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

by Freda Warrington

  Edith was shouting, “You don’t know what you do – this is a violation –” but the Bishop yelled back, in righteous rage, about witchcraft and blasphemy.

  A cleric seized the palfrey’s reins. Edith was pulled from her horse and fell amid the priests, her skirts billowing. Her esquires plunged after her; the foot-soldiers sprang into the fray. Raphael saw the esquires – his friends and companions, hardly more than boys themselves – unhorsed and cut down. Blood sprayed in the lamplight. Shouts and screams filled his head.

  Now Simon was in the melee, his sword shining, his mouth square with fear and fury. Raphael spurred his pony to his brother’s side. Simon’s rosy face turned to him and as their eyes locked, the sword was knocked from Simon’s hand and a heavy blade sliced into his abdomen. His brother slid from sight. Raphael heard his mother wail.

  Furious white faces surrounded him. Raphael was disorientated. He felt a crushing blow across his back and as he doubled over, his pony reared again and threw him.

  As he fell, a vision rushed upon him. Above the spring he saw a tunnel of blue twilight winding through trees to some strange realm where marsh-birds uttered lonely cries and the mist was alive and watchful. A wonderful, terrible place. But now, across the entrance to the hidden realm, a portcullis of white fire blocked the way. Elementals fled, melting into water, wind or earth. The priests looked with satisfaction on the results of their work: a dead Hollow.

  The vision stopped as he hit the ground.

  Helpless on the frosted grass, Raphael saw his mother trying to rise, falling again with a red wound on her temple. He saw his brother lying in a dark pool, staring at the sky. He heard the snorting breath of horses. He could smell blood and earth. Sounds rattled in his skull: the clash of weapons, roars of triumph, then – silence.

  Through black stars swirling in his skull, Raphael crawled away. He shook and sobbed as he went. No one came after him. Through lightless wilderness, over sharp stones and thorns and snow he went on, never daring to stop, onwards into oblivion.

  ###

  Eleanor sat tending Lady Hart, who lay blanched against the pillows. Katherine watched, taking in everything her mother did. First the administration of bitter herbs, sweetened with honey, spoon by spoon into Edith’s trembling mouth. The mingled scents of herbal sap and flowery nectar, of rushlights and the stale breath of illness, were so familiar to Katherine that she barely noticed them. Then Eleanor lit bunches of sage and bloodroot and cleansed the room with their smoke, pacifying the sour-humoured foggy elementals that always gathered to feed on illness.

  At last, Edith was able to speak.

  “A Lancastrian knight came and claimed my demesne, since my lord is dead and attainted. That I could have borne, but the Green Hollow…”

  Katherine saw her mother’s face set solid with rage.

  “What knight?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If not him, it would have been another. But my sacred spring… The priests were there already with their crosses and holy water…” She paused, struggling to go on.

  “You tried to stop them?” Eleanor asked.

  “Yes, I fought like Queen Marguerite.” Edith coughed out a dry laugh.

  “Oh, Edith!”

  “You would have done the same! A great armoured man brought his pike down upon my head. They slew my sons in front of me, my two dear knaves…” she stopped again, shuddering. Her grief was agonising to witness.

  Katherine cried out. “Raphael?”

  “Yes, Raphael is dead, Simon is dead.”

  “Oh, God,” breathed Eleanor. “Oh dear Auset, Mother of God.”

  They were silent for a time. Katherine’s grief squeezed her throat and pushed tears from her eyes. Raphael, whom she’d befriended less than a month ago: a slender dark boy, full of anger and life. How could he be dead?

  Eventually Edith went on. “I got up somehow, and ran for my life. I hid in the woods, out of my mind. But I wish they had killed me too. I could think of nothing to do but come to you.”

  “All this way, on foot, in the snow?”

  “If the cold finished me, I would not have cared.”

  “We shall appeal to the king,” said Eleanor. “He must grant you back your manor!”

  “What can a mad, beleaguered king do to bring back my sons?” Edith cried. “No, no, Eleanor, I can’t fight this. Without my sons, property means nothing.”

  “Another of the old ways stolen and sealed against us,” Eleanor said grimly.

  “But if I hadn’t tried to protect the Green Hollow, my sons would not have died. Even my sacred spring wasn’t worth that. We can’t stand against the Church, Eleanor.”

  “You weren’t to know.” Eleanor said into her friend’s hair, rocking her. Timidly, Katherine held one of Edith’s limp hands. “You acted bravely. We mustn’t give up. Surrender to barbarians who think nothing of raping children or destroying our ancient ways? Surrender, just because they have the upper hand for a season? Never. This must not happen here!”

  She turned a harsh glare on her daughter, and Katherine was afraid. Her mother was placing a compulsion on her: to protect their own lands unto death.

  “But it will,” Edith said aridly. “We’re too few to hold back the tide. We have no bishops, no armies. The world grows blind and deaf to us. I beg you, let me stay here, dear friend, and if they come to desecrate your sweet demesne also – may Auset judge them.”

  ###

  Lying in a ditch, Raphael relived his escape. He seemed to crawl forever, while his mother and brother lay dying in lakes of blood.

  And more. Inexplicable memories of sitting outside a cottage with a mouthful of milk, his mind as empty as the sky.

  At some point, his senses began to return. Sharp pain roused him. Reality: he was lying at the bottom of a hedge. Grass and weeds held him in their slimy embrace. His skin was ice-blanched, his clothes damp rags on his bones. Some boys stood over him, poking him with sticks. Rosy faces, gap-toothed mouths, eyes round with curiosity.

  “Is he dead?” one said.

  “Near as,” said another, jabbing at him as if he were a fledgling fallen from the nest. Harder they poked until he reacted, flinching. The boys shrieked their triumph. Raphael was too confused to be afraid.

  “Any coins on him, weapons?”

  “Nah.”

  And then something happened, utterly bizarre, yet logical in his dream-state. A clamour began in the distance, like a hundred wagons trundling over cobblestones. One of the boys yelled, “The king’s coming! The king!”

  Raphael flung his arms over his head. He’d committed treason. Of course King Henry would hunt him down, he and his terrifying wife, Queen Marguerite…

  “Hoy!” A shout, loud and imperious, rang out a few yards away. “Leave him be!”

  Raphael lay dazzled. Like a tortoise on its back he tried feebly to rise. The boys turned to see who had shouted and as they saw, a change came over them. Suddenly they were full of nervous bravado.

  “Look!” one said, pointing at the road. “There he is, the king!”

  “Shush!” said another. “Look at the jewels on this lord!”

  It was a boy who’d shouted as he strode towards them. Raphael saw that he had a sword, clothes of rich dark velvet, a chain of shining gems set in gold. He was leading a glossy bay pony clothed in heraldry. Although he looked younger than Raphael’s tormentors, he fingered his sword-hilt and stood looking at them with calm, storm-coloured eyes. The eyes gave Raphael a vision: rain running over a standing stone in the dark…

  “Leave him be,” repeated the young noble. He strode forward, fearless, as if no one ever disobeyed him.

  The boys sneered nervously. “Who says?”

  The lordling said nothing. He drew his sword only a hand’s width from its sheath and the bullies fled. They went whooping with exhilaration – as if they’d won, not run away – towards the noisy, colourful blur of the royal procession.

  Raphael, though, could look at nothing but the chil
d with ancient eyes.

  The boy came forward and knelt on the grass, oblivious to dew and mud caking his splendid boots. His face was like fine ivory; Raphael was sure he was an apparition. Did angels appear as children? The boy grasped his hand – solid flesh, after all – and pulled Raphael out of the ditch. He swayed on shaking legs and promptly sat down again.

  “What happened to you?” the boy said kindly.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Raphael. “I can’t remember.”

  The heavy gold collar around the boy’s neck glinted with sapphires and rubies. “Were you hit on the head?” he asked, as serious as a physician. “Is that why you can’t remember? Did those knaves knock you down and rob you?”

  “No. They found me,” whispered Raphael. He wished his mind would clear. His sense of time was hopelessly entangled. The background was full of flashing movement and the soft thunder of horsemen. Dozens of voices, banners snapping.

  “Are you ill? I was often ill as a child. I had such dreams.”

  “Yes, dreams…” Raphael shuddered, mortified as the boy fingered his ragged doublet with long pale fingers.

  “You’ve worn these same garments a long time, from the look of them.”

  “I don’t know,” Raphael said, looking down at himself. How, in one night, had his clothes become so ragged and grey with grime?

  “Look, here are my companions. They’ll help you.”

  A handful of riders appeared behind the young lord. Raphael had never seen esquires so splendidly attired. He stared at their bright armour, shining horses, and the devices upon their surcoats.

  The world had turned upon its head. Everywhere he saw the heraldry of Yorkists, not Lancastrians. And the white rose of York. Not the red rose, but the white.

  The boy stood, calling out, “Ho! I’ve found a child, half-dead! Bring him some ale, quick!”

  One of the esquires dismounted and hurried to obey, smiling. “Your Grace.”

  Raphael stared at the cavalcade on the road, burning white and gold. His heart caught the rhythm of panic.

  “Is the king going to kill me?” he gasped.

  The dark eyebrows lifted. “You must have had a very bad dream. Of course he isn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s my brother. I think he would have told me.”

  Raphael coughed. “If you’re the king’s brother, I’m still dreaming.”

  “You’re not, and I am. He’s just made me the Duke of Gloucester,” the boy said proudly. “Ask him yourself, if you like. I’m Richard. What’s your name?”

  The procession flowed past at a rolling walk; a great array of lords, knights, esquires, followers. Children rang alongside, waving and shouting. A menagerie flaunted against the sky; swan and griffin, graylix and silver pard and bear, each sewn upon its own bright pennant. Heraldry dazzled him.

  Leading the procession was a great banner, a joyful sunburst of gold. Among the leading riders was a splendid, tall man, his bronze hair ablaze like a halo. Raphael’s mouth fell open. Light burned his eyes. The Sun in Splendour. This was no grim ride to battle, but a victory progress.

  Had he walked out of winter into full summer in one night?

  The young duke knelt beside him, one arm round his shoulders, holding a flask of honeyed ale to his lips. Raphael took a swallow, gagging on its richness. Richard watched him seriously. Behind him, his esquires were murmuring and shaking their heads in good humour.

  “What… what king?” Raphael asked stupidly.

  “King Edward, of course. How can you not know that?”

  “I – I don’t know,” he said miserably.

  “I knew you were an angel who’s tumbled out of heaven,” said the child, smiling. “This proves it.”

  In the edge of Raphael’s vision, the procession halted. He realised they had stopped for him – or, rather, to wait for the young duke. He was awash in memories, torn scraps of nightmare. Running, crawling. Brambles slithering beneath his palms, snagging painfully. Dead leaves pressing their patterns onto his cheek. An old woman, spooning milk into his mouth…

  A man and woman in a solid round cottage. The man thatched and mended and built for a living; the woman was a weaver, her skin and clothes oily with lanolin. Half a dozen rosy-faced children, always yelling and bouncing around him. They called him lackwit, idiot, moon-gazer. A strange boy who couldn’t speak, but woke every night screaming.

  So that was how he’d survived. In the abyss of winter he had walked from one settlement to the next. The impartial kindness of strangers had sustained him. He had sleep-walked through two seasons, not speaking, not thinking. Now the fog began to lift and the memories scalded like frostbite.

  All that had brought him back to life was the face of this strange, graceful, dark-haired boy. His eyes, the grey-blue-violet of rain, held Raphael enthralled.

  “Can you remember your name?” Richard seemed so fascinated by Raphael that he’d forgotten all else. “Try.”

  “Raphael,” he managed. “I’m Raphael Hart.”

  Richard continued his intense scrutiny. “My father had a knight called Hart.”

  A taller fair-haired boy swaggered up behind, grandly dressed, all of ten years old and full of himself. He must be sweating hard under all that purple velvet and cloth-of-gold, Raphael thought. So warm, the day, and everything green. The last I remember was hard winter. I’ve lost my wits.

  “Lamb’s blood, Dickon, get back on your horse,” said the older boy. “Only you could stop a royal procession to pick up a beggar out of a ditch.”

  “He’s not a beggar, George. He’s ill.”

  The fair boy took an exaggerated step back. He waved his hand in front of his face. “Then he could have the plague for all you know! Leave him. You can’t keep Edward waiting.”

  “He won’t mind,” the dark one said mildly. “Where are you from, Raphael Hart?”

  Raphael shook his head. His skull ached. Motes of memory leapt at him.

  “I was in York,” he said. “I saw the heads above the gate. The Duke of York, and Edmund of Rutland… I saw Queen Marguerite ride in and mock them. All her men had red roses splashed upon them like blood.”

  As he spoke, Richard’s face paled horribly. He looked, for the first time, like the child he was, and about to collapse. “That was my father, the Duke of York, and my brother Edmund.”

  “Then my father died with yours at Wakefield,” Raphael whispered. “The Lancastrians killed my mother and brother a few days later. I ran away. I went mad. That’s all I know.”

  “You have been ill a long time,” Gloucester said very softly. “That happened last December. It’s June. There have been other battles since. York has triumphed. Edward is King Edward the Fourth.”

  “Thank the Creator,” said Raphael. Dry sobs heaved out of him. He felt like a shrivelled new-born creature dropped onto the earth, without identity.

  “You’re safe now.” Richard clasped his hand, gave him a long, serious look. “Our fathers died together. We’ll never forget that.”

  Abruptly he coloured, and jumped to his feet. A man, all in blue and gold with flowing brown hair, strode towards them, and as he came all the esquires bent their knees, as did the Duke of Gloucester and his brother George. Raphael suddenly wished the earth would gulp him down. Edward was a gilded giant, laughing, shedding radiance around him like manna from heaven. And Raphael could only sit open-mouthed and stare.

  “What are you at, Dickon?” the king laughed. “Up, up.”

  “He’s trying to heal a plague-ridden idiot he found in the hedge,” said George.

  “He’s no idiot,” Richard said sharply. “His father was a Yorkist knight. The Lancastrians killed his family. He’s been ill, and didn’t know you were king.”

  “Then I hope the good news returns him swiftly to good health,” Edward said heartily. “Go on with your ministry, give him every comfort.”

  So Richard continued, while tears of embarrassment, grief and joy ran from Ra
phael’s eyes. Being found in this pitiful state before the new king, yet hearing that his father had been avenged – it was all too much to bear.

  “Two months after Wakefield, York had its revenge. We won. And they took down the heads of my father and brother and placed the heads of the traitors in their stead.”

  Raphael remembered then the words of the crow-haired child, her pale and sombre face. “Other heads will take their place.” Impossibly, she had known.

  He saw a brief vision of a sour pink sky, grisly heads gawping at drunken angles, crows and petitmorts dropping through the bloody glare to peck indiscriminately at the heads of York or Lancaster alike. His head rang. He lurched to one side, throwing up bile over Edward’s fancy boot. When the faintness passed, he found Richard kneeling beside him, stroking his forehead.

  “Sorry, your Grace. Sorry,” he rasped, shivering.

  Edward crouched on muscular haunches and touched his cheek. “Worse has happened to me, lad. You are in truth a victim of Lancaster’s cruelty. I must make amends. Let me think.”

  Raphael waited, looking sideways at Richard, whose gaze was on his magnificent brother. This couldn’t be happening. Here was the King of England and the two greatest dukes in the land, and he was the centre of their attention.

  “I have it,” said Edward, rising.

  “He could…” Richard began, but Edward was already walking away, signalling someone in the royal party.

  Two esquires got Raphael to his feet. Edward returned with a wiry, upright little man, all in red velvet. He had the look of a terrier, Raphael thought, bright-natured, eager to please, smug.

  “Here is Lord Lykenwold of Glastonbury,” said Edward. “William, here is a good Yorkist boy who’s fallen on unfortunate times. He is orphaned. He’ll make you a good pageboy, and in time a fine knight. A small token of my thanks for your steadfast service. What do you say?”

  “I’d be honoured,” Lykenwold answered. He gave a deep bow. “I ask no reward from you, my liege, but I give you my most heartfelt thanks. The boy shall make a splendid ward.”