thick, ripe and comforting.

“Do you have a horse, Kate?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I make free with yours. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” he said, smiling.

“I used to have a little grey mare, Mab. She died last year. She was eighteen years old.”

Her throat went tight, unexpectedly.

“I remember your little grey mare.” He sounded wistful. The pang spread from her throat and rippled downwards.

“Yes, I should hope you do.”

“She was a beauty. You must miss her.”

Reaching a stall, he slid back the bolt and let her through, following and closing the half-door behind them. Inside was the most beautiful horse Kate had ever seen; a flashy dapple-grey mare with jet-black mane and tail, an arched neck and a long head with huge, liquid black eyes. Her mane flowed right down over her shoulder like a woman’s unbraided hair.

Kate put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, Mother of God, she is exquisite.”

“Her name is Querida. It means dearest.”

“A perfect name.”

“She was sent to me from Spain a few weeks ago,” Richard said, scratching the mare’s neck. “She’s as sweet-tempered as a dove. She’s yours.”

“What? Why?”

“For your devotion to Anne. Tomorrow my steward will officially present her to you. Try to seem surprised.”

Kate could only stare, tears overflowing. “More surprised than this?” The mare extended an enquiring nose, nuzzling at Kate’s palm. “Impossible. I’ll cry at her beauty. I won’t be able not to.”

“I’m glad you like her,” Richard said softly. “Oh, Kate, I didn’t expect tears.”

“Anne should have her, not me.”

“Anne has many fine horses already. This one is yours.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Now she was fighting tears in earnest, and it was not only the mare, but the thought of Raphael, and Richard’s unbearable closeness.

“Don’t cry.” He brushed the moisture from her cheekbone with his thumb. “What is it?”

She looked up fiercely. “Did you know that I’m to be married?”

“Yes. I heard. Raphael is the most fortunate and blessed of men.”

“Great Goddess, news travels fast. I haven’t even spoken to him yet!”

“Anne told me.”

“I see,” said Kate, and stood mute.

After a time, she heard him breathe in and out.

“Kate, you do wish to marry him, don’t you?”

“What’s the meaning of this gift?” she demanded over the end of his question. “It’s the sort of thing a nobleman would give to his – his mistress. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. I just don’t understand.”

He stood back, resting against the placid mare’s shoulder. He combed his fingers through his hair, leaving it dishevelled. “It seems fitting, for your care of my wife.”

“Then you could have left the presentation to your steward.”

“Yes. I don’t know what I intended. This was ill-considered.”

Panic rose in her chest. She felt close to spilling out something idiotic that would ensure he never came near her, never looked on her with a drop of respect again.

“No,” she said. “It was sweet and gracious, my lord. But why consider it at all?”

“Foolishly I never considered that you might marry. I imagined you always a maiden, as you were the first time we met.”

“I had no idea you imagined anything, or even cared.”

“Bewitchments can be resisted, but they don’t fade away.”

“I never bewitched you,” she said angrily. “What do you want?”

He was so close to her that she felt his body warmth prickling her skin. Angry as she was, it only drew her closer. They touched. His hands slid lightly over her hair. “I could wish we had more memories, before we were both bound to other duties.”

“This isn’t fair,” she said, trembling. “You ran from me. It was your choice.”

“Kate…” He held her away from him, his hands tense on her arms. “If I was Edward, this wouldn’t afflict my conscience for a second. But I’m not him. I cannot betray my wife. I can’t take a woman betrothed to another man, one of my own knights. Not in a thousand years could I do that.”

“She’s a goodbye gift, then,” said Kate. “A wedding present.”

“I suppose so.” He lowered his head to touch hers. For as long as his hands stayed on her, she clung to him, to keep him there. She knew that as soon as he let go, they would never touch each other again. “Don’t cry, Kate, sweet Morgana.”

“As Elizabeth Woodville said to King Edward, so the story runs: ‘I am not good enough to be your wife, but I am too good to be your mistress.’”

“Raphael will make you happy. If not, he’ll answer to me.”

What else he might have said to her, she never knew. There were sounds outside, the creak of gates, the rumble of galloping hooves, men shouting. The beautiful Spanish mare put up her head and whickered. Richard looked over his shoulder in concern, gave Kate the briefest kiss on the cheek, and was gone.

Taking the lantern, she followed him towards the gatehouse.

A horseman was riding hard through the rain, cloak flapping, his horse soaped with sweat. He’d raced through Middleham village and come clattering across the bridge into the castle courtyard. There, he flung himself out of the saddle and onto the first guard he saw, not even realising that Richard himself was in earshot.

“From William, Lord Hastings,” he panted. His face was candle-white and drenched with rain. “Take me to the duke at once. King Edward is dead.”

QUEEN ELIZABETH

Ah, he is young; and his minority

Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Richard III Act I scene 3

Night. A road unrolling into the darkness, on and on. A tunnel of trees, the hard glint of lantern light on stones. Red flashes spitting from the horses’ hooves, and within the forest the steady green eyes of its un-human denizens.

The party rode hard, silent with exhaustion. Raphael was beyond tiredness. He rode near the front with the handful of northern lords who accompanied the Duke of Gloucester: Lovell, Ratcliffe, Rob Percy and Lord Scrope. Behind them came a great comet-tail of horsemen; three hundred gentlemen of the north and their servants, all in mourning black. They’d been riding so long that Raphael’s whole existence was narrowed down to the long, swallowing throat of road and trees, the rumble of a thousand hooves. The men around him seemed spectral. He felt alone.

Richard, leading them, was grave and business-like. The news of King Edward’s death had stunned everyone. It was so unexpected. No one knew how Richard had reacted when the messenger from London first came; Raphael hadn’t seen him weep, but he’d glimpsed a livid fire in his face that appeared to be consuming him from the inside. Within the hour Richard had gathered his friends and commanded them to make ready to ride south.

“News of the king’s death should have reached me days ago,” he’d told them. “No one at court thought to inform me, except Edward’s good friend, William Hastings. He sent an urgent message the moment he realised the queen had neglected to do so. She and her family deliberately withheld the news from me, in plain defiance of Edward’s last wishes.”

Hastings’ letter was full of outrage and warnings. Dying, Edward had named Richard as Protector of the Realm and guardian of the new king until the boy reached the age of majority. Although Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, had been young Edward’s guardian all these years, it was traditional for the late king’s brother to act as regent. And Edward, thought Raphael, must have felt the only person he could truly trust was his own brother.

According to the indignant Hastings, the Woodvilles intended to exclude Gloucester from his rightful position. The prospect of him as Protector made them panic. Now they were scrambling to hold onto their power. If they lost the young king to the Duke of Gloucester, they lost everything. So they’d plotted to delay Richard, while they rushed the boy from Ludlow to London and got the crown on his head as quickly as possible. Thereafter, their position would be unassailable. Richard must come to London at once, Hastings insisted, to repudiate these jealous upstarts. The only sure way was to intercept the young king and take him under his own protection before they reached the capital.

Raphael remembered the court rivalries with unease. The Woodvilles were seen as glittering nobodies who’d stuffed themselves into positions of undeserved privilege. The old nobility, including Lord Hastings, loathed them. But they’d all been loyal to King Edward. He alone had bound them together. Now he was gone, like a jewel hacked from the centre of a tapestry, the fabric was fraying.

The Woodvilles had been safe while Edward was alive and bestowing his favours upon them. They would remain safe only if they controlled the new king, their kinsmen and puppet. So they would do anything, fair or foul, to prevent Richard of Gloucester becoming Protector.

There were more letters waiting for Richard at York, where his supporters had gathered, and at Nottingham. A messenger came from the Duke of Buckingham, offering his support. He would meet Richard at Northampton.

And Richard sent letters of his own; gentle letters to console the queen and promise his fealty to her son, and others cordially reminding the Council to honour his late brother’s wishes. He’d also written to the new king himself, asking that they join him en route and make his entry into London all the more magnificent.

Further south, they met Earl Rivers’ messengers on the road. The earl acquiesced to Richard’s suggestion. He would wait for him at Northampton.

That made Raphael wonder if Rivers feared Richard after all, and if Lord Hastings was in a lather over nothing. Or if his apparent cooperation was part of the game, a game full of sinister layers that no one fully understood.

Raphael hadn’t wanted to leave Middleham or Kate. He’d had word that the duchess wished to see him and Kate to discuss their betrothal. Raphael was elated to learn that Kate had changed her mind. However, he hadn’t been able to find her; and then Richard had whisked him away.

Service to a lord always came before love.

The road curved into a flatter landscape. Raphael found himself looking at a wide, barren plain, lit with a dusting of yellowish light. On the plain walked a solitary, lean figure with the grace of a prince, dark hair blowing back over his shoulders. The head was bent, as if with the weight of memories. It was Richard. The sight of him utterly alone, delineated by that faint, ancient light, filled Raphael with terror and an ineffable sense of mystery.

“He will destroy the House of York.” The voice in his ear made him start. He glanced round and saw a cadaverous face, a robe of priestly purple flowing away into the darkness. He’d seen the face before… Dr Fautherer.

“He is the House of York,” Raphael answered.

On the plain, Richard lifted his head and looked straight at Raphael. The eyes glimmered, sorrowful, demanding, distant. Raphael cried out.

He jerked in the saddle and woke himself up. There was no plain, and Richard was only a vague shape on horseback ahead of him. Certainly there was no strange clergyman at his shoulder, only Francis Lovell. He shivered to realise that a vision had seized him out of nowhere.

“Northampton,” said Lovell.

A town appeared out of the darkness, aglow with hundreds of small lights. A thin sharp drizzle began. Raphael could hear the men behind him grumbling, though it was more with relief than complaint. They could rest soon.

There were three great inns in the main street, grey and ghostly through the rain-drenched night. Lamps swung in the wind, catching blonde glints on the thatch. Men and horses waited all over the wet road; a welcoming party. Ostlers ran about taking charge of the horses, while townspeople gathered to watch the spectacle.

Raphael recognised the figure at the centre. Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, handsome and imposing in silk and velvet finery, a cap and a fur cloak, all in mourning black. He stood in a silver halo cast by his servants’ lanterns. The tableau glittered; all activity seemed muffled, as if an intense hush lay over everything like a held breath.

“So, our friend Rivers is already here,” said Richard.

“To check how many men we have,” Ratcliffe said shortly.

“And to soothe our suspicions of him,” Lovell added. “Hastings had to dissuade him from bringing a great army with him.”

“Then let’s soothe his fears, in return,” said Richard.

Richard dismounted and went forward. He was dressed in plain black cloth that gave back no light at all, like soot. The only jewels he wore were jet. Rivers resembled a padded couch next to Richard, who looked slender and dangerous, a sword-blade.

The earl and the duke greeted each other with clasped hands, and then an embrace, as friendly as could be. Raphael watched in amazement. Their diplomacy was so convincing it might not be entirely feigned, after all.

“Your Grace, my Lord Protector, most beloved brother-in-law,” said Rivers. “May I offer my deepest condolences on this grievous loss of your dear brother the king, Creator rest his soul.”

“Amen. And my equally heartfelt condolences to you.” Richard sounded hoarse. “It is a most grievous loss to us all. One the kingdom can barely support.”

“And which has made necessary our tedious journeys. You must be tired, sir, and heartsore. These inns are ready and eager to accommodate us; everything is arranged.”

“You’re very kind,” Richard answered quietly. “Will you take supper with us?”

“Gladly. Come, we’ll dine together and console each other. We’ve much to talk about.” Warm, hearty, elegantly mannered, the earl was not to be resisted. Raphael suspected that Richard hadn’t expected him to be so friendly.

“Indeed we have.” Richard looked calmly around. “And we have a new king to comfort us… but where is he? Abed?”

“Yes, yes, I should hope he is,” said the Earl.

“I’d like to see him, and pay my respects.”

“Naturally, my Lord Protector, but in the morning, if it please you.”

“Why not now? He’s twelve, not an infant.”

“Because, my lord, I think you would not want to ride another distance tonight.” Woodville put a too-familiar hand on Richard’s arm. “The king lodges tonight at Stony Stratford, in the care of his brother Lord Grey and other faithful servants.”

Richard’s silence could have sliced bone. Raphael looked sideways and saw the frozen expressions of the other men. Earl Rivers should have waited with the king for Richard, the Protector. Not to have done so was an appalling presumption and discourtesy.

“Why isn’t he here?” Richard asked mildly.

“Of necessity, since the inns here are full and I was concerned to secure him lodgings befitting his station. I took him there myself, and came back to meet you.”

Richard showed no anger. He smiled. “Then you have had a tiring day,” he said lightly. “Allow me to ensure that all my men and horses are accommodated, then we’ll dine.”

###

The landlady was a sister of Auset. Raphael noticed, though no one else appeared to. They missed the subtle signs; her demeanour of watchful, quiet confidence, the way her indigo gown swathed her well-rounded body, cut closer than the usual fashion. The steady clarity of her gaze was something he recognized from Kate. As she held up her lamp to welcome the travellers, her eyes caught Raphael’s. She smiled.

The dining hall was a fine room, long and narrow with heavy beams and a good fireplace. Its stone flags were immaculate, the walls hung with ivory damask. A long table ran almost its whole length. There was silver plate on a pure white cloth, and candles in coloured glass holders that scattered rainbows of ruby, violet and green across the table. Richard Gloucester and Anthony Woodville sat opposite each other with the other lords – all Richard’s – ranged along on both sides. The atmosphere was subdued but friendly enough.

Woodville fussed charmingly over the food, telling the landlady that it was perfect, but would be even better if she’d encourage her cooks to use
this
French technique, or a pinch of
that
spice. He spoke teasingly, with a flirtatious gleam in his eye. She smiled in return; but Raphael suspected she would have liked to punch him square in the face.

Richard sat patiently through this pantomime with a slight smile. Earl Rivers’ presence filled the room, as marvellous as a groomed lion. He was a true knight, accomplished in many arts, and liked the world to know it. Raphael could see why he was so popular at court. While he wantonly scattered light and energy, Richard was the still, dark core of something occult. He did nothing to draw attention to himself, but drew it irresistibly, nonetheless.

When game pies and poultry were brought, and the inn servants had withdrawn, Anthony Woodville described the death of King Edward.

“As you know, he’d grown corpulent over the years, which must have weakened his health. He got a chill on a fishing trip and took to his bed. The malady seized upon his lungs. He was fully expected to recover; it was to our great shock and grief that he suffered a relapse and deteriorated so suddenly that his physicians were helpless.”

“I wish you’d sent for me as soon as he fell ill,” said Richard. His tone was cool, barbed.

“He seemed to be recovering. His relapse took us all by surprise. There’s a new school of thought among the Florentine physicians that long inactivity thickens the blood and congests the organs; I suspect it was such a complication that took Edward from us.”

“You’re as well-versed in medicine as in everything else, my lord,” said Richard.

“He knew he was dying.” Rivers shook his head. “At least he was able to make his peace with God. And also to reconcile all of us who had quarrelled. Lamb’s blood, he even made Hastings and Dorset shake hands and kiss! He did much good upon his death bed.”

“And upon his death bed he named me Lord Protector.” Richard sipped from a glass of claret, keeping his gaze on the earl.

“Indeed, he did. And I’m glad of this chance to clarify the situation.” Rivers wiped his mouth on a napkin, then folded his hands on the table. Raphael noticed how soft they were, the nails polished like pearl.

He began to speak again when the door opened. Everyone looked up. On the threshold was a framed apparition; a slender young man with long hair like a stream of fire in the lamplight. He wore blue, and over it a black cloak lined with blonde fur, and black gloves with heavy gold rings on the fingers. If he had sprouted wings, or produced a fiery sword, Raphael would not have been surprised.

The Duke of Buckingham stood there for a few moments, as if for effect. Then he strode into the room, fell to one knee beside Richard and kissed his hand. Mouths fell open. It was an unusual greeting between two dukes.