The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (31 page)

“My Lord Protector.”

“Harry, it’s a pleasure to see you,” said Richard as the young man rose. One of the inn servants, a boy, came running to take the heavy cloak. “You’re not too late for supper. Francis, move up. Earl Rivers here is about to clarify my role as Protector of the Realm.”

“Is he?” The sarcasm in Harry Stafford’s tone reminded Raphael why some disliked him. “Don’t let me interrupt, my gracious lord.”

Anthony Woodville glared at the newcomer with plain displeasure. He masked it quickly, found a clean glass and filled it with blood-red claret for the young duke.

“As I was about to say, there’s no one better fitted than his grace of Gloucester to protect the young king, and such was Edward’s wish,” Rivers said smoothly. “The role of Protector has been much discussed in Parliament and its precedents are clear. It is not, and never has been, a role that continues beyond the king’s coronation.”

Richard put in softly, “It’s strange you mention that, because I recall no discussion of the length of the Protectorate. I understood from Lord Hastings that Edward intended me to govern on his son’s behalf. I can’t see Edward wishing me to abandon his heir before he is sixteen at the earliest.”

“No one would wish you to abandon him a familial capacity. However, the Council is agreed that the Lord Protector’s role is to safeguard the new king until his coronation. No further.”

“I see.”

“You appreciate the, ah, unfortunate precedents that make the Council unwilling to appoint a single individual as regent. Government shall be carried out by many persons, of whom you, naturally, shall be accounted chief.”

“And this is all decided?”

“All agreed.”

The two men looked at each other; Rivers powerfully insistent, Richard expressionless. Buckingham watched, gnawing delicately at a chicken thigh. Compared to the younger duke, Anthony Woodville looked heavy, ageing. His fair hair was turning grey. He appeared to hold all the power, Raphael thought. Buckingham was a willow sapling beside him. But there was energy in the angelic duke, like a whip.

“I accede to the will of the Council,” Richard said at last. “My only wish is to serve the good of the new king and his kingdom.”

“Then there is no misunderstanding between us,” said Woodville, grave. “We both serve the king.”

Richard raised his glass. “God keep the new king, Edward the Fifth.”

“God save the king!” came the loud response.

The talk went on for some time. Fresh courses were brought, goblets refilled, empty dishes cleared, until most of the company were replete and half asleep. Eventually, Anthony Woodville took his leave and retired to another inn nearby. Most of Richard’s men went shortly afterwards, even Francis, who was visibly fighting sleep.

Only Ratcliffe, Buckingham and Raphael remained with Richard in the dim, flickering light. Raphael was sober. None of the others looked sleepy, or even slightly drunk.

He noticed Buckingham gazing sideways at him with narrow eyes.

“Harry, that’s Sir Raphael Hart you’re staring at. You can speak freely in front of him.”

“Of course. I’ve seen you a time or two, Sir Raphael. Pardon me.”

Raphael coloured. Harry Stafford’s attention made him uncomfortable. His words were mild but his tone acerbic; his disdainful manner hadn’t helped his popularity at court. Ratcliffe poured more claret. Richard breathed in and out, tapping his fingers together. There was a grim silence. Then Buckingham spoke.

“Who does Woodville think he’s fooling?”

“A neat move, lodging my nephew out of reach; not to mention fourteen miles closer to London,” said Richard. “My brother’s health was ruined with the encouragement of his companions in vice; Anthony Woodville, Richard Grey and Dorset.”

“He grows fleshy himself,” said Buckingham.

“They’re the ones who ruined Edward: the queen’s accursed brothers and sons,” Richard said quietly. His face was drawn, his eyes red.

“And he’s spent all night trying to put you in your place,” Ratcliffe said with fervour. “A short-term, limited role on the Council. A bloody insult!”

“That’s only Rivers scrabbling to cover his tracks,” Richard said coolly. “If Hastings hadn’t alerted me, they’d not even have granted me that small concession.”

Buckingham gripped Richard’s forearm, agitated.

“Richard, you comprehend only a fraction of this! Why do you think I’m here? Someone has to tell you, and if I’m the only one who cares, out of our deep friendship…”

Gloucester frowned. “Go on.”

“The Council divided into three factions. The largest is the queen’s, supported by Rotherham and most of the bishops.”

“Rotherham,” Richard murmured.

“The second party is led by Hastings, with Thomas Stanley’s support – the old nobility, who oppose the queen. The third party, including Bishop Russell and the Archbishop of Canterbury, won’t commit themselves either way. They argued for days. But they fear the queen, so the Woodville faction gets its own way. Some argue that Edward meant you to have sovereign power, but of course the Woodvilles were frantic to prevent that. They fear your revenge for Clarence’s death.”

“Well, I haven’t forgotten. So guilty consciences are at play.”

“The outcome is that the queen manipulated the Council into overthrowing your late brother’s wishes. The Woodvilles want no protectorship. They want the king crowned immediately, and a regency council headed by the queen, or Dorset or Rivers, set up to rule in your place. They’re been plotting to seize power and cut you out entirely. Her brother Edward Woodville has taken to sea in command of the royal fleet–”

“He’s done what?”

“And her son Dorset’s taken possession of the Tower and seized the royal treasure. He’s divided it between himself, his mother and Edward Woodville.”

Richard ran his hands over his hair. He closed his eyes. “Of course, I should have expected this. But I didn’t credit them with such depths of iniquity.”

“Their transgressions are endless. I’ve had spies in London and Ludlow–”

“Gods, I must be some kind of holy innocent, not to place spies everywhere.” Now Richard’s expression was hard, his eyes slits of shadow.

“The Woodvilles are plotting to destroy you. Not only you, but all the old nobility that threatens them; but most especially, you.”

Richard turned to Buckingham with a thin smile. “This is shocking news, Harry, but it is no surprise. I should have expected no less of them.”

“No, no, not just to cut you out of events. They mean to kill you.”

“Actually to murder me?”

“Yes. All this conviviality tonight was to lull your suspicions.”

“Clearly. But murder? Are you sure?”

“Utterly positive.”

Richard smiled. “Then I must terrify them even more completely than I realised. It’s almost pleasing.”

“Of course you terrify them. You’re the most powerful man in the kingdom, now Edward is gone. And when you say the Woodvilles as good as killed him, you are nearer the truth than you know.” Buckingham spoke dramatically. “Rumours are whispered that they poisoned him.”

“Poisoned?” Richard turned on him, his eyes dangerous. “What the devil would they gain from that? They’d not kill their source of power!”

Buckingham shrugged. “Unless they felt they’d drained the nanny-goat dry. He was standing in their way, can’t you see? Edward persisted in favouring people they despised, such as Hastings, and especially you. When the king – Creator rest his soul – when he made you effective sovereign of the north, it was the last straw. They believed Edward had thrown you a sop to stop you becoming another Clarence.”

“They thought that?”

“They’re miserably jealous of you.”

The dangerous eyes widened. “Probably, but you won’t inflame me with opinions, Harry. Stick to the facts.”

Buckingham paused, looking sullen,

“The fact is that, whatever caused his death, Edward left a great chasm of power and the queen’s clan intend to grab it. The boy is his mother’s by temperament and his uncle Anthony’s by upbringing, wholly Woodville and completely in their thrall. Through him, they will rule the kingdom.” The young duke struck the table with his fists. “Remember how they dealt with George of Clarence! I won’t stand by and see you so insulted! Lamb’s blood, how I loathe that tribe. I will do anything to aid you in crushing them.”

Ratcliffe said bluntly, “Forceful words, your Grace, but why would you help us? You’re Lancastrian, born and bred. And furthermore, you’re married to a Woodville.”

At that, Buckingham turned scarlet. “Yes, Lancastrian, and that’s why Anthony Woodville approached me for help, and how I divined his evil schemes. As for my Woodville wife, what better cause have I to hate them than foisting that common mare upon me? For God’s sake, I am the foremost peer in the land after our noble lord of Gloucester! Yet never have they given me my due recognition. We cannot go on enduring these insults. York, Lancaster, what does it matter? We’re all of the old nobility, and as such we stand or fall together!”

“Calm yourself, Harry,” said Richard. His face was as grave as an effigy. “I agree. The Woodvilles have done us all great wrong. They must be stopped. I’m convinced of your fealty.”

“To the death,” said Buckingham. Clasping Richard’s hand, he leaned in close to him and stayed there so long Raphael thought he would break down and weep.

“It’s plain what must be done,” Richard said, gently detaching himself. “We’ll take Earl Rivers by surprise. No doubt he means to delay us in the morning while his supporters spirit young Edward to London.”

He rose and went to lean against the fireplace, looking into the embers. Raphael heard a merciless edge in his voice. Whenever he was hard-pressed, this unnerving strength rose inside him, an adamantine blade that turned everything aside. “We arrest Rivers, ride to Stony Stratford and take the new king into our protection. No bloodshed; I don’t want the boy distressed. But we must act swiftly and decisively. Are we agreed?”

They all murmured assent. Buckingham sighed with satisfaction, a hiss.

“What a shame we’re saddled with this child-king.” He stared hungrily at Richard. “The minority of a king never brings aught but disaster. What we need is a grown man of strength and wisdom upon the throne… someone like you, Richard.”

Richard raised his head. The two men looked steadily at each other, as if no one else was in the room. Eventually Richard broke the stare and said evenly,

“Be careful, Harry. You are close to speaking treason.”

###

Raphael couldn’t sleep. He dreaded a dream vision. The room around him felt ordinary enough, but something had disturbed him. He saw a grey elemental crawl across the floor, like a tiny flattened human figure made of smoke. It vanished under the door.

Raphael started up in bed. Such spectres held no harm, so he’d heard, but they were echoes, an essence of something real that might be nearby. He got up softly. He was alone in a little room, hardly more than a cupboard. He wished he were sharing with Francis, so they could talk about the evening’s events.

Where the corridor bent sharply onto the stairs, he bumped into someone: a substantial bulk in the near-darkness. The landlady. As he jumped back, muttering apologies, she put her finger to her lips. Her eyes were bright moons in the gloom.

“Sir, please aid me. There’s an intruder in my house.”

“Lady, are you sure?”

“A man creeping around with a dagger in his hand? He’s no guest or servant of mine. I don’t think he knows I saw him.”

“And the little…?” He flattened his hand to indicate the elemental he’d seen. Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

“That’s what warned me,” she said.

“Where is the intruder?”

She indicated a corridor that bent off to her right. Down there was the Duke of Gloucester’s chamber. “Is the duke in bed?” Raphael whispered.

The landlady shook her head. “Still downstairs, with two other lords.”

“Stay back. Don’t fear.”

Easy to say, when his own heart was pounding. Barefoot and unarmed, he crept along the narrow passage. The dark oak walls and floor glistened in a wash of moonlight through a leaded window. He should have gone back for his sword, and woken Francis; but there might not have been time, and now it was too late.

The door to Richard’s chamber stood ajar. Raphael knew at once that the soft-footed assassin was hiding there. He heard faint breathing as he held his own breath, trying to discern where the man was. Behind the door, concealed in the curtains or the bed hangings? The room seemed all folds of smothering velvet.

Raphael pushed back the door until it touched the wall. The hinges creaked. Now the assassin knew he was there.

“Reveal yourself!” he shouted. “Give yourself up!”

There was a long, soundless pause.

Then a figure came roaring out of the darkness. Raphael caught him in the doorway, took the full weight of him in his flight. He began grappling madly, wrested a knife from the interloper’s hand. A fist struck his hip: it had been aimed at his groin and missed, but was still enough to knock him off balance. The attacker fought past him into the corridor.