The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (36 page)

Richard was like iron, implacable. Raphael thought he would execute them all, even the bishops, and from their faces they were sure of it too. Instead, he brusquely ordered them to be imprisoned. It was over.

“Their faces as they were taken away!” said Raphael to Francis Lovell. “The bishops and Lord Stanley, I mean. I never thought I’d see such powerful men reduced to the state of frightened children.”

“Quite pleasing, to see Richard knock them off their perch,” said Lovell. “Hastings knew the risk he was taking, and he was jealous of Buckingham. Richard was never sure of him.”

“He’s sure now,” Raphael said dryly. “He doesn’t waste time, does he?”

“Don’t look so worried. Just learn this lesson: don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

Raphael frowned. “His anger in the meeting… that wasn’t a performance. He was furious.”

“And afterwards, as white and shaken as Hastings. He’s strong, Raph, but he’s not made of stone.”

“What will happen next?”

Francis shrugged. “As far as everyone knows, the coronation of Edward the Fifth is still due to take place. If only he can persuade the queen to let Richard of York out of sanctuary to attend his brother’s coronation, otherwise the York boy will be a focus for rebellion, and that’s the last thing Richard needs.”

“The queen must let the boy go,” said Raphael. “There will be sermons, public declarations than Edward and Richard of York are bastards, barred from the throne. The citizens will have no choice but to ask Richard to take the throne instead. Most will be relieved. As for any that oppose him – after today, they won’t dare say a word. Richard will be king.”

“What?” Lovell exclaimed. “Where did all that come from? Are you a seer?”

“I don’t know,” Raphael said, startled. “I just know, as if it’s all happened before.”

###

Katherine lay awake long after Raphael fell asleep beside her. He’d described the day’s events in details so vivid she could see, touch and taste them. She shouldn’t be shocked by Richard’s actions. She’d known for years that he was ruthless, and what else could be expected? The heads of his own father and brother had been stuck on spikes on Micklegate Bar for the world to gape at. What other way did he know?

It wasn’t the beheading that shocked her so much as the fact that Richard had virtually told her, in advance, that he was preparing to do it.

Did he say that? she thought, struggling to remember. Or am I reading too much into his words, an intention that wasn’t there at the time?

How does he know about Jane Shore?

I didn’t tell him. Will Mistress Shore assume I betrayed her, and complain to the Motherlodge? What if Richard finds out I knew and didn’t tell him?

Kate tried to calm herself.

She imagined Hastings smugly plotting to disempower Richard. She murmured into the darkness, “If only he’d executed that oily Bishop Morton alongside him, and miserable red-faced Rotherham. Not the done thing to execute priests, indeed.”

A cry startled her.

Raphael had woken, and was sitting up, trembling. As she reached for him, she felt cold sweat on his skin. Her touch made him jump. He turned and glared at her, eyes mad, as if he didn’t know who she was.

Alarmed, she fumbled for the low-burning lamp and turned up the wick. His face was streaked with sweat. His chest glistened, rising and falling.

“Raph, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she said.

No answer. His expression contorted suddenly with despair, or disgust. He turned his head away.

“Raphael!” She spoke sharply, gripping his arm. “Wake up! It’s all right. What was it, a nightmare about the execution? It’s all right, it’s over. Tell me, then it will go away.”

After long moments, his face cleared and he lay down again. He stared up at the ceiling, both hands on his forehead.

“No,” he said at last. “Not the execution.”

“What, then?”

“It was about a man writing a book.”

“Writing?” She gave a silent laugh, a reflex. “How was that horrifying enough to make you wake up in a sweat?”

“Don’t laugh at me!” he said savagely.

“I’m not laughing. Tell me.”

He groaned. “I saw a clergyman of some kind, walking up and down in a long room with a row of high windows. It was very clear. Dusty light shining on dark wood and gold. He was describing what happened today, dictating to a clerk. That’s all. The scene was bland, yet it filled me with… indescribable dread. He kept backtracking to embroider what he’d said, making it more and more dramatic to show Richard in the worst possible light. He had Richard accusing all and sundry of witchcraft, of withering his arm and deforming his body, things like that. And each time he described something new, I could see it, until Richard became a monster. It was so real. Hideous. That’s why I cried out.”

“Oh, love,” Katherine whispered. She pressed close to comfort him, but his body stayed rigid and resistant to her touch.

“Is this wrong?” Raphael asked softly,

“What? That we’re lying together and still aren’t married? That makes us no worse than half of London and no better than most of the court.”

“No,” he said, kissing her temple. “I mean Richard taking the throne.”

She rose on one elbow to look at him. “Why? Are you having doubts?”

“No. I love him, but the dreams…”

“Your dreams are an expression of fear, and that fear comes from too close an adherence to the outer world.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The outer world is black and white and goes in a straight line. It says that Edward the Fourth’s son should follow him, no matter what. But the hidden world goes in spirals and tangents. There is no King Arthur coming to save us, love. We must make do with the best king available to us at the time. That isn’t always the rightful king, but the best appointed king.”

“Strange,” he said, curling strands of her hair around his fingers. “You never say what I expect you to, Kate, but you’re always right.”

###

The coronation was magnificent, the most glorious England had ever seen.

As she moved into the cathedral, part of the procession holding Anne’s train, Kate could hardly believe this was real. Later she would write to her mother, telling her everything: the sparkle of jewels, the froth of lace and tissue, the sea of knights, lords and ladies, the floods of cardinals and archbishops. Everything shone, painted with light. Gold and crimson, lush ermines, violet and lapis, emerald and sapphire; the colours blurred and shimmered in her sight. Her heart lifted with awe. Richard was king.

The King of England was once my lover, she thought, faint with wonder. Now I hold the train of his wife, his Queen, and I love her, and I would not have anything different, but…

One of the other train-bearers caught her eye; Margaret Beaufort, the noble and immensely rich widow who had married Thomas Stanley. Kate barely knew her except by sight. They had nothing in common; Lady Margaret was of different rank, age, disposition, religion, everything. She was tiny, narrow-faced and intimidating. How Thomas Stanley could have preferred her to Eleanor was beyond comprehension… but no, the allure of her estates explained everything. Kate desired no contact with her, but they were yoked together by Anne’s train and she was examining Kate from beady, perceptive eyes. The look was one of haughty judgement, as if she’d seen Kate dancing naked under the moon. I have your measure, witch.

Kate looked away, burning. The choir’s voices were like crystal, rising into the lofty vaults above them. Like flocks of birds spun from golden glass, their voices soared. Katherine saw Richard with his eyes closed, caught up in the music. Anne was solemn and dignified, but her face showed strain. Pride, too. She found a frail smile for Kate and her other attendants.

Kate witnessed the King and Queen stripped to the waist and anointed with holy oil; their heads tipped back, hair falling on their naked shoulders – Anne’s fine red-gold, Richard’s sable – as they made their sacred vows. Then clothed in finery again.

So Anne’s father, Warwick the Kingmaker, had got what he wanted after all. A royal crown upon his daughter’s head. And one day, a Neville grandson on the throne. They sat together at last upon the throne of England; King Richard III and Anne, his Queen.

Kate wondered what Edward and his little brother were thinking in their Tower apartments. Were they sad, or bitter, or obliviously playing games? Even relieved. The danger was over; the Woodvilles broken; the House of York restored; Richard safe, his family and his supporters safe; there would be no more war. From where he stood in the ranks of knights, Raphael caught her eye, and they both smiled.

Katherine looked up at Richard, glorious in velvet and furs upon his throne. He was gazing straight over her head, oblivious to her, so she could stare at him unabashed. He was the centre of the world, darkly shining, enigmatic, compelling. Perhaps she was only seeing an image of her most extreme desire, not reality. Yet for a moment she came close to hating the pale, resigned woman at his side. No, not hating Anne, never that. Only wishing her to vanish.

The King of England was once my lover, she thought, and wept.

He contents the people where he goes best that ever did prince; for many a poor man that hath suffered wrong many days have been relieved and helped by him and his commands in his progress. And in many great cities and towns were great sums of money given him which he hath refused. On my truth, I never liked the conditions of any prince so well as his. God hath sent him to us for the weal of us all.

Dr Thomas Langton, letter of 1483

The Duke of Buckingham paused in an antechamber to the king’s apartments to consider his appearance in a mirror. His cheeks were shaved to glassy smoothness, eyebrows plucked into arches that the ex-queen Elizabeth would envy. His hair lay groomed to golden perfection over his shoulders. He thought of this as a Lancastrian look; an ethereal shape gifted by God to signal their moral superiority over the earthly Yorkists.

Still, he was a Yorkist now. His magnificent clothes of sapphire-blue velvet, all his new servants, his countless lands and titles, he owed to the Yorkist king he’d helped to create. The costly chain he wore was set with white roses, not red.

“Kingmaker,” he mouthed to his reflection. Raising one eyebrow, he gave himself a long, satisfied look.

Buckingham had grown to despise the late king. Edward had given him nothing, no preferment, not even the inheritances stolen from him. He’d pushed the duke out of office and out of court. Edward had made no secret of his dislike, so Buckingham’s resentment had grown extravagant. How he’d loathed that gigantic, coarse-living idiot.

Richard was his opposite. Richard was spare and dark, thoughtful and discreet. He was strong-willed, and yet amenable to good ideas and common sense. In him, Buckingham found the twin half of his soul.

He joined Richard in his own dukedom of Gloucester. The king was some way into his royal progress, which would take him on a serpentine route throughout the realm. At Reading and Oxford he bestowed generous honours on his supporters, showing kindness to the widows of traitors he had executed. He wanted to show that his quarrel was only with the men themselves, not with their families.

Henry Buckingham moved towards the doors of the king’s private chamber. He’d imbibed several glasses of wine, but was not so drunk that anyone would notice. Attendants ushered him in and retired. Richard was alone. Even the ever-present Lovell, Hart and Tyrell were absent. Buckingham liked none of them.

Richard was dressed in crimson, the doublet cut close to his slim form, with long pointed sleeves lined with green silk. The colour was dramatic, and suited the darkness of his hair and brows. He might not have the height or flamboyance of his brothers, but knew the importance of presenting himself well. Appearance was everything. Yet he had qualities deeper than the trappings of monarchy. Presence, strength and vigour of spirit that shone out of him; and a wounded quality, too, that made him wary of his peers, yet tender towards the downtrodden.

He is more than a king, Buckingham thought. He is… blasphemous to think it, but he is like a quiet god. And if he is a god, then I am his archangel, ever at his side and armed with swords of flame. Ha.

The image pleased him. Dark and light. Together, they made a whole.

“Harry, welcome.” Richard rose from his seat, smiling. The duke knelt and kissed his hand warmly, in mutual acknowledgement that they’d overcome their foes together.

“Your wife has not yet joined you upon your progress? I trust her Grace is well?” Buckingham spoke disingenuously. He didn’t actually care.

“She remained in London to rest for a few days. She’ll join us later. By the way, I’ve a present for you…” The king took an object from a sideboard and balanced across his palms. A sword in a scabbard. “It belonged to my father-in-law.”

He meant the Earl of Warwick, who’d stirred such love and such hatred. Harry breathed out in awe. How uncannily appropriate this was, as if he and Richard shared the same thoughts. It was a gorgeous object, the leather scabbard like polished wood and set with jewels, the black bronze hilt sporting a ruby the size of a walnut.

“Have you not given me enough?” Buckingham received the sword with grace. He drew the blade an inch or two: the metal was as lovely as silver. “You can’t part with this.”

“A gift lightly parted with is not much of a gift. Here, I’ll place it on the table for you to take when you leave.”

“Thank you,” Harry said softly, and kissed Richard’s cheek. The present was astonishing, and made him feel oddly restless. There was something ominous in it, reminding him that no gift of Richard’s was ever quite enough to content him. I’m like a graylix, Harry thought, disturbed. The more I eat, the hungrier I feel.

“Sit down.” Richard waved him to a chair and poured claret into goblets of purple Roman glass. “It’s good to see you.”

“I hear the royal progress is, ah, progressing wonderfully.”

“Yes.” Richard smiled. “To my surprise.”

“Why are you surprised?”

“I’m not the king they were expecting.”

“A better one by far,” Buckingham said fervently. Their glasses chimed. He drank deeply. “Don’t be surprised, Richard. Your reputation is known, your appearance and retinue as magnificent as befits your station. People are much taken with your generosity and charm.”

“Harry, please. I don’t want to see my last meal again.”

“I’m stating facts. You’re a grown man, not an untried child. The acclaim with which they greet you is a measure of their relief and trust. They love you.”

Richard sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, twisting the stem of the goblet between his fingers. “Apparently. Which is gratifying. Some, but not everyone.”

“They’re not worth your attention.”

“A plot to release my nephews from the Tower, thwarted. Another plot hatched by Elizabeth Woodville to spirit her daughters abroad, so that if anything befell the boys, she might marry the eldest to some foreign prince who’d aid her in claiming the throne. Certain factions will not desist until they are in the grave. I have to give this some attention, at least.”

“None of her children has any claim! Bastards, all!”

Richard sighed. “The trouble is, few believe it, especially in London. They think that the story of Edward’s first betrothal was concocted. My enemies were bound to say I invented it. Or, knowing Edward, they might well believe it, but still think it would have been good manners to ignore.”

“How are the former conspirators behaving themselves?”

“Fangs drawn. I pardoned them quickly to reassure the rest of the nobility that the danger was past. Rotherham is contrite and doing his duty assiduously. Thomas Stanley made his peace with me – swore it was all been a misunderstanding and he’d be the most dutiful of subjects from now on.”

Buckingham gave a sharp grin. “It must have been pleasant to see fear on his pompous face.”

“It was,” Richard said softly.

“Do you trust him?”

“Not as far as I could throw him in full armour. But he values his survival. For as long as he’s afraid of me, he’ll make a good workhorse.”

“Wise Richard.”

The king gave a twisted half grin. “I’m not sure I’ve done anything wise in my life. Only expedient. How is our friend the bishop?”

He meant Morton, who was now in Buckingham’s custody in Wales. Harry shrugged. “A docile prisoner. Guest, rather. He thinks of himself as my guest and I treat him as one. It’s more civilized that way.”

“Contrite?”

“I doubt it.”

“No. That’s why I gave him to you. He’s not one to be cowed into submission and he’d give up breathing before he gave up plotting. Let’s keep him harm’s way.”

Buckingham looked at his master and felt the same pang again, stronger now. Desire, envy. Richard was as elegant as a panther, with an edge of self-deprecation that made him irresistible.

Harry thought of his own achievements. He’d spoken eloquently on Richard’s behalf, persuaded Parliament to accept his claim, presented their petition to Richard that he take the crown, and presided over the coronation. Richard had showered him with rewards. He, Buckingham, had risen from nowhere to become the most powerful man – second most powerful man – in the kingdom. And yet…

Nothing was ever enough. The moment he saw Richard crowned and anointed, acid began to gnaw his heart. A series of gauzy imaginings had passed through his mind. He saw himself at Richard’s side in place of Anne, both with their heads thrown back as holy oil sheened their chests. Their sable and blond hair streaming, set on fire by light from the high cathedral windows…

He wanted to be Richard’s equal; to rule with him, to press close to him, to pass inside and through him… to be him. Impossible. There could be only one king.

“You’re frowning,” Richard said after a few seconds. “Is something wrong?”

Buckingham’s hand shook. He took another gulp of wine. He’d had enough now to make him pleasantly dizzy and unguarded. “One or two unfinished matters.”

“Have I left anything out? Neglected some estate, title or office that you desire?”

Harry sat poised on the edge of his chair. “You’ve given me far more than I asked or deserved. Never think that I am ungrateful. No, I was only musing… Do you love your wife?”

Richard looked sideways at him. “What a strange question. Yes, I do.”

“Come on, I know there’s no passion between you.”

“She has often been ill.” The words fell coldly.

“I wish to God mine had. Creator knows, you were lucky to choose your wife and not have some great Woodville heifer thrust upon you, some lumbering milkmaid with a better moustache than her father.”

The king laughed out loud. “That’s a frightening image, Harry.”

“It was not meant to be funny.”

“Catherine’s not so bad. She’s nearly as fair as her sister.”

“And nearly as much a bitch, but without the charm!”

“Calm down.” Richard spoke kindly, still laughing. His very kindness made Harry more furious. “You were one more victim of the Woodvilles’ greed, but it’s over now; you have your revenge. You may have grounds for annulment, if the Pope will sanction it. If you’ve a new wife in mind…”

Harry shook his head impatiently. “No, no. I would prefer no wife at all, but I wouldn’t cause such pain to my children. They love her, even if I can’t. I have a daughter. You have a son. We spoke some time ago and agreed it would be a fair idea if they were to be married…”

And then one day I will be father to the queen, just as Warwick was, though he never knew it. And like Warwick, it’s the closest I’ll ever get.

Looking up, he saw a withdrawn look in Richard’s eyes and his heart tumbled in disbelief.

“Well,” said Richard, and paused. “Nothing was agreed. I may have said I would consider it, that’s all. Harry, dear friend, I understand, and if I have a second son, I’ll give him to your daughter gladly. But Edward is Prince of Wales now. I’ll almost certainly have to make a foreign marriage for him. It’s politics, that’s all. You appreciate that.”

Buckingham expected to feel rage and instead felt an odd hollowness, hope falling away.

“I believe this is the first time you have refused me anything.”

“Then forgive me for refusing you in just this one thing.” The steel eyes regarded him with measured warmth. “I’ve tried to express my appreciation of your support in words, in rewards, but I know nothing is adequate. So the greater part of my gratitude goes unspoken; but never doubt that it’s there.”

Harry leaned back in his seat. His thoughts whirled.

“Well, the truth is…”

“What?”

Even half-drunk, Buckingham realised he was about to say too much.
The truth is that I don’t care for my daughter’s status, except in as far as it enhances mine. I want it for myself, not for her.

This single refusal of favour made him feel desperately insecure. He must claw back what he’d lost, bind Richard eternally to himself. The facts sobered him. All the power I have is through Richard alone, and I must remain the archangel at his right hand, or lose everything.

“The truth is I’m not concerned for myself,” said Harry. “I’m more concerned about these plots you mention.” His voice fell. “The princes…”

“What of them?”

“As long as the princes, the ex-princes, live, the Woodvilles will never stop plotting rebellion.”

Richard couldn’t know, but Harry was parroting the words of Bishop Morton. Buckingham and Morton had spent several evenings conversing by the fire, as he and Richard were doing now. Although Harry had been reluctant to spend time with the enemy, he found something compelling in Morton’s plump, clever face. He was worldly and funny. Harry found him fascinating. Guessing what Morton might say next was a game.

During a late-night conversation, the bishop had uttered the last thing Harry would have expected. It was said in confidence; not a remark for public consumption, but the plain truth.

“You know that as long as Prince Edward and his brother live, the Woodvilles will never cease plotting to place the boy on the throne. No wise king would let them live. And if Richard falls, so will you.”

“They are a problem,” Richard said.