The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III

by Freda Warrington

  Eleanor caught her breath, thinking of her own manor. Did Lytton Dale lie in their way? No, it lay far from any route they might take to the capital. And Edith Hart, freshly widowed, her sons too young to protect her? What would she find? Eleanor chewed her lip. We must hold firm, she told herself. We must be rocks in the flood.

  Eleanor looked at Friar Bungay. His long, kind face was tense, the tip of his nose cherry-red from the cold.

  “Was I wrong to believe we shouldn’t take sides?” she asked. “I even had the nerve to lecture the Countess of Warwick.”

  The friar gave her a sharp look. “My lady, it’s human nature to take sides – which means it’s probably a vice to be resisted. Both sides claim that the Creator favours them. However, He has not revealed His will to me.”

  He spoke sardonically. Eleanor gave a hard smile. “Judging by his past record, he’s as likely to confide in a humble friar as in anyone.”

  “Henry should have been a monk, not a king,” said Thomas Copper in disgust. “It’s a weak king that brought us all this trouble.”

  Eleanor thought of Edith’s son Raphael, proud and grief-stricken in the snow, lecturing her about loyalty. “How can I give support to either? I can never pay lip-service to Lancaster, who unleash hoards of savages upon us.”

  “And think how popular it will make them,” put in Friar Bungay.

  “Still, to bind myself to York, just when Marguerite is victorious, would be utter folly.”

  “I wouldn’t dare suggest that you abide by your husband’s counsel,” said the friar. He spoke lightly, but she gave him a glance hot enough to blast the flesh from his bones.

  “I would, gladly, if it were not my husband’s counsel that brought us to this sorry state. Since we have no money, no arms and few men, we’re of no consequence to either faction. All I want is to hold what is ours! John’s devotion to York has all but ruined us. Yet I don’t blame him, I understand… Yesterday I believed the Motherlodge should stay aloof. Now, I don’t know. I was annoyed with Anne, who wants to turn our sacred meetings to political ends, even knowing full well that is not our purpose. And that we’re forbidden to practise magic. Yet is she wrong?”

  Kate stirred. “Why are we forbidden to practise magic, Mama?” Her blue eyes were bright within the fur hood.

  “Because certain ignorant people believe us to be dangerous. Unfortunately, those people make the laws. Perhaps they’re right to fear us. Some would like to ban the Motherlodge entirely, but they can’t have things all their own way. We’re still here.”

  “And we do practise magic,” said Kate.

  “Only for healing.” Eleanor put a finger to her lips. “Kate, never say such things in front of a priest.”

  The girl glanced at the friar, confused. “Sorry, Mama, I thought…”

  “It’s all right. I know just two who are safe; one our village priest, the other Friar Bungay. Creator knows how he manages it, but he walks in both worlds.”

  “And one day I’ll get my tail burned in both, no doubt,” said Bungay. “I see no reason why different ways can’t coexist, as they used to.” He tended to mumble. Eleanor strained to hear him above hoofbeats and the moaning wind. “Mine is not a popular view with the church hierarchy, however.”

  “Do they know you live a dual life?”

  “It’s not discussed. I’m tolerated as long as I do nothing blatant.”

  “Such as sorcery to aid one side in battle?” said Eleanor. “That’s what Anne Beauchamp would like.”

  They all looked at her, their eyes thirsty… not for revenge, Eleanor thought, but for survival.

  “If she got her way, it would change the nature of the Motherlodge,” said Martha.

  Eleanor thought of their goddess, Great Mother Auset, the Serpent of Wisdom whose body was the earth. The night sky was her cloak, the moon and sun her crown. No god stood above her. Auset was life and death, mercy and vengeance; everything. Why would she care about the petty politics of humans? Yet a little of her serpent power lies coiled in each of us, Eleanor thought, and that makes us her avatars.

  “Things must change, though,” she said. “The Serpent Mother doesn’t reveal the future, only glimpses of things that might be. Perhaps we can influence the forks in the path, instead of merely observing. Perhaps Anne Beauchamp is right.”

  Survival. That was everything.

  Close behind came all other matters. Status, power, wealth, dignity. For Eleanor, power meant holding onto her demesne unmolested. Wealth meant enough to feed and clothe her household. It meant healthy sheep, with good grassland on which their fleeces would grow as thick and white as curds. Status must be upheld to keep away those who might covet her lands. Dignity came from her endless struggle to maintain all this, day after day.

  She was Lady Lytton by birth, an only child of parents who’d died young. Her husband John was lord only in right of his wife. Without husband or father it was nearly impossible for a woman to hold what was hers, especially in war when any victorious lord might seize an estate in passing. She had male relatives who would swoop like petitmorts if she revealed the slightest weakness.

  Only as long as her husband lived was she safe.

  She sighed through her teeth. The breath-cloud curled like an elemental. The rutted path bent and gave her, at last, a sight of the familiar beloved landscape.

  Her demesne, the manor of Lytton Dale. To the east curved the distant, ghostly arm of the high moors, and closer at hand the familiar hump of the hill, Bride Cloud. To the west stood Mag Tor and other peaks crowned with limestone, hard and pale against the snow-choked sky. White-crusted grassland pleated down into deep sheltered valleys where her sheep huddled. The river Melandra, with its many tributaries flowing down from the moors, now lay silent under clouded glass. Her wildwoods were a leafless tangle of bones in the chill twilight. Keeping her secrets.

  There was the village, nested along the riverbanks. And at the heart, Lytton Hall itself, a rambling place of soft red stone, glowing against the stony grey of winter. Smoke curled above the slate roof and the windows shone yellow.

  Eleanor’s heart lifted.

  “This is our whole world, Kate. Ours,” she said softly. “Yours.”

  ###

  Katherine remembered the attack on the village in fragments. She remembered fear – a sickening smell of foul breath and bodies, a whiskered face thrust into hers – but it seemed distant. Her most vivid impression was of her mother, fragile and yet unconquerable, in her most fearsome aspect. The chant hissing from her mouth. The serpent curling between her breasts. Her strength, shining so powerfully that the beast-men fell away in terror.

  And then her mother catching her in her arms, shouting for Martha and Thomas and the others. Outside, uproar in the streets, barns and cottages on fire. The wild men rampaging onwards, leaving the villagers in stunned despair.

  Katherine knew this terrible event had changed everything. There was a new grim light in her mother’s eyes. She thought of Raphael, mourning his father.

  Pain balled in her chest. When they reached the house, she was on the ground and flying into the great hall while the others were still alighting from the saddle. Heat enveloped her.

  Her father was on his couch by the huge firegrate, woollen blankets wrapped around him. He was weaker. She saw that at once, in the parchment pallor of his face. But he roused from his doze and greeted her with a smile as bright as the fire, his arms outstretched. Katherine ran, and threw herself upon him.

  Her mother came in more slowly, unwrapping layers of wool and leather as she came. She knelt by her husband and bent to kiss his hand.

  “John,” she said. “Dearest John.” And then, “Kate, don’t be so rough!”

  He laughed. “It will take more than my daughter’s love to harm me. How went your stay in York?”

  “Ah, terrible, terrible,” Eleanor sighed.

  She told him about the Battle of Wakefield, the heads on Micklegate Bar, Queen Marguerite’s triumphal entry,
the raid on Eriswater. She spared him nothing. Katherine only half listened, clinging to the feverish warmth of her father’s body. His face grew grey and haggard as her mother spoke. She hugged him all the harder.

  “Richard of York… dead,” he whispered.

  After a long time, he spoke again. “Eleanor,” he said softly, clasping her hand. His voice was frail. “I am so sorry. I would not have brought you this trouble for anything.”

  Her mother’s eyes blazed with fire and tears. “I don’t blame you. I blame only these warring cousins and their houses.”

  Katherine wanted to tell her father about Raphael, but her parents forgot she was there. They pressed their hands to each other’s cheeks, looking only at each other.

  Kate’s father had been ill for a long time. He was going to die; they all knew, which made every moment with him precious. So they clung to him, and poured the power of Blue Mother Mary and Dark Mother Auset into him, and willed him to stay alive.

  ###

  Eleanor was glad of winter, in the weeks that followed. While curtains of snow folded over the moors and muffled the paths, no unwelcome strangers would come. There was pleasure in sitting with her husband and daughter at the fireside, retelling stories until they took on the quality of legend. John demanded every detail.

  There was no pleasure, though, in watching him shed tears for the Duke of York. Eleanor half-hated the duke for commanding her husband’s devotion. He and John had almost bankrupted themselves fighting King Henry’s wars in France, only to receive no thanks or recompense from the jealous queen. When the duke had finally risen up against Queen Marguerite – and then King Henry himself – John had fought unquestioningly beside him. Thus he had received the wound that crippled him, turning him from a spirited knight into this dozing, fading invalid.

  Eleanor cursed John’s loyalty, and loved him for it. For months she’d been preparing herself for the inevitable parting and the peril it would bring. Winter felt safe, a suspended time when nothing could penetrate the thick soft veils of snow.

  She started up from a reverie, one dark afternoon when no one should be abroad. Something was pounding and scratching at the outer doors. Eleanor had been reading to John, so softly that she’d almost put herself in a trance. Now the book slid off her knee and hit the flagstones. Katherine was already opening the door. Eleanor rushed to stop her, too late.

  A beggar woman: so Eleanor thought, as the poor creature collapsed across the threshold into her arms. A dead weight of bones, sparrow-thin. Clouds of snow billowed around her. Eleanor was about to call Martha, when Katherine cried out.

  “Mama? It’s Lady Hart, Raphael’s mother.”

  It was only then, in horror, that Eleanor recognised her.

  “Sanctuary,” gasped Edith. Tears rolled down her waxen face. “Sanctuary, Eleanor, I beg you.”

  Chapter Two. 1461: Edith

  RICHARD

  I’ll drown more sailors than the Mermaid shall;

  I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk…

  I can add colours to the chameleon,

  Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

  And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

  Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

  Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down.

  Henry VI Part 3 Act III scene 2

  Raphael was dreaming. His body lay inert, heavy with sleep. In his deep torpor, the chill ache of damp chained him, weeds licked his hands like cold flames, rusty saws carved at his chest. Yet it was happening to someone else; a distant irritation. He was in two places at once, memories assaulting him like shouts. Two layers of reality wove together. His body lay cushioned in green undergrowth, yet his real self rode with the winter wind in his face, dreaming one dream inside another…

  As they drew close to the grey house, Raphael nodded on his pony, eyelids weighed down with weariness. Snow had fallen only lightly here, a crust of white on grey. In his mind stood the crow-child, the little girl who’d comforted him. Now he was aware of climbing the hill towards his house, a stone shadow poised amid wind-blown trees. Home, home. Soon he would lie in his own bed with his tabby kitten purring on his chest, Simon beside him, the fire’s crackle lulling them to sleep…

  One of his mother’s servants spoke, sounding alarmed. Raphael heard his mother answering, then his brother piping a question.

  “Who are they?”

  Raphael woke, cold and confused. The twilight was busy with shadows.

  At first the bustle seemed part of his dream. Then he heard his mother cry out, Simon shouting, “Hey!” and angry voices all around them.

  He heard the creak of armour, the stomping of horses’ hooves, saw white surcoats aglow in the gloom. A huge bearded knight on a brown charger confronted Edith and her small entourage.

  “Forfeit to Lancaster, my lady,” he said. “Forfeit to the Crown.”

  Behind the knight was their household steward, whey-faced with misery. “I’m sorry, my lady, so sorry, there was nothing we could do…”

  Raphael was sharply awake now. He felt exhausted, vulnerable. Simon was flushed with anger. Raphael had thought him so grown-up but now he looked hopelessly small, just a child after all.

  Edith said nothing, but her mouth hung open in a soundless wail. Behind the armoured knight, Raphael saw the doors to the house standing open, figures moving in the orange glow of the great hall. They were carrying objects, furniture, tapestries. Their household servants stood in postures of helplessness, watching.

  Simon rode his pony forward. “Mama, what is he saying?”

  Raphael hurried to join him, to show he was no less brave.

  “That our estate is confiscated by the Crown,” Edith answered in a small, dry voice, “because your father fought against King Henry. We are attainted of treason. We have no home.”

  “They cannot!” Raphael cried.

  He drew his small sword. Simon looked at him in shock, and Raphael realised that his brave, grown-up brother was terrified.

  The Lancastrian knight laughed. “We can, young knave. This land is mine. It was taken from my family a century since and awarded to yours for some trivial favour your great-grandsire did the third Edward. Queen Marguerite promised it back to me in reward for my loyal service. I am only claiming what is mine.”

  “No!” Raphael cried, but his mother’s arm locked across his ribs, restraining him.

  “As a landless widow, you’ll find many a kind sanctuary willing to shelter you and your boys. A nunnery will suit you, I think. My squires will accompany you to the nearest.”

  The world stood cruelly still. The Lancastrian glowered and grinned in triumph; Raphael raged silently, waiting for a saviour to burst out of the darkness. An armoured knight with the white rose shining on his breast – his father, back from the dead! But the night betrayed them. No one came.

  He heard his mother draw a heavy, trembling breath. She uttered a soft word under her breath, then swung her palfrey on its haunches, nearly knocking her sons off their own mounts.

  Raphael’s pony spun round and bolted after her. Raphael heard mocking male laughter behind them. Simon galloped alongside him, overtaking, his face dark with fear and anger. There was only the drum of hooves, the chill rush of air.

  Raphael realised that his mother had gone mad.

  Now a couple of Edith’s esquires were galloping in pursuit. Down into the narrow valley called the Sheepfold she rode, towards the glassy spring that bubbled from a cluster of rocks. He remembered this place in summer, cupped beneath the green shimmer of hawthorns. It seemed so long ago… His mother had brought him here many times to lay flowers on the rocks as an offering to the kindly spirits. She loved the spring, her sacred place. The Green Hollow, she called it.

  Now the valley lay frozen and leafless.

  Raphael saw men standing around the spring. The rocks were splashed with gold from so many lanterns that he thought the men must be very afraid of the dark. A few soldiers in leat
her brigandines stood around leaning on pikes. At the heart of the gathering were five priests with numerous attendants.

  “Who are they?” demanded Simon. His voice was small but fierce. “How dare they?”

  Raphael saw their saffron robes, the gleam of pearls, the arch of a bishop’s mitre. Each cleric wore the badge of the white Lamb, and a spindly cross with dagger points. The intense monotone of their prayers thrummed like a bell.

  Raphael didn’t understand what was happening but he sensed their deadly seriousness of their purpose. They were trespassing on Edith’s beloved Green Hollow.

  Although she’d brought Raphael and Simon here, they were never allowed to attend her mysterious night meetings with other women. Once they had followed, and spied. They’d watched the women stepping in a circle, speaking and singing in soft chorus. A few stood in the spring itself and appeared to waver like mist, even vanishing completely. The whole valley had been enveloped in a cobalt glow. Raphael had been terrified. Edith was no longer his mother but another being entirely, able to summon power that was subtle, beautiful and weird beyond his experience.

  He and Simon had fled, but they’d never forgotten.

  This was Edith’s place. These men had no right here. Their ceremony was crude and heavy with arrogant authority. And his mother, mad, was rushing to stop them like a hare throwing herself among hounds.

  “In the name of Creator, Son, and Holy Lamb, we exorcise thee,” the Bishop uttered in a thin, hard voice. He spoke in Latin but Raphael had learned well. “With holy water we purge thee. With the cross of the Lamb we bind thee. Demons of the dark, we cast thee into darkness, no more to haunt this place. In our Creator’s name, let this gate be sealed for eternity.”

  “No,” cried Edith. “No!”

  She rode her horse among the priests. They scattered with oaths. The two esquires who’d followed shouted in dismay for her to stop. With a cry, Simon galloped after her. Raphael’s pony reared in fright. He fought to stay in the saddle.