The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (32 page)

He turned to see the landlady trip the man. As the he sprawled over her outstretched leg, she began to yell for help. Doors opened, footsteps shook the building, lamps and candles lit the darkness. Raphael leapt to her aid and they got the man flat on the floor with his arms twisted behind his back, his wrists and ankles bound with the landlady’s torn veil.

By then he was spluttering with fear.

“Get her off me! Get the witch off me!”

He was a skinny rogue, not so terrifying in lamplight. Raphael had seen him earlier, among Anthony Woodville’s entourage.

“Whoever sent this worm into my house will be sorry,” said the landlady. Her strong plump face shone with outrage. The man gave a choked whimper. “What shall we do with him?”

Raphael imagined the astonished faces of Richard, Buckingham and Ratcliffe in the dining room as the door flew open, framing the proof of Anthony Woodville’s schemes.

“Take him before the man he was planning to kill,” he said grimly.

###

In the silvery dawn, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, woke to find his inn surrounded by men wearing the white boar and the Stafford knot. Raphael pictured him dropping his head into his hands, and almost felt sorry for him. His game was over.

Buckingham had been gleeful at the would-be assassin’s arrest. Ratcliffe and Lovell were outraged, Richard grim. Now Earl Rivers and his accomplices faced not merely imprisonment or exile, but death. Pontefract Castle, atop its stepped green hill, awaited them.

Daybreak barely paled the sky when they reached Stony Stratford. Raphael knew that Richard had not slept at all last night. He looked tired, the skin around his eyes tinged purple. When they found the young king and his escort already mounted and poised to leave – confirming that Woodville had never meant Gloucester’s party to catch them up – Richard laughed bitterly.

“We were right about them,” said Buckingham.

“And strangely,” Richard murmured, “they were also right about us.”

Unaware that his uncle Anthony had been arrested, twelve-year-old Edward waved and called out in clear delight. His adult half-brother, Richard Grey, looked on with suspicion and dismay. Gloucester dismounted and directed his companions to do the same. Following his lead they all went down on bended knee to the new king.

Edward was a milk-white child, like a plant grown in a cave. He smiled with pale, tired joy at their endearments and condolences.

Then he asked, “Where is my uncle Rivers?”

Still on one knee, Richard took his hand and said gently, “Your Grace, you must know that your beloved father, Creator rest him, wished the best and safest guardianship for your royal person. He willed me to be your Protector. No other.”

Edward began to look confused. He shook his head, pulling his hand away. “That’s not true. Pardon me, my lord of Gloucester, but I don’t know you. I want my uncle.”

Richard rose. “Alas, you have been deceived, sire. The men you call uncle, friend and brother sought to manipulate your power for their own ends. Your father feared this, and that’s why he sent me. Just in time, it seems. These men have committed treason. They’ll be taken away, and we shall bear you safely to London for your coronation. Be of good cheer, dear nephew. You’re safe now.”

Edward stood wordless and shaking as his companions – his half-brother and other men he’d known all his life – were arrested by Buckingham’s guards. They accepted arrest with dignity, faces etched with bitter resignation.

Not bewildered innocents, thought Raphael, but criminals caught in the act.

Suddenly the boy broke his silence, drawing himself up in haughty rage.

“I need no Protector. I am almost a man. In any case I am the king and I command you to bring me my uncle!”

“Your Grace, I am your uncle.” Richard spoke in a tone that was gentle but impossible to resist.

“I mean my uncle Anthony, Earl Rivers,” Edward said less confidently. His voice shook. “I command you to release my guardians.”

Richard put his hand on Edward’s shoulder and looked down into his eyes. Somehow, his own calm certainty disarmed the boy. “Your Grace, I won’t carry out a command that would harm you. Did not your noble father always act in your best interests?”

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Then we both must do as the late king, your father, willed.”

“I see what you mean,” says Fin. “It has quite an atmosphere.”

I’ve brought her to the battlefield with me. I appreciate her company. I’d rather be alone than with a companion who is bored, or making inane remarks, but Fin enters the spirit of things.

The day is grey, slightly wild, with transient sunshine winging across the hills. We watch a small group of people placing white roses around the stone that marks the place where Richard fell. Two grey-haired women and a man, and a younger couple in matching green rambling jackets. As we drew near, I see that they all wear Richard’s white boar badge in their lapels. They stand with their heads bowed, hands folded, as if visiting a grave.

Fin and I stand near them, respectfully silent.

“Afternoon,” says the older man, when their meditation ends. The wind blows his white hair about.

“It’s nice to see young people taking an interest,” says one of the women: his wife, I assume. They’re chatty, friendly. “Don’t believe everything you read about King Richard the Third. He was royally framed by the Tudors, you know.”

I nod, smiling.

“Best king we ever had,” I say, borrowing the sentiment from Fin’s Yorkshire friend. This makes the group beam. We talk for a while, and their knowledge leaves me breathless. I suspect they know more about the subject than I’ll learn in a lifetime.

“What people don’t understand,” says the second, older lady, “is that Richard was a very religious man. If they knew, they’d realise he couldn’t possibly have murdered his nephews. No one so devout would ever commit such a crime.”

“Torquemada?” says Fin.

I want to laugh, but swallow it because I sympathise with these earnest people and couldn’t bear them to think we’re mocking them.

They bristle. Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition were entirely different, they insist. There is no comparison, none.

Then Fin says something that amazes me.

“Do you know the legend of the Lame King?”

They admit that no, they don’t. The white-haired man says, “There’s no evidence that Richard was lame or deformed in any way. Only finding his bones would settle the argument, and I reckon I’ll fly to the moon before that ever happens. Even those who said he had one shoulder higher than the other couldn’t agree which shoulder it was.”

“No,” says Fin, “but he’s always been portrayed as crook-backed and lame.”

They agree that this is so.

“And Richard’s alleged deformity was exaggerated as a metaphor for his supposed wickedness, wasn’t it? In early times, the king’s power was believed to be divinely bestowed. If the king were fit and healthy, the land would flourish. If he were ill or disfigured, the land would sicken. If that happened, he must die. Folklore is full of lame kings; Richard is one of many. In pagan times, according to certain scholars, the Sacred King was sacrificed at the end of a fixed period so that his blood would restore the land to life. And just before he was sacrificed, he would be ritually maimed. Perhaps it was to make the king physically imperfect so he could be killed; drawing the attention of sinister powers towards him and away from the community. The lamed Sacred King becomes the scapegoat, taking upon himself all the ills of the land; and when he’s slain, he takes the ills with him, and the land is healed.”

The group stand hushed. The old man’s eyes look watery.

“So you’re saying that Richard had to die?”

“In a symbolic sense,” Fin answers. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“So it wasn’t for nothing.” The members of the little group look at one another, sober and thoughtful. It’s an astonishing moment. “That helps, that does. That helps.”

[Archbishop Rotherham took the Great Seal to the Queen]… about whom he found much heaviness and rumble, haste and business, carriage and conveyance of her stuff into sanctuary: chests, coffers, packs, fardels, trusses, all on men’s backs, some breaking down the walls to bring in the next way. The Queen sat alone, a-low on the rushes, all desolate and dismayed, whom the Archbishop comforted in the best manner he could, showing her he trusted the matter was nothing so sore as she took it for.

Sir Thomas More

Kate had forgotten the bustle of London, how beautiful it looked in the early morning swathed in vaporous fogs; how ugly it could feel underneath. The streets purred with gossip. The Duchess of Gloucester’s resplendent party caused a stir as they passed along the streets. Bystanders stared, bowed, even cheered. The cheering startled Kate. She had to chide Nan and Ursula for waving back.

Crosby Place had high cathedral walls and an interior of bronze and gold leaf, black stone and blood-red walls embellished with golden motifs. The great hall had the most magnificent ceiling Kate had ever seen.

She liked the warmth and drama of the house, but Anne wasn’t happy. She’d wanted to stay in the north with her son, but Richard had sent for her because he naturally wanted her to be present at Edward’s coronation. Anne rarely complained, but Kate could read her subtle humours and tried keep her in good cheer.

For herself, she was glad to be in the heart of events – to be with Richard and Raphael, for once, instead of always left behind.

After nightfall, when Anne and her attendants slept, Kate slipped out of their apartments and found a gallery with a row of tall windows. Richard had separate chambers and had not, as far as she knew, joined his wife. Not that it was her concern. At Middleham, Anne’s ladies usually withdrew from her bedchamber at night before her husband joined her.

The view was spectral: hundreds of roofs washed in starlight, some steep and austere, others tiled and shimmering like butterfly wings. No two were alike. A forest of gilded church towers; the chug of spiral mechanisms channelling water to the houses of the rich… the scene was timeless.

A finger touched her elbow. Warm breath touched her ear. “Kate.”

She turned and Raphael was there, grinning.

They hugged, kissed, laughed. Caressing each other with intimate hands they laughed again, as soft as thieves.

“You’re here,” he said. “I was so glad when Richard sent for you. For his duchess, I mean, but I knew you’d be with her. I’ve been waiting for you forever.”

“Tell me everything,” said Kate. They kept their arms around each other for warmth, with no sound around them but the rush of water in the otherworldly, cathedral hush of the night.

“Iesu, where do I start? Did you hear how Richard saved the king from the Woodvilles’ clutches?”

“We’ve heard rumours of treason, no clear details. I don’t know what Richard wrote to Anne. We’re only women, after all, the last to know.”

He ignored her sardonic tone. His mood was volatile, flickering from concern to vivid excitement. “I’m more than glad you’re a woman, beautiful Kate, I assure you,” he smiled, stroking the curve of her hip through her dress.

“Never mind that. Tell me.”

He recounted the Woodville plot to exclude Richard from power, the would-be assassin, the arrest of Anthony, Earl Rivers. His tone was low and matter-of-fact. Raphael’s lack of boastfulness was a quality Kate found endearing.

“We entered London in state,” he said. “It was like wading through a cheering, shouting sea. Richard looked magnificent, even in plain black mourning. He and Buckingham rode on either side of the new king and they were glorious, like night and day.”

“And the little king?” Kate asked. “You seem to forget the most important person.”

“Edward was in dark blue. I was so proud to be riding with them, but I remember how overwhelming London can be and I felt sorry for the boy. It was all so startling for him. He was as stiff as a reed on his horse, his face like milk and his eyes darting about.”

“Yet he must have been to London before?” Kate put in.

“Of course, but… I can’t put my finger on it. He seems afraid of Richard.”

“Well… Richard can be…”

“What?” he said.

“Intimidating. He has such a strong presence but you can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s like a bird of prey.”

“That’s unfair.” Raphael frowned. “You don’t know him.”

“I’m only suggesting that he might be unnerve a boy who’s only met him a handful of times. And Richard had taken all his familiar companions away.”

“I think there’s more to it. I think Rivers and Grey between them have poisoned Edward against Richard. God knows what they’ve said about him, but Edward will have drunk it in as gospel. He seems intelligent enough, but with no worldly wisdom at all.”

“Oh dear,” Kate said under her breath.

“What are you thinking?”

“About the Motherlodge. Anne Beauchamp and my mother argued about who should be king: the divine heir by birth or the best man for the job! But such a young boy…”

“That’s what Buckingham said. A child-king is always a disaster. His guardians fight each other until it deteriorates into years of warfare. Young Edward barely knew his father. They say he’s a pure Woodville, which pleases no one except the Woodvilles themselves. No wonder he’s nervous of Richard. And Richard sent criers ahead to inform the city of Rivers’ treachery.”

“The poor child must be very confused.”

“Well, he looked brighter by the end of the parade. A great escort from the Lord Mayor, hundreds of mounted men in scarlet and violet, bishops bowing to him, citizens thronging in the streets to welcome him. It made me wonder, though, if they wouldn’t cheer an ape if we dressed it up in blue velvet and told them it was the king.”

“Raphael!”

“Unworthy thought, I know. But such a shame King Edward couldn’t have lived another four years, and brought up his heir in his own circle.”

“What else?

“Well, Richard’s coup was effective. It threw the Woodvilles into complete disarray. The queen fled into Westminster Sanctuary with her son Dorset, and she’s taken her daughters, her younger son Richard of York, and all the royal treasure she could stuff in there with her. Her brother Edward had already put to sea in command of the navy.”

“They’re so afraid of Richard?”

Raphael grimaced. “If they are, they brought it upon themselves. They’ve only made things worse by panicking. Richard was angry. As he pointed out, he’s about to crown the queen’s son. What is she frightened of, unless it’s her own guilty conscience? Buckingham was almost leaping out of his skin with glee.”

“I have missed a lot.”

“No, I wouldn’t have wanted you here in all that disturbance. The Isis was choked with boats full of Gloucester’s men, stopping anyone from entering or leaving sanctuary. Lords and citizens in full armour filled the streets, as if battle was imminent. It’s not been easy, Kate. The city’s mad with rumours.”

“Saying what?”

“Richard’s trying to persuade Elizabeth out of sanctuary, but she won’t listen. She can’t be that afraid. Actually she’s trying to embarrass Richard by making a great show of terror. It’s a reproach to him.”

Kate went suddenly cold, thinking how different this account would be if Raphael and the landlady, a sister of Auset, had not discovered the assassin. Richard might have been murdered in his bed. Then the great Woodville clan would have claimed victory over England, and continued dividing up its riches.

Not that she could blame them for trying.

Anne, widowed, would have been offered the chance of marrying a Woodville or entering a nunnery, thus adding the Neville estates to their collection. Most likely, there would have been another civil war for control of the king.

Life would have continued, but as if the sun had been extinguished. Not a bright angelic sun: rather, one that was dark, shadowy, strange, warm, blood-red as a furnace, the heart of everything… gone.

She stood with her lips parted until Raphael said, “Are you listening?”

“I’m sorry. I was imagining if Richard had died.”

“Well, he didn’t. I was saying that we took the king to the Bishop’s palace, then we lodged at Baynard’s Castle. I’ve never liked the place; a huge echoing space, all dark blue and silver, and always freezing cold. Richard’s mother Cecily lives there. She’s still beautiful, with snow-white hair.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“Of course not. Everyone’s afraid of her. She stalks about like a severe old abbess.”

Cecily Neville must be tormented by the loss of her husband and three of her sons, Kate mused, even if she endured it with her legendary willpower. A pity she couldn’t offer her pain to Auset. Kate believed that prayers to God floated up and were lost in the ether, while those to the Serpent Mother went deep into the Earth, feeding her strength.

“Anyway, I’m glad we moved to Crosby Place,” Raphael went on. “And the king’s now lodged in the Tower. Buckingham suggested it.”

“A more suitable palace for the monarch,” said Kate.

She couldn’t let Raphael think she knew nothing of London. She felt mildly envious that he was privy to all these activities. The world of men, she thought with a sneer. If priestesses of Auset were appointed to government in equal numbers to bishops, there would be a true balance. And graylix might fly.

“The royal apartments in the Tower are wonderfully sumptuous, so they say. The walls are painted with gilded angels, and even the floor tiles are decorated with silver pards and white harts…”

“Is Richard officially Lord Protector now?” Kate asked.

“Yes, Protector of the Realm, but only until Edward is crowned. He has sovereign power, just as if he were king. The Council were glad to grant that. However, he wants his role extended until the king is sixteen; it will be disastrous if he fails. But some are complaining it will make him too powerful.” Raphael sounded disgusted. “Too many Woodville sympathisers.”

“Who supports him?”

“The Duke of Buckingham, of course, Lord Hastings and John Howard; all the old nobles who hate the Woodvilles. And he means to…” His voice fell.

“What?”

“To have Earl Rivers, Grey and their supporters executed.”

She was shocked. “For plotting against him?”

“And because, if he lets them live, Edward will release them from prison the moment he takes the throne and restore them to power. They have to die, or Richard will never be safe.”

“I see.” Kate’s mouth was dry, but she accepted Raphael’s explanation. All nobles did the same: executed their enemies. Shown mercy, traitors always savaged the hand that had spared them. “And Buckingham?”

“I’m not sure I like him. He handsome and vain and too fond of posturing. Still, I’ve never seen anyone so utterly devoted to Richard.” Raphael turned with a conspiratorial smile. “Buckingham loathes the Woodvilles. Imagine his delight at taking revenge. The late king deprived him of an inheritance, which he trusts Richard will restore to him.”

“So he has an ulterior motive.”

Raphael opened his hands. “Of course, Kate, but who doesn’t? Richard has no choice but to reward his supporters. It’s the nature of the game.”

Kate paused, flexing her fingers on the window frame. “So Richard is presently the most powerful man in the country.”

“Yes.”

“He might not wish to give that up.”

His hands crept around her waist again. “I wouldn’t blame him, would you?”

“No,” she said, thoughtful, “but I don’t see how it’s possible.”

“What are you implying?”

“Raphael, I know something’s happening. You’re so on edge, almost exhilarated. I’ve been in the streets, and kitchens, and servants’ chambers. The constant rumour is that Richard has no intention of crowning his nephew. They’re saying he intends to take the crown for himself.”

His face lengthened. His green eyes were more wary than surprised.

“Well? Is it true?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not true. He’s here to do his late brother’s will, not take a throne that isn’t his. But I tell you this, Kate; I wish he would.”

“Treason,” she mouthed.

They stood silent in the deserted gallery, shocked out of all amorous intent.

“Well, would you?” he whispered into her ear. “Knowing yourself a mature, experienced leader, would you give up your power to a youth whose family hates you? I tell you, he’d make a better king than this realm deserves.”

A shape howled past the window, rattling the frame and making them reel in fright. A grey, winged rag with a grinning mouth and sly malevolent eyes. The face looked briefly, horribly familiar. There, then gone in a flash.

“Christ Iesu, what the devil was that?” Raphael exclaimed.

“The wind,” said Kate. “A waft of smoke. An elemental. Nothing.”

###

The Duchess of Gloucester was an undemanding mistress. Kate had heard alarming stories of some great ladies – Elizabeth Woodville and her mother, Jacquetta of Bedford, among them – who never let their ladies-in-waiting rest but demanded constant attention. If they could not sleep, their attendants must not sleep either.