“Mama,” she whispered, “Is she one of ours?”
“No,” Eleanor said quickly. “Shush, child!” Then, “No, my chick. Hush. You’ll learn how to tell, in time.”
The royal party surged onwards in all their victorious arrogance. They passed along the curve of the street, and were swallowed by the city.
When the queen had gone, the crowd loosened and moved off in her wake. Eleanor set Katherine down and they walked hand-in-hand back to the house of Dame Eylott, Nan scurrying beside them and Thomas Copper following.
The courtyard garden lay iced and silent, its whiteness churned up by the children’s games. The falling sun flushed the tops of snow-laden bushes with gold, but the rest was coldly blue. The women re-gathered there, shivering, the hems of their cloaks and skirts wet and heavy. An air of shock hung over them; no one seemed glad that King Henry had won. Three of the women came to greet Eleanor. One was Dame Eylott, a sweet-faced old woman with a pointed chin and silver hair. The second, small and wrapped in a green velvet cloak, was Edith, Lady Hart. Much younger than the Dame, she still appeared ancient to Kate, with an air of frailty and worry.
The third was a statuesque woman in a close-fitting gown of midnight blue. Her height was made more imposing by a hennin of the same blue, sewn with tiny pearls. Within the enclave, their identities were discreetly shed. But Kate knew that this was Anne Beauchamp, the Countess of Warwick.
The four talked softly, heads bent together. Eleanor and the countess looked pale and serious. Lady Hart was crying.
Kate remembered that the boy by the gate was Edith Hart’s son. She looked around and saw him kneeling in the drift where she’d made her snow figures. He was a sapling, very slender and dressed in brown; fine garments, faded with wear. His head was bowed, chestnut hair hiding his face. He was weeping, or praying.
Katherine went to him, light-footed and hesitant.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
He started, jumped to his feet and stared. His eyes were dry but red-edged; burning, shocked eyes in a blank face. He wasn’t much older than her. Seven at most.
“Did you see the heads?” she asked, cradling her snow-bitten hands under her armpits. “I did. Is that why you’re upset?”
“My father died.” The words fell out of him, rough and bitter. “He was in the battle. A man came and told my mother he was killed, trying to protect Edmund of Rutland.”
Kate looked at him, not knowing what to say. “Is his head on the gate?” she asked at last.
“No. He wasn’t a high enough lord for that.” The boy wiped his red eyes and sniffed. “I don’t think I’d know his face, anyway. He was always away fighting. He was a brave, noble lord and loyal to Richard of York. The Lancastrian fiends killed them.”
“Are they fiends?” Katherine asked, going closer. “My mother says they’re all as bad as each other.”
“They’re fiends all right. Savages.” His voice was shaky, rough. “We’re not allowed to see his body because it was so badly chopped up. The Lancastrians went on killing even when the battle was over. They killed prisoners, people who’d surrendered. They’d kill you if you stood in their way! That’s what they’re like.”
Katherine stepped back from his vehement words, shocked. She wanted to put her arms around him but dared not; he was too prickly with grief. She looked up at the courtyard wall and realised that, above it, she could just see the top of Micklegate Bar. Behind its stark grey fortifications, the sky was cold pink, streaked with clouds like sword blades. The heads were tiny. Puppet heads. Crows and petitmorts were already squabbling for their flesh, squawking black darts.
Winter wind bit through her. In her mind the scene was changing…
“There will be different heads there soon,” she said.
“Lancastrian heads? I hope so. Are you a seer?”
She didn’t answer. There were no words to explain about the paths and webs that people made. “I’m Katherine Lytton. What’s your name?”
“Raphael Hart,” he said. He bowed and kissed her hand, and she curtseyed, as if they were grown-ups. This made them both giggle. His eyes were very green, like jade.
“Now your father is dead, where will you live?” she asked. “With your mother?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be sent as a ward with my brother Simon. He’s two years older than me. We’ll learn Greek and Latin, and train to be knights.”
Katherine imagined draughty castle corridors, sour-faced tutors droning on and on. “That sounds boring. Why don’t you come and live with us?”
He laughed. “You are strange, Lady Katherine.”
“Why? I would like a brother. I’d be a very good sister.”
“I think you would.” His agreement warmed her. She grinned, but he wore a remote look again. “I’d like that, but I can’t. I must learn to bear arms, to avenge my father.”
Abruptly his face lengthened, and he bowed. A long shadow fell. Katherine’s mother was standing over them.
“And that’s why this will never end,” Eleanor said, tight and angry. “I am so sorry about your father, Raphael. But remember this, which I tell my daughter; neither side is more virtuous than the other. Either may bear a gift in one hand and a dagger in the other. Whichever side you support, you might as well throw dice for your survival!”
Eleanor’s face transformed, as luminous as Queen Marguerite’s. Raphael looked startled. His mother Edith was behind her, crimson-faced from cold and grief.
“I believe in loyalty, my lady,” he said, his young voice dignified. “I’m loyal to my father, who was ever loyal to the York. Have you no loyalty, madam?”
Eleanor glared. Then her face softened. She said over her shoulder, “Your son is very pert, Edith.”
“He speaks out of grief,” Lady Hart said quietly. “Raphael, show respect to my dear friend, Lady Eleanor.”
Raphael dropped his gaze, but his eyes glittered. Eleanor said, “Loyalty and bravery, sir, have left an endless line of weeping widows and orphans. They have destroyed your father and my husband. I know you’ll forget my words, and act as you must, and I don’t blame you; but one day, the son of some Lancastrian knight you slew will come to avenge himself upon you. And on it goes. Is this the only path we can make for ourselves?”
“Eleanor,” said Anne Beauchamp, touching her elbow. “We’ve chosen a difficult path. We each have to be two separate people. Look at these women; some are Yorkists, some Lancastrians. Within our Motherlodge, there are no divisions between us, and our only loyalty is to the Serpent Mother Auset. But we can’t separate ourselves from the outer world. Don’t ask this boy to end a ten-year war!”
“Forgive me.” Eleanor folded her arms and exhaled. “This has been a terrible day.”
“The Duke of York did nothing wrong,” said Anne Beauchamp. “He constantly swore fealty to King Henry, only to be used and cast aside. His quarrel was not with Henry, but with Marguerite and the corrupt influence of her councillors. In the end he had no choice but to make his rightful claim to the throne. My father-in-law Salisbury also died today.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Richard failed, but he’s made a path for his son. My husband will not let this rest. There is a chosen king, and it is not Henry! My husband the Earl of Warwick will put young Edward upon the throne, because he alone has the might to do so. Then we’ll have peace.”
Eleanor’s face was thoughtful. “I don’t wish to argue with you, Anne, but I don’t believe any king is divinely appointed. There’s only the best appointed, the one most suited to the position at the time.”
“Divinely chosen, best appointed,” the Countess of Warwick said dismissively. “There is always one who’s destined to be king. Otherwise, our work within there –” she swept a hand at the house, her finger indicating the cellar meeting place – “is wasted.”
“My dear, it’s never wasted,” said Dame Eylott. Her heart-shaped face was gentle, her voice steel. “We work for knowledge and healing
, not for the triumph of one side against the other.”
“It follows, therefore, that we work for the king who may best bring that healing,” said Anne. “An end to this turmoil.”
Kate saw a quick glance pass between Dame Eylott and Eleanor. She wondered what it meant. Their arguments were hard to follow sometimes. She would ask her mother later.
“None of us disagrees with you there,” said the Dame. “Come in now, and warm yourselves. You’ll rest here tonight, of course.”
“Thank you, but I cannot,” said Edith Hart. She took Raphael’s hand. He stood close against her, looking very young for all his brave words. “My elder son, Simon, is being brought to me at the Augustinian Friary. We must go to meet him. Then I’m taking the boys home with me, at least until the spring. Simon is heir to what little land we gratefully possess.”
“May he guard the Hollow well, and the Great Mother aid him,” Dame Eylott said darkly. Each woman kissed Edith in turn and said their farewells. Kate kept her eyes on Raphael.
He stared back, his green eyes bereft. She didn’t want him to go but it was too late. Edith was trudging away. Kate watched as they passed through the courtyard gate and into grey-white gloom beyond, drinking in her last glimpse of the boy, who – if fortune had taken a different path – might have been her dear friend. They hadn’t even said goodbye.
###
The way back to their demesne in Derbyshire was long. Rutted roads twisted south and west of York, taking Eleanor, Kate and their party through bleak hills. The small line of humans and horses was tiny beneath the vast winter sky.
With them rode Thomas Copper and his son Tom, Eleanor’s servants Martha and Nan, and her friend Friar Bungay. Thomas had advised against their York trip, but Eleanor must attend to her business in the hidden world, as did any bishop in the outer world. Dame Eylott, Mater Superior of the Motherlodge, had summoned her.
Night was coming down, wet and chill. A few disconsolate foot-soldiers wandered down the road, but left the party unmolested. Scenting the air like a hound, Eleanor fancied she could hear distant voices and smell the bitter smoke of camp-fires. Such fools, she thought, these warring men.
They broke their journey at Eriswater, where Lady Eleanor Lytton was always welcome at the Crescent Moon Inn. Thomas and Tom slept above the stables, Friar Bungay in a downstairs room, Eleanor and Katherine in the best apartments on the top floor, with Nan and Martha in an adjoining chamber at the head of the narrow stairs. As usual, the flustered landlady apologised for everything; the cramped chambers, the poor food, even the weather. As always, Eleanor assured her that all was satisfactory. A bed, some bread and ale for their supper, and a roaring fire was all they needed.
Eleanor slept soundly, with her daughter soft and warm in her arms. Kate, with her wild black hair and bright cornflower-blue eyes, already knew far more than any six-year-old should. She was a strange and remarkable gift.
In the night the clouds cleared. Dawn came early, sharp and frost-bright. The light roused Eleanor; strange sounds brought her fully awake. A distant rushing noise like a stream in flood, louder and louder. Voices. Men shouting.
Like the steady flow of a river, closer came the sounds, washing along the lanes outside and breaking on the walls of the inn. War-cries, violent laughter.
The pounding of fists on timber, right below their window, brought her leaping out of bed.
Tangling with the sound of male exuberance were other cries, ones of distress. The commotion seemed to be both outside and inside their lodging. Eleanor clasped her robe around her. As she did so she heard a heavy pounding of feet up the stairs and then Martha shrieking through the door.
“My lady – oh, my lady –”
The door flew open, shuddering. Framed in the gap, Martha fell awkwardly as a brute of a man knocked her aside. She landed on her backside, tears of pain streaking her face. Eleanor caught the barest sight of Nan, huddling behind her, still wrapped in bedclothes.
The man stepped over Martha. There was another behind him. Not men but beasts, with wild beards, sagging trews under layers of filthy ragged cloth, glittering berry eyes like blood drops. They stank. The foul waft of their sweat and dirt and ale-sour breath made her gag.
Eleanor put herself in the doorway to block them. A huge hand struck her in the breastbone. The blow took all her breath, sent her reeling, and the man was through the door and seizing her daughter from the bed.
Eleanor fell, striking her head on the thick corner of a table. Through a cloud of black stars she saw the beasts above her, grasping her squirming child in their paws. They grinned and leered and spoke a thick dialect she barely understood.
“This one’s vurra young,” said the man who had Katherine. He was huge and dark, his companion a comparative runt with greasy orange curls.
“Old enough,” sneered the other. “She’s female wi’ a slit, aye?”
And they laughed, while the giant threw Katherine onto the bed, pulled up her nightdress, and began to fumble with the laces of his grimy trews. She looked as tiny as a kitten beneath him.
“No!” Eleanor roared.
She was on her feet, her head a vortex of pain. The two stared at her, faces cruel within their bramble manes. They grinned, showing broken teeth.
“Do what you want to me, only leave her alone!”
The dark one crooked a thick finger at her. “Wait yer turn, yer whore. We’ll have the both of ye. This one can’t wait, eh!” And the two savages roared their mirth.
The carrot-haired one came towards Eleanor. He was small beside his comrade but still bigger than her, a squat red bull. She could hear Katherine whimpering, terrified but too young to understand. Eleanor fought, but he was hideously strong. His stench made her retch. His fingers felt fat and hot on her skin, polluting her. Pain flamed in her wrists as he grabbed her, held her one-handed, and tore open the front of her night-robe.
And saw the symbol lying between her breasts.
The black serpent crowned with the moon, curved like a leech and glistening on its leather cord.
He dropped her hands. He blasphemed. He backed away, crossing himself, cursing so vehemently that his companion stopped his struggle with Katherine. Eleanor saw her daughter, wriggling like a fish, her feet braced against the pig’s broad stomach to fend him off. Brave, strong girl. His small cock bobbed ridiculously in mid-air.
“What?” snarled the pig.
The red-haired savage pointed wordlessly. Eleanor clutched the torn sides of her gown but made sure they both saw the symbol, the crowned serpent. She drew deeply on the air, enduring the miasma of their steaming bodies and stale breath. Softly, she began to chant.
“Stop that,” said the dark one. “Make the bloody witch stop!”
She paused. “Put down the child,” she said.
As she spoke, Katherine bit her captor in the fleshy side of his hand. He swore and dropped her. Katherine bounced off the bed and crouched beside it, peering over the edge with bright, watchful eyes.
Eleanor was trembling violently. Yet she forced a frigid smile onto her face and let desperation give her the aspect of a priestess. The beasts saw the terrible ice-light shine from her face and the gold fire in her eyes. It was as if they shrank. They were not, after all, as big as they’d first seemed.
“You can force us, if you will,” she said, her voice quick and fierce. “Being but women, like your own mothers and sisters, we cannot stop you. Before you continue, be warned. Lay another finger upon us and you shall be cursed. The vengeance of Black Auset is terrible. And her shadow will follow you from this place to the end of your days.”
“Wurrds,” snarled the darker beast. The red one went sickly white and crossed himself. They glared from slitted eyes at Eleanor and she thought her threat had failed. She could smell burning. She closed her eyes, shuddering, her lips moving in a plea to the hidden powers: Spare my daughter, spare my daughter. Let them know that I speak the truth.
There was a soft scuffling sound, t
hick breathing. She heard the distressed voices of Martha and Nan very faint then rushing closer. When she opened her eyes again, her women were there, and the beast-men had fled.
###
Wind blew veils of snow off the trees. Over ground as hard as iron their horses toiled, their breath fogging the air. Eleanor and Katherine were almost home.
Silent as a funeral procession they had ridden away from Eriswater, leaden-eyed. Thomas Copper rode with Katherine clasped on the saddle in front of him, a bundle that was more wool and fur than child. Untouched, safe. Martha and Nan, both badly shaken, let their horse be led by the lanky young groom, Tom. Friar Bungay shook his head and muttered prayers to himself as he rode. His arm was in a sling, his lean body bowed in the saddle; he’d taken some bad blows, trying to keep the invaders out of the house.
Eleanor’s party had survived the raid upon the village; others had been less fortunate. The mercenaries left the village scoured raw; stripped of food and drink, stripped even of animals and firewood. Women had been raped, their menfolk slain or wounded. All they could not remove or despoil they set afire, leaving barns and thatches to choke the air with black ash.
Only the cold and wet saved the village from destruction. Eleanor was exhausted from binding wounds and soothing distress. She swore privately that she would make amends somehow. She had little money to do so; but she could at least send sheep, fresh fish and wine, and men to help repair the damage.
After a long, wretched tract of silence, Thomas spoke.
“They were Queen Marguerite’s mercenaries. It’s said she gathered that rabble in the north, and threw them against the Duke of York while he was celebrating Yule at Sandal Castle. Now they’re on their way to London to claim victory. Drunk on glory.”
“Then may the Dark Mother and all the denizens of the hidden world help the poor souls who happen to dwell in their path,” said Eleanor.
“So much for the red rose of Lancaster,” Martha said bitterly. Small, dark and quiet, she was a shrewd woman; Eleanor’s lady-in-waiting in the outer world, her equal in the hidden. “They recruit barbarians who think nothing of raping children!”
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 3