The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (52 page)

Richard had superior numbers. Surely Oxford would be crushed by the sheer weight of men pouring down the hill. In a roaring crescendo, the two waves of soldiers crashed. Yells and screams ruptured the heavens.

Rapidly it appeared they had underestimated the pretender.

Oxford’s small army stood solid under the onslaught. He aimed them like a wedge into the centre of Norfolk’s vanguard and the whole line began to sag, men falling away like beads from a broken necklace.

A number of Norfolk’s men were carried off course by their own momentum downhill, and couldn’t force a way back into the melee. Raphael saw some throwing down their weapons and slinking away. Once a few started, the impulse to flee spread like a plague.

Richard was yelling, “Send to Lord Stanley that if he does not throw his strength in with mine–”

Then they all saw the worst happening: Sir William Stanley’s men were charging, openly attacking Norfolk’s flank. His brother Thomas still held back, uncommitted; but groups of men were peeling from his lines and trotting to join Henry Tudor’s.

Behind Richard’s troops, the Earl of Northumberland’s army was ghost-silent. Glancing back, Raphael was startled to see they were still there. He wouldn’t have been surprised find they had silently quit the field. He remembered the earl’s nervous pallor in the gloom of his tent, the convulsive bobbing of his larynx.

A messenger – one of many Richard had sent to Thomas Stanley – came riding back so hard that his horse stumbled. “Your Grace,” the youth gasped, “Lord Stanley replies that he has other sons.”

There was a dreadful, deathly pause. Richard turned his horse, rode to George Stanley and loomed over him.

“Did you hear that, my lord?” said the king. “Other sons. Notably, a stepson he would like to see upon the throne, at any price.”

George Stanley’s eyes grew huge. He was sweating so hard that his face seemed close to melting like candlewax. Returning to his position, Richard pointed back at the hostage with a gauntleted hand and said, brisk and cold, “Kill him.”

Then the king dismounted from Fame of York and beckoned to Percy, Ashton, a couple of other knights and his standard bearer. “You five, go with me. The rest, hold our position here.”

Richard strode away, axe in hand, straight into the thick of battle. Raphael stared after him in disbelief and frustration. His instinct was to follow, but that meant disobedience…

Some of Richard’s men were looking at each other in confusion. “Does he mean us to kill Strange now?” said Ratcliffe.

“Dispatch him,” said Catesby, business-like. “It’s the king’s command.”

“My lords – please–” George Stanley’s plea was child-like, heart-rending.

“Take him off the field,” Lovell said hoarsely. “Richard spoke in anger. If he really meant it, we’ll do it later.”

“On your head be it, then,” Catesby answered, but sounded glad the decision was taken from him. Strange was led away by his escort, his legs buckling.

Down in the field, the coronet upon Richard’s head was clearly visible. Gold and ruby light flashed from it. He fought ferociously, drawing men to his standard, putting fresh resolve and energy into them. Raphael watched anxiously. The sun was mounting the sky and its beams heated his armour, roasting him.

William Stanley wore away Norfolk’s flank. The fighting laboured on. Oxford would not give ground, and still neither Thomas Stanley nor Northumberland made a move to help their king. Down in the tide of battle, Richard vanished.

Raphael gathered Red Briar’s reins, ready to charge to his own death if need be. His mouth was bone dry, bitter with the salt sweat running down his face.

Richard reappeared, surfacing from the chaos like a shark out of the waves. His knights and standard bearers followed. His surcoat was torn and bloody; and, as he wrenched off his helmet, Raphael saw his hair soaked to black curls with his own sweat, his lips cracked and trickling blood, his expression anguished.

“Norfolk,” he said. His voice was raw, broken. “My lord of Norfolk is dead.”

He gave Lovell the helmet, reeled a little way down the hillside to a spring, and put his face into the water. Hesitant, Raphael started after him; then halted when he realised Richard was not only quenching his thirst but hiding his pain.

The unthinkable was happening. They were losing.

When Richard rose again and came back to them, his eyes were black with rage. Sweat and water ran from him. “My horse,” he said.

Will Shaw, who’d been holding Fame of York, quickly brought the great stallion to him and held his bridle while Richard mounted.

“Dickon,” said Francis urgently. “This is your chance to flee. Save yourself and fight another day.”

Richard smiled. It was the darkest, coldest smile Raphael had ever seen. This was worse than his vision. A thousand times worse. “There won’t be another day, dearest friend. If I quit the field now, not a man here will ever fight for me again.”

“That’s not so.”

“I said I would live or die this day King of England,” Richard replied simply. “Do you see yonder banner with its impudent red dragon?”

Raphael stared down the slope and saw a knot of men: Henry Tudor and his bodyguard. They stood apart, on a small rise that kept them clear of the boggy ground, observing the battle from a safe distance.

“The so-called Earl of Richmond has so far not set foot on the battlefield. If he won’t grace us with his courage, let us take the battle to him.”

“Dick, for God’s sake– “

The king’s voice rose, hoarse and passionate. “We have a clear path to him. We’ll go now, before the way closes again.”

“You’ll have to ride in front of William Stanley!”

“It’s our only chance to end this. Either Tudor dies, or I do.”

Raphael was now breathing so hard his lungs were sand. He held Red Briar steady with one hand and positioned his lance. A pennon flew on the bright tip above his head. He was going with the king.

“I see Raphael is ready,” Richard said dryly. “Francis, hold our position here. The rest of my household…”

Not a single man hesitated. Their unquestioning devotion moved Raphael. He glanced around at their resolute figures and saw Will Shaw mounting a horse that he must have begged off someone or caught running loose. Raphael shook his head, but Will shrugged. What use, to argue Will out of his bravery?

Richard began the charge and sent Fame of York leaping over the rutted ground, the horse blowing and arching his neck, drops of foam flying from his mouth, great hooves eating the ground… and then a coil of horrible knowledge unwound inside Raphael. This was the moment. His vision had proved true after all. This was the decision that would undo Richard. One bold, brave, desperate mistake.

And it was too late. In an earthquake of hooves and a flight of bright standards, they were charging into the field. Red Briar was pulling hard, almost overtaking the king, leaping rocks and tussocks. Raphael’s arms ached and his armour chafed the vulnerable angles of his armpits and groin. The sun dazzled through his visor, turning each drop of sweat into a blinding diamond.

He saw the impudent dragon swelling, billowing. A wall of steel men stood between Richard and his prey. Nightmare and reality meshed. Raphael could no more turn back, nor change fate, than he could have arrested himself in mid-fall from a cliff.

He stood up in his stirrups and roared.

“King Richard! York! England!”

###

Katherine took Robin to a safe hill to watch the battle, but he soon ran from her, craning his neck to see more. Suddenly he was out of sight among the other witnesses. By the time she wove her way through them, there was no sign of him.

Panic slammed the breath from her. She was convinced he’d given her the slip on purpose and gone to join the fighting.

“Robin,” she called, sharp and loud. No answer. The day was hot, simmering “Robin!”

A shape moved, yards ahead of her, hidden by bushes. Gathering up her skirts, she ran towards it. The shape vanished. Wildly she looked about her, saw greenwoods and meadows on one side, and on the other the chaos of battle. Nothing. Kate paused, then ran on again. “Robin!”

She reached another knot of spectators, standing on a little rise with a copse of trees behind them. A loose group of priests and clergy, some mounted, others on foot. She didn’t recognise them. They had the gaunt hard look of travellers, and she realised they were from Tudor’s contingent.

“Have you seen,” she gasped, not caring who they were. “Have you seen a boy, fifteen, dark hair?”

The men turned, looking down at her from the great height of their mounts. One of them, she saw in dismay, was Bishop Morton. He gave her a dismissive glance and looked away without interest. She doubted he remembered ever seeing her before. Another said, “No, my lady.” All turned away from her, except one.

She knew the carved face with its pale, piercing eyes. Dr Fautherer. He went on staring, as if beckoning her.

“No, my lady, we have seen no boy. Who is he?”

His eyes judged her, stripping her raw.

“My – I’m charged with looking after him.”

“This is a rash place to bring a youth.”

“I haven’t time to disagree,” she said. “Let me pass.”

On foot, he came closer, blocking her way. She had the unpleasant sensation that his mind was crawling into hers. “Allow me to help you find him.”

Katherine drew back, shaking her head. The last thing she needed was Fautherer to find Robin. Then Tudor would know that Richard had a son. She could only think to stall him, while Robin ran ever further away.

“Sir, there’s no need. He’ll turn up.”

“Youthful high spirits,” Dr Fautherer said, nodding in sympathy. “Still, I’ll go along with you.”

Miserably, she picked her way over tangled grass with the gaunt priest at her side. She went slowly, hoping she wouldn’t see Robin after all.

“The battle goes ill for Richard,” Fautherer remarked.

“Does it?” she whispered. She could hardly bear to watch the melee seething across the battlefield.

“See how Norfolk’s line sags and wavers? There are many who hate Richard so passionately they’d rather see an ape crowned than endure his reign any longer.”

“You mean your friends, the Stanleys?” she said furiously. “They’re fools. They don’t know him. All they care about is their own gain!”

Fautherer smiled. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is who wins.”

The world darkened; the battle became soundless, a pageant behind glass. All the times she had entered the hidden world, Katherine had never encountered anything she would describe as evil; but in Dr Fautherer’s presence she felt it. Pure evil.

“There is a new order coming,” he said. “Your time is over. You’ve lingered for centuries longer than you should have done. Creator, it’s as if the Druids still walked these islands! What you see upon that field is justice being done. The victory of light over dark. That is what my patrons believe, at least.”

“And you don’t?”

“I have no opinion. I am only here to upset the order.”

Kate stopped. She stared at him. She saw through Fautherer, as he seemed to see through her. What she saw made her recoil.

“What are you?” she whispered.

###

Richard and his retinue smashed into the armoured wall and it broke, like thin ice, plunging them deep into the current. Raphael flung himself into the thick of battle. Tudor’s renegades seethed around them, roaring with pain as they went down under the huge hooves of the chargers. The king’s men were struck furiously on every side. Raphael felt someone trying to drag him from the saddle. He swung his sword at the foot-soldier in outrage and thrust it through the open face of the man’s sallet, straight into his skull, as if skewering the flesh within a clam. Blood hosed over him. Frenzied and fearless, he dragged the blade out and looked for the next adversary.

Fame of York was terrifying: huge, blood-soaked, blowing hard, a demon-horse. Men were falling out of the charger’s path, blood spilling from throats or limbs. Richard hacked through them as if through straw. He seemed more than human, possessed. Raphael saw amazed terror on the faces of his opponents, desperation. They hadn’t been ready for a king so ferocious, deadly, devoid of fear. Mud flew. The choke of blood, sweat and metal filled the air.

Richard reached Henry’s standard bearer and cut him down with a single heavy blow. The dragon standard billowed down like a fallen sail, entangling men beneath it.

Then Raphael caught a glimpse of Henry Tudor. He looked small even in armour, and was struggling to control the brown horse that leapt about beneath him. The raised visor revealed a pale, nondescript face with eyes like a startled hare. He was staring at Richard, who battled closer and closer to him, as if transfixed.

Tudor’s bodyguard closed around him. The giant, Sir John Cheyney, came riding forward on the mightiest horse Raphael had ever seen. He towered over everyone in shining grey steel like some plated monster. Richard looked tiny before him, yet he charged to engage as if Sir John were no more than another scrawny mercenary.

He has no fear at all, Raphael thought. Gathering the reins, he urged Red Briar forward, hacking his way through to the king’s aid.