The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (33 page)

Fortunately, Anne was not like that. If anything, she asked too little. Kate found it easy to slip away on her own business.

Often she went secretly at night to lie with Raphael. This time, though, she was making her way in daylight to the London Motherlodge of Auset. She’d been here before, when George of Clarence had brought his household to London, on the rare occasions she could escape.

The temple was in a cellar beneath a great stone warehouse in an alley near the docks; an insalubrious area of cranes and warehouses. Ships creaked, heavy with cargo; their masts a sinister, leafless forest. Katherine hesitated at the top of the stairs, then caught her breath and started down. The air was dank and smelled strongly of the river. The walls glistened black, shining in the light of many tapers.

At the bottom of the stairs was a circular chamber, the roof vault supported by thick columns. A stone basin stood in the centre, some five feet in diameter, filled with brine. Katherine went closer. In the water swam a black sea-snake, round and round, like a huge bracelet scaled with jet; the serpent eating its own tail. Carefully pricking herself on a thorn, she threw her offering of a white rose and a drop of blood onto the water.

Another woman came down the stairs. Her small body was concealed in a nun’s habit, but as she reached the temple she impatiently pulled the cloth from her head and shook out a cloud of golden hair. Her sweet, heart-shaped face looked familiar. Passing Kate, she said warmly, “Good day, sister.”

“Good day,” Kate answered, watching the woman as she went into one of several recesses on the far side. Candles glimmered there and voices floated out. They were private places, like chapels, where sisters were free to petition their goddesses for whatever purpose they wished. Suddenly Kate realised who the woman was – or had been. It was Jane Shore, no less; King Edward’s celebrated mistress. Now, according to rumour, she was mistress of both William Hastings and the queen’s son, the Marquis of Dorset. Kate raised her eyebrows. She’d had no idea of Jane Shore’s secret affiliation. She wondered if Edward himself had known.

“Katherine,” said a velvety voice she knew.

Into the light came Bridget Marl, Dame Eylott’s good friend, neat and handsome like a nun. “Sweet daughter, it’s been so long since we last met.”

“Yes, and I have grown,” Katherine said, laughing. The two women embraced. “Mother Marl, you look no older.”

“Such is Auset’s blessing, which the ignorant call witchcraft,” Bridget said with a wink. “How is your mother, our beloved Mater Superior?”

“Very well, when last she wrote to me,” said Katherine.

“I am glad to see you, daughter. What brings you here?”

Although Kate hadn’t been here for years, it felt natural to drop into familiar, straightforward speech. There was no dance of formality to negotiate.

“I’m living in London for a while.” She tilted her head to indicate Jane Shore. In the recess, Kate could just see a flicker of red light around a kneeling figure, a curve of blonde hair, pale hands cupped in prayer. “I had no idea that she…”

Mother Marl put her finger to her lips. “Discretion, if you please. You’d be surprised who comes here, incognito. She’s been of the sisterhood for years.” The elder women gave a lop-sided smile. “In the hidden world, no one condemns her for being… profligate with her affections.”

“Nor do they in the outer world, much,” said Kate. “What it is to be popular!”

“Never mind her. What of you?”

“I’m one of the Duchess of Gloucester’s waiting women. In the household of…”

“Ah, the Lord Protector. Yes, I see.”

“Mother, do you think… You must have heard the rumours that…”

“Dear, I probably spend more time in the tavern round the corner than I do here. Of course I’ve heard gossip that the Protector might be aiming at the throne.”

They were whispering very low, but the words seemed to echo too loudly off the chamber walls.

“Should he?” she asked helplessly.

“What a thing to ask! Do I sense loyalties in conflict?”

“I talked about it to my lover, who serves Richard of Gloucester. A child-king is dangerous. I half-wish Edward’s precious sons didn’t exist; then Richard would be king without argument. I know he would be strong and fair, a better king than his brother, but…”

The priestess’s face became grave. She pointed at the serpent in the basin, whose behaviour was said to indicate the Dark Mother’s mood. “The dance of the serpent does not bode well. The Church is jealous of its power and they’re constantly pressing for more control, more rights of interference. Their grip will increase until they are persecuting us openly.”

“Under Woodville rule?” Kate asked, surprised. “All they’re interested in is wealth, status and luxury; they’re hardly the Church’s dearest allies.”

Bridget laughed heartily, clutching her thighs. “Gods, Kate, you’ve a lot to learn. When has the Church shown itself uninterested in wealth, status and luxury? They can’t maintain it without a stranglehold upon every soul in the kingdom. Anthony Woodville himself is deeply pious, I’ve heard. His brother’s a bishop. We’re the fleas in their hair shirts.”

“Still, I don’t think the fifth Edward is any greater threat to us than the fourth, Auset rest him,” said Kate. “His family don’t think we’re important enough to care about.”

“It would depend which bishops are allied to them. If they’re weak or uncommitted – whether to protecting or destroying us – the strong churchmen will trample them like barley.”

“Either way, we can’t win,” Kate said flatly.

“You have it, madam. What of your Protector, then?”

“He’s not ‘mine’,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not sure. It’s a paradox. My heart says he would make a good king. However, my head reminds me that he is staunchly committed to his religion, and that means he might prove extremely dangerous to us, as Edward the Fourth and even Henry the Sixth never were.”

Mother Marl pursed her lips. She trailed her fingertip on the water and the serpent followed it round and round, jaws gaping, round eyes bulging above the surface. A needle-fang caught. Bridget jerked her hand away with a curse. A strand of blood ribboned the water.

“There, she has a little gift from me.” She sucked the wounded finger. “Perhaps she’ll give a word of advice in return.”

“Good mother, I know you speak the truth. I’ve felt it myself. Our wisdom will be rejected and called witchcraft. No one will benefit from this, but they’ll do it anyway. I’ve already seen too many Hollows desecrated. Without our devotion, the Dark Mother will go deep into the earth and our descendents will be scraping about on barren land, not even knowing what they’ve wasted!”

“Don’t get angry, sweet,” said Bridget.

“But if we don’t get angry, how shall we survive?”

“We’ll fight with all our strength; but I won’t offer you false comfort. I don’t think the identity of the king matters. Any king will bow to the pressure of the Church, and the pressure is growing. They’ll close the loophole by which we are allowed to exist. It will happen anyway; but a pious king – perhaps Richard – would make the process faster and more brutal, for certain.”

“What should I do?” Kate groaned. “What an idiotic question. There’s nothing I can do; I have no influence.”

“And there are altogether too many others in the stew already,” said Mother Marl, patting her shoulder. “Come, take a little wine with me.”

She strode towards her private chamber on the far side of the cellar. Following slowly, Kate had a clear view of Jane Shore at her work. She was bathed in candlelight that shone though a red glass holder. Her eyes were closed, her lips moved slowly, and she coiled between her hands the snake-like form of a large elemental. It had a distinct look, smoky and translucent, the sort that was drawn to the sick and fed on their strength. Kate had never seen one so large, certainly never caught one between her hands. Yet Jane handled the creature with sensuous dexterity. The sight was so strange that Kate, forgetting Motherlodge etiquette, stopped and stared.

Jane Shore opened her eyes. They were brown, friendly and innocent. As she stood up, the smoke-entity slithered over her shoulder and vanished.

“What it is, sister?” she asked.

“To command such an elemental is a remarkable talent,” Kate said softly.

“To see them is remarkable, too.” She spoke with trusting intimacy, the uptilt of her chin so charming that Kate could see why men fought like tomcats over her.

“I’m surprised when people can’t,” said Kate. “Priests throwing holy water in the wrong places…”

Mistress Shore laughed. “While the sprites pull faces behind their backs.”

“Still, it’s not safe to play with them as you were doing. Not ones of that kind. They can’t be tamed.”

“Sweet sister, I was not playing,” Jane said in the same mild tone.

Kate felt like a schoolmaster scolding a child, but it had to be said. “Then I don’t have to remind you that any working liable to cause harm is forbidden in the outer world and discouraged by the Motherlodge itself?”

The golden head dipped in appeasement. She placed both hands on Kate’s forearm. “I know; but I trust you to tell no one. I don’t have to remind you, either, that what takes place in the Motherlodge is as secret as the grave. Forgive me for my small flirtation with danger. Let’s both keep our counsel.”

She kissed the startled Kate on the cheek, brushed past her, and was gone.

Kate emerged from the temple feeling depressed. She went down to the docks, leaned on a wall and stood listening to the lap of water. There lay the treacly obsidian waters of the Isis, reflecting ghost-shapes. Barges slid past, some carrying magnates or bishops under cloth-of-gold canopies from one palace to another. She doubted they were even aware of the river’s essential soul. It was a powerful entity, a serpent-deity in its own right, a vast liquid body shaped by its banks. Oozing on its slow way to the sea, it was neverending; immortal. She uttered a wordless invocation to the dark green Serpent Mother of the river to rise and lend her energy to aid her children.

###

William Catesby sat at the table, his fingertips resting together on the polished cherry wood. His straight grey hair gleamed silver in the firelight; his narrow but handsome face was the non-colour of ash.

“There is no possibility,” he said, “that William Lord Hastings will consider supporting any bid on your part to become king. His support extends only to your Protectorship, insofar as it thwarts the Woodvilles, and that only until the coronation. His loyalty lies with Edward the Fifth. Although I presented the possibility as subtly as I might, his response was… terrible.”

Richard paced the width of the room in front of the fireplace. They were in a private chamber in Crosby House, a warm and gleaming room with rich red walls and a motif of harts and leopards. His supporters – Richard Ratcliffe and Francis Lovell, John Howard, James Tyrrel, Raphael and a handful of others – were grouped around the table.

“Terrible?” Richard said. He leaned on the back of Raphael’s chair, staring at Catesby. “In what way? In the sense that once he’s finished blustering, he might be persuaded?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” Catesby answered evenly. “He turned a deeper crimson than these walls. He used words I dare not repeat. I know him – better than you, if I dare say so – to be secure in his convictions, and stubbornly immoveable.”

“I see,” said Richard. “He seems to have spoken openly to you.”

“He spoke very openly. He still trusts me.” Catesby blinked. “He’s something of an innocent in that way. He expects everyone to be as transparent and straightforward as himself. His loyalty to young Edward will not be shaken.”

“Well, that’s most commendable,” said Richard. No one spoke. His expression darkened. “Now I know the position, I can decide what to do. After the love he showed me when we first arrived! Now the truth becomes apparent. He used me to oust the Woodvilles, and now wishes I would conveniently disappear… but I won’t.”

“He’ll soon know it,” said Ratcliffe.

Richard went to the fire, leaned on the mantle. “I liked Hastings… but I’ve seen him reeling drunk more often even than I’ve seen the late king in that state. He encouraged my brother’s ruin as enthusiastically as did Rivers and Dorset. He barely waited for Edward’s corpse to cool before he rushed Mistress Shore into his bed… and she is still sharing her favours with Dorset, and who knows how many others. To say it corrodes respect is an understatement.”

“William Hastings will make a dangerous enemy, my lord,” said Catesby.

“And is busily plotting the same,” Lovell put in.

The atmosphere in the chamber was close, bathed in fiery light. Raphael felt oppressed by these endless secret meetings, his vision clouded by the body-heat of men who sat closeted together hour on hour, filling the space with emanations that took on their own life, like elementals; tiny fire-demons of malice. He wondered if he was unique in being cursed to see glimpses of the hidden world all the time.

“Outrageous,” said John Howard, a solid, straightforward man who doted upon Richard like a grandfather.

Catesby, a dry-voiced lawyer, had been part of Richard’s circle only a short time. He’d switched allegiance from William Hastings to Richard almost from the moment they’d met. Raphael had seen it happen. Richard had an extreme effect upon people; he drew them irresistibly, or repelled them.