The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (35 page)

“No.” Her skin prickled. “I wouldn’t blame you at all.”

“Is that the same as supporting me?”

She felt her blood rising. “Are you admitting that you aim to…”

He took her arm and drew her behind an arras. Behind was a little alcove, a doorway onto a roof. Moonlight came under the door, a bar of silver.

“There is no other answer, Kate.” His face, what she could see of it in shadow, was sad, gaunt and chillingly determined. “I wish my brother hadn’t died, so we could have stayed in the north. However, he is gone, and his death has thrown us into chaos. A child-king always brings bloodshed. I’m the only one who can stop it. To end this uncertainty and shape the world as I want it? Of course I shall aim for that.”

Her heat turned to shivers. He had just confessed to her what he’d been denying in public. The darkness around him seemed to shimmer, like a heat-haze. At last she managed to ask, “What will you do?”

“Whatever I must.”

“Legally? I don’t see what can be done to remove Edward…”

His expression silenced her. “Fear must help me where the law won’t. I desire a strong and stable kingdom, Kate, not another thirty years of warfare. I have no choice.”

“It sounds unbelievably dangerous. If you fail, you’re inviting assassination, attainder, execution–”

“I know.” He looked steadily at her. Again she had the disturbing impression that an eldritch haze reared over his left shoulder. “It’s kind of you to worry about me, but you mustn’t. Nothing was ever gained without risk. I seem to have a taste for it.”

“You should be telling your wife this, not me.”

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment, as if in pain. “Anne is exhausted. When she’s stronger, when there is firm news, I’ll talk to her. At present this would only add to her well of troubles.”

Kate arched her eyebrows. “Whereas I am a bottomless well?”

He touched her velvet sleeve. “Yes, you are, and that is a pure compliment. I know that any secret I share with you vanishes as if into a locked vault.”

That’s truer than you know, she thought. “I’m no gossip, my lord.”

“Well, I’ve told you now,” he said, so low she could barely hear him. “What are you thinking?”

“Why do you care what I think?” she whispered back. “I have no political power.”

“No. But you always speak frankly to me. And if you’re going to give me Medusa stares and disapproving looks for the rest of time, I’d like to be forewarned.”

Kate bit her lip to stop herself laughing. How eerie, to be whispering to him in the dark, alone with him in the very heart of the plot. His hand on her sleeve felt like adultery.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that England should have the best king possible. The best appointed. That is the philosophy of the Motherlodge.”

“Diplomatic Kate. Would you be glad?”

“Yes. Yes, I would. I’d have you a thousand times rather than that reed of a Woodville child. You have nothing to prove. Wouldn’t you rule the whole kingdom as fairly as you ruled the north? Who could not prefer you? And no, because it will bring you danger and Anne unhappiness. But mostly, yes. I suppose I’ve spoken treason, but you wanted the truth.”

“And it sounded fervent.”

“Did you doubt my loyalty?”

He studied her for a time, his eyes changing like water; gentle, shrewd, thoughtful, calculating. “No, and you’re no flatterer. You see more clearly than most. I value that.”

“I’m here for the comfort of your wife,” said Kate. “She may wish this were not happening, but she will support you with all her heart. And so will I.”

Richard nodded gravely. “To crown a king I trusted, then return to my life in the north… that would have been my desire, but it can’t happen. It never could. And I’ve gone too far along the road to turn back.”

Then he lowered his head, exhaling as if all the strength had gone from him. His eyes looked bruised.

“I think you should go to bed and not haunt the roof all night,” she said. “You don’t look well.”

“To tell you the truth, Kate, I have not felt well these past few days. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, there is a strange numbness in my right arm.”

“Is there anything I can…”

“It will pass.”

She had trailed off because the fog that hung about him suddenly resolved into clear focus. A thick-bodied, gossamer eel was coiled about his chest and neck, squeezing. It looked like the elemental that Kate had seen Jane Shore summoning in the Motherlodge. Its shapeless head hung over Richard’s shoulder, regarding her from languid half-moon eyes.

“Oh, hell and damnation,” she whispered.

He looked quizzically at her. “I’m sure you’ve a good reason for swearing. May I know?”

“You have a… someone has…”

“What?”

“You feel as if something is feeding upon your strength? There’s an elemental attached to you, the sort that lingers near the sick. A body made of many elementals, rather. But they don’t join like that, nor attach themselves to the healthy, unless someone deliberately shaped it and sent it to attack you. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

Richard stared. “A sorcerer?”

She nodded miserably. She couldn’t mention Jane Shore’s name. It was part of her oath to Auset, never to betray a sister.

“Can you…?”

“I’ll try,” she said. Her skin crawling, she reached towards him, her hands travelling over his chest, into the body of the elemental. As if it were fog, she couldn’t grasp it. Then her skin tingled. Grey coils went around her arms. She and Richard were both caught and she was suddenly terrified. If she recoiled, it would split in two and they’d both be infected.

Forcing herself to breathe, she whispered to the elemental, coaxing it as Jane had, as if enticing a shy wild animal. Gradually it began to slither onto her. She turned cold. Thousands of tiny fangs nibbled at her skin. Weariness crept over her and she could have fallen down and slept where she stood, not caring if she never ate, drank or saw the sun again.

She made herself think of sunlight, imagined light shining out of her own heart, all rosy health and vitality. The entity recoiled, detaching from her body and sliding down her arms. Once it reached her wrists she flung it away and saw it dissipate into a thousand wisps that vanished into the moonlit bar beneath the door.

“It’s gone.” She sighed, shuddering. Turning, she looked into Richard’s grave, incredulous face. “Whoever conjured it wanted to harm you. I doubt it would have killed you, just made you feel too deathly to do anything.”

Richard was speechless for a few seconds.

“I wouldn’t have believed this if I hadn’t witnessed it.” He rubbed his shoulder. “The feeling is coming back. It tingles like fire. Some enemy sent a demon to afflict me… Will it return?”

“No. And it wasn’t a demon. These beings are stupider than a horned toad and they have no more malice than a flea that sucks your blood.”

“But to think I had no idea it was there.” He crossed himself. She smiled sourly.

“Then it’s a good job I did.”

“Who would do this to me?” His eyes, full of sudden fury, glared straight through her. She recoiled, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t tell him: either she lied to Richard, or she betrayed her oath to Auset. Either path meant doom.

Then he spoke, saving her from having to answer. “Elizabeth Woodville, of course. She and her mother are known witches. They bewitched Edward into marriage. Who else?”

Katherine said nothing. Turning hot and cold, she kept her face expressionless. Eventually his eyes came back into focus and he spoke more gently.

“Forgive me, Kate. This is not your battle. I don’t know what to say, except to give you my heartfelt thanks.”

“You’ll be able to rest and eat now,” she said briskly. “In my capacity as healer, I suggest you do so.”

He held back the corner of the arras for her to leave.

“You were on your way somewhere.” He sounded vague with shock. She could only wonder what was in his mind. “May I walk with you?”

Kate shook her head. She couldn’t tell him she was on her way to Raphael. Her lover would have to endure the night without her.

“No, I thought I heard something outside the door, that’s all. Good night, your Grace.”

“Good night, my lady.” He turned, and she watched his narrow form moving away until it melted into the blackness.

###

A butcher’s block, stained crimson, oozed blood on the sloping green beneath the walls of the Tower. The block was all that remained to mark Lord Hastings’ demise.

Now it was over, Raphael felt drained. He saw the same blankness on the faces of the other men who’d arrested and executed William Hastings. There had been soaring exhilaration in seizing a lord out of a council meeting, manhandling him down the stairs and into the dusty summer air, forcing him down upon the block and the axe falling, Buckingham supervising like an angel of death… but the horrific thrill soon congealed. In the aftermath, a handful of them sat in a guardhouse that looked out upon the green, trying to numb the shock with ale.

The door was open. Raphael and Francis Lovell sat side by side on the top step.

“Hastings was a conspirator and a traitor,” said Lovell, “but people are going to ask why he didn’t get a proper trial.”

“Should he have done?” Raphael asked. “The end would have been the same. He doomed himself.”

Lovell’s face, usually cheerful, was grave.

“Richard couldn’t afford to wait, or risk him being acquitted. The same with him sending Ratcliffe north to carry out the execution of Rivers and Grey, even though the Council refused to agree. He has to strike fast and hard, or he won’t survive. But it’s dreadful work. I fear it will do great damage to his reputation. He might salvage it, if he acts quickly. He’s walking on the edge of a bloody sword, Raph, but there’s no other way.”

“And we promised him we’d walk with him, all the way,” Raphael said. Their eyes caught and held for a moment, confirming the pact. Francis gave his forearm a quick, steadying touch.

A traitor, Raphael thought. He felt a mixture of sorrow and contempt for Hastings; his naivety, his disbelief at being found out, a stumbling confession of guilt and insistence that he’d meant no harm. Horror, as it dawned that the Lord Protector – a man he’d considered a friend – was not inviting a debate but dispatching him to immediate death.

Richard had trapped the conspirators. He’d summoned them to the White Tower, ostensibly to discuss the coronation: Hastings, Bishop Morton with Dr Fautherer at his side, Archbishop Rotherham, Thomas Stanley and their various assistants. A charming and affable Duke of Gloucester greeted them, lulling their suspicions. Then he left to ensure that his men-at-arms were positioned outside the doors.

No one knew he planned anything beyond the traitors’ arrest, not even Buckingham. Raphael suspected the execution had not been planned at all.

“I called you here to discuss political matters,” he said on his return. “However, it seems we must discuss the cousin of politics instead. Conspiracy.”

And with those words, the convivial mask dropped. Richard presented the accusation that they’d conspired with the queen to destroy him. Bishop Morton’s smooth face became waxen as he realised, faster than the rest, the peril they were in.

“Have I fought at my brother’s side all my life for this? To place a clan of gluttonous, drunken wastrels in charge of the kingdom? To see another thirty years of strife? I fought beside Edward but you–” glaring at Hastings– “you drank with him and ruined him. You, Rivers and Elizabeth Woodville’s depraved sons. The ex-queen and Mistress Shore have practised sorcery upon me, and you colluded, in hope that I would wither to a shadow and vanish. But I am still here.”

Raphael had never seen anything as pitiful as Hastings’ sickly, astonished expression. He’d thought he could manipulate events as if it were some idle game of chess. When Richard leaned over him, one finger pointed dagger-like at his heart, he physically shrank.

“There is no worse traitor, my lord, than a friend. Who slid the nectar of poison into your ears?” The room was silent. To see all those powerful, voluble men in thrall to Gloucester was astonishing. Indicating Morton, he said, “Cosy, the image of you whispering with Bishop Morton, a lover of Lancaster.”

“Richard, I never betrayed you,” Hastings gasped.

“No, far worse. You betrayed England. Now let all traitors see what they shall receive for their treason!”

He shouted the last word – the cue to his supporters. The chamber doors burst open. Dozens of armed men surged in. There was a scuffle. Thomas Stanley was yelling indignantly. Morton groaned as two armed men seized him, sweat drizzling down his face.

Raphael himself had been directed to seize Fautherer. The doctor of divinity remained passive and expressionless in Raphael’s hands, and his limbs felt skeletal through his robe.

Even now, Raphael couldn’t shake off the sense-memory of bones through cloth.

Hastings went quietly at first, limp in their hands. Only when they got him outside and he saw the wooden block – hurriedly dragged into place at Richard’s order – did he begin to fight, and then, when a priest came to hear his confession, to weep.