Kate sighed through her teeth. “She and my mother have it all worked out. If that comes to pass, I’ll be sent to Dame Eylott in York. Once my embarrassment is over, I’ll return to the countess, as if nothing had happened. I shan’t bring scandal upon her household, or ours.”
“It’s said that the younger a woman is, the higher the babe is carried, so it does not show. Sometimes it may not show at all, right to the end.”
Her guileless reassurance brought Kate, unexpectedly, close to tears. “Thanks, Nan. That is a comfort.”
Nan frowned. “And the child?”
Kate saw her anxiety. Nan, of all people, knew what it was to be abandoned. “The child will be brought here by some other woman as if it’s hers. Thus my mother will have the care and ordering of its life. He or she will want for nothing.”
Nan looked at the dawn sky. “Wouldn’t it make you weep, to leave a child?”
“There may not be one,” said Kate, her jaw set. “But if there is – No, I’ll not shed a tear. I made a mistake that must be neatly tidied away. Once it’s over I shall never think of it again.”
“You’re not that hard-hearted!”
“Oh, but I am,” she answered quietly. “To survive, I must be.”
Inset: Midnight Visitor
This is very strange. I feel sick with fear for Kate, tainted with envy and touched by her courage. Where’s the sense in feeling such strong emotions about events that exist purely inside my own daydreams? Still, the story unrolls as if it has nothing to do with me. I can’t stop it. I can’t control which episodes I experience. But it is awe-inspiring, and brings me closer to Richard than any book ever could.
There are three strands now. One is the story of Kate and Raphael. The second is reality: history books, the places where Richard lived and the field where he died.
I walk across Bosworth battlefield for the first time; a plain green hump of a field, high and bleak. In winter the hedges look black and the trees are skeletal. There are arguments over the site of the battle; it was on Ambion Hill, or further off at Dadlington, on farmland two miles away… All I know is that whole area has an extraordinary atmosphere, a stark power, full of ghosts. There lies the dried-up marsh, there the well where Richard took his last drink. There is the stone to mark the place where he fell.
I weep. It seems unfair. He barely had a chance to prove his worth as king. Why does it matter? It’s only history. A cold wind blowing steadily across a Leicestershire field.
Visiting the battlefield unleashes streams of narrative in my imagination. I see Raphael everywhere. He seems closer to me than Kate. She’s oblivious to me, private, keeping her secrets to herself. Raphael, though, I often sense is searching for me, beckoning me with his eyes to come closer and help him. I think I see him on the battlefield and my heart nearly chokes me. Almost all of Richard’s men died with him.
It may be a sign of nascent madness, to see signs and symbols in everything, but I reflect that my name is the month he died: August.
In the visitor centre I buy a poster, a portrait of Richard in rich colours, red, gold and black. It shows a handsome man with a sensitive, serious face. He watches me now as I write.
I’m looking forward eagerly to each new day, the unfolding of another chapter. I suppose it isn’t healthy to detach myself from real life, neglect my studies, fall into daydreams while people are speaking to me. Well, preferable to taking drugs, but not ideal. Still, there’s no way round. I’m on a wondrous journey. I can only reach my destination by going through everything with Kate and Raphael.
And the third strand, my night visitor.
My room in the hall of residence is basic; magnolia walls, grey lino, a sink, a lumpy single bed and a cheap melamine wardrobe. Even in the dark, it’s hardly sinister. A street light shines orange through the thin curtains. Not like my childhood bedroom, which was full of alcoves and mysterious shapeless shadows, ideal raw material for a dreamy child to spin terrors.
But now, caught in the spell, things change. The portrait adds atmosphere, a hovering presence. I lie awake, or imagine I do; I must be dreaming, because the room is dark, all pitch-black velvet. There is something in the shadows. A man is standing there, watching me.
I can’t see his face. I’m not frightened because, in the back of my mind, I know he isn’t real. If someone real broke into my room I’d be out of bed yelling for help. This isn’t like that.
This is a trance, a half-state between sleep and awareness. He comes to me, leans over me. Now a long gleaming face slides into the light; I see dark eyes, and midnight hair flowing over him like the cloak of shifting darkness he wears. I can only stare up at him in an ecstasy of dread, not daring to speak in case he vanishes. He gazes back. There is warmth in his eyes, but also intentness, sharp as a sword.
Does he wear deformity as an outward badge of evil, the shoulders of a vulture hunched above his victim? No. It is only the stoop of his posture as he leans down to me. If his spine is curved, I cannot tell.
“For never yet one hour in his bed,
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep…”
There’s no innocence about him. He looks fully self-aware, even self-mocking. He comes not to plead mitigation, but to challenge me. I can never truly know him, but he wants to watch me try, to watch me imagining I grasp the truth only to see it slide away again. I open my arms to the challenge, to him.
Without a word he kisses me, lies down and folds himself around me and into me, like a velvet cloak.
Chapter Five. 1470: Isabel
RICHARD
Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband king,
I was a packhorse in his great affairs;
A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends.
To royalize his blood I spent mine own.
Richard III Act 1 scene 3
The falcon plunged, taking Raphael’s heart with her down the arc of the sky. Nothing else existed. There was only the lethal, perfect stoop of the bird through a white crystal sky and the green slope beneath. A sharp cold wind blew, scented with spring and freedom. The falcon met her prey on the wind with a brief thack and a whirr of feathers.
A cheer rose from the hunting party. Raphael ran to retrieve the prey, rewarded the falcon with a sliver of meat, whirled the lure and watched her fly again. She was the most magnificent of his master’s raptors; tawny-gold with great arched wings like an angel. He loved the birds of prey: the huge black or white gyrfalcons of dukes, the fire hawk with its red-streaked tail, the dainty merlins that the ladies flew, common sparrowhawks, owls; Raphael loved them all.
Here he could forget himself.
Lords and ladies were arrayed against the curve of the hill, small and bright like figures in a tapestry with their birds of prey perched upon their wrists. Behind them rose Lykenwold Castle with the ragged battlements crowning its walls. Beside it, huge waterwheels glistened black and bronze, filling the air with constant plashing thunder as they drove fresh water into the castle.
Lord Lykenwold was robin-bright among his guests, all laughter and good-humoured energy. The falcon flew low over their heads, drawing gasps. Raphael called her in and she swooped onto his raised gauntlet and settled there, claws cuffing his forearm, her weight perfectly balanced, fierce eyes flaming above the bloodied curve of her beak.
This had been Raphael’s home for ten years now. He’d led the typical life of a ward, set down with a dozen unknown boys in an icy castle and expected, like a puppy thrown into a torrent, to swim. Together they ate, slept and attended chapel, learned Latin and French, were drilled in the arts of riding, tilting, archery and warfare; and then literature and chivalry, dancing and music to civilize them for their noble families.
Raphael wasn’t the only one who had no family waiting for him. His sadness had long faded. He was content here. Not happy, exactly – too many foggy stretches of nightmare in his memory – but at peace in his own quiet way. William Lykenwold was a k
ind lord. There were worse ways to live.
The wind grew cold. Lord Lykenwold signalled an end to the afternoon’s sport and pageboys ran forward to relieve the nobles of their hawks. The banquet tonight would include a delectable array of roasted songbirds and pigeon pies.
Will Shaw was toiling up the slope towards him, a stocky figure with two slim saluki hounds flowing at his heels. “Hey, Raffel!” he called, hand raised in greeting. “You impressed the ladies today.”
Raphael smiled and said nothing. He tied a hood onto the falcon’s tawny head.
Will smirked. “Don’t be coy. You heard the oohs and aahs.”
“That was for the hawks, not for me.”
“If you say so.” Will gave a loose-lipped grin, and winked.
Will Shaw was a few years older than Raphael, a rough and cheerful lad always in trouble of some kind. They made an odd pair, the slender taciturn boy and the robust stable-hand. Yet Shaw was a good friend.
Raphael still couldn’t clearly remember the deaths of his mother and brother, nor the six months he had lost. Or rather, he was afraid to try. Nothing would induce him to delve back into that horror. Scarred, he’d become withdrawn and wary, a natural target for bullying. He’d been an outcast, until Will Shaw befriended him. With his protection, Raphael grew a tough shell to protect himself, which eventually won the other boys’ respect, if not their friendship.
He preferred the company of animals. In that, he and Will were alike.
Will Shaw was one for hounds and horses. Raphael liked all animals, even graylix, ferocious foul-smelling beasts that no one loved. Their fierceness made them a status symbol among the aristocracy, reviled yet feared. Raphael thought they deserved more respect. Graylix raged against captivity out of sheer pride.
He’d found his place; falconer, groom and graylix-handler to Lord Lykenwold. One day he might rise to be Steward of Animals. Raphael accepted his situation, but there was a chasm inside him; regret for the life he might have had instead, but for a spur-of-the-moment impulse on King Edward’s part.
He’d never forgotten Richard of Gloucester. A young noble who should have been a lifelong friend, a lord he would gladly have served all his days. Richard had wanted Raphael’s comradeship, too, he was certain. All torn away by Edward’s thoughtless generosity.
Raphael knew it had only been a boyish fantasy. Of course he couldn’t serve a royal duke, the king’s brother. Ridiculous idea.
Still, he treasured that image of Richard. A dark child dressed like a king… Serious, radiant eyes focused on Raphael, as if he were the most important being in the world, at least for those few minutes.
Raphael often wondered about the Duke of Gloucester. He was young, so little was heard of him. It was all King Edward and George of Clarence, their rivalry and quarrels. They seemed a thousand miles away in their London palaces, simmering in the steamy breath of the great river Isis. But once, King Edward and his royal brothers had stood looking down on Raphael in a hedgerow, and wondered what to do with him. The memory made Raphael smile.
It was only for a moment, he thought, and no one will record the event or remember it, but still, it happened.
“Raffel, a bunch of us are going into the village tonight,” Will Shaw said as they walked towards the castle. “There’s a cask of ale with my name carved on it. I can fit two women apiece on these knees. I’ll spare you one, if you behave. So don’t tell me you’re going early to bed with a posset of warm milk.”
Will had led him on several riotous nights that Raphael had always regretted, especially when he was shivering before the Steward of Animals’ wrath the next dawn, his head pounding as if someone were striking it with a hammer.
“Thanks, Will, but no. His lordship’s beasts need someone sober around them.”
“What sort of excuse is that?” Shaw slapped Raphael on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Come on, man!”
Raphael sighed. “I don’t want some girl I can’t even remember coming up here complaining I’ve got her with child.”
Shaw leered. “That danger, mate, falls only to me.” He lowered his voice, oddly serious. “You know why they’re here, don’t you?”
“Who?”
Will tipped his large, curly-haired head towards the drawbridge. “Those lords who’ve come to visit. They’re talking about war. Know what a commission of array is?”
“Yes,” said Raphael. “It means his lordship has to provide the king with a certain number of armed men.”
“Exactly. Lord William knows who salts his stew. He’ll take every man who can stand up without a stick. He did last time. A fair few of ’em didn’t come back.”
Raphael felt dull unease. “How long have we got?”
“A good question. How long have we got?” Shaw threw his arm over Raphael’s shoulders. “Only the Almighty Creator has the answer to that one. We’re going into battle, Raffel. We might get through it fine, but we might just as easily get an axe through the guts. That changed your mind about having fun while you still can?”
###
Katherine had expected an orderly life in the Earl of Warwick’s household. After her initial excitement, it occurred to her that this might be subtle punishment on her mother’s part: a round of prayers, embroidery, gentle duties, stifling boredom.
She had not expected to find herself, almost a year after meeting Richard, beleaguered on board ship with his enemy, tossed around by an angry sea in the English Channel.
Yet here she was. Cold and salt-soaked, but, mercifully, a good sailor.
The cabin was dark, washed in a ghastly swaying light. On the bunk, Isabel Neville groaned in childbirth. Her fox-red hair hung in strings and her sweat bled into her open, straining mouth. Around them the ship tipped and heaved upon the abyss. Katherine held Isabel’s hand through each excruciating spasm, wiped away her sweat. She trickled a concoction of raspberry leaf and clary sage onto Isabel’s tongue, encouraging her to swallow.
Dull cannon fire drummed in the storm. The Earl of Warwick had brought them to Calais but the Captain of the town, Lord Wenlock – supposedly Warwick’s ally – had panicked and would not let them land. Not even for Isabel’s sake. The man, Kate decided, was a plain idiot with a heart of stone.
She had never been more frightened in her life. Isabel’s maids were prostrate with seasickness, fretting over their mistress’s plight but too weak to do more than lie on their bunks and lip the ginger paste Kate had ground for them. Isabel’s sister Anne and their mother were doing their best to help, but both were exhausted; the countess kept sending Anne to rest in her own cabin. As for the men – the Earl of Warwick and his son-in-law, George, Isabel’s husband – they were barely worth a thought. It’s their fault, Kate thought angrily, that we are in this wretched mess in the first place.
Someone must be strong. At present there was only Kate.
“How is she?” Anne’s long, pallid face appeared in the doorway. Behind her, a strip of sky wheeled and bucked. “George is asking.”
“This has gone on too long,” said Kate. “She will need a surrogate after all. Do you know what that means?”
Anne, luminous and unworldly in the doorway, shook her head. The timbers creaked. She staggered, pulling the door half-open and letting in a flurry of rain and spray.
“It means we need you to come in and shut the door!” snapped the countess, holding a cloth to Isabel’s forehead.
Anne obeyed quickly.
“I want you to watch over both Isabel and me,” Kate said, trying to sound calm. “Will you do that?”
Hesitantly Anne nodded. Strange, Kate thought, that the countess took me in order to educate me, but here’s her daughter, not much younger than me, knowing nothing of matters that I’ve witnessed all my life.
“No,” Isabel said through her teeth. “I said, no surrogate. George wouldn’t want me to. I can do this alone!”
Kate held her wrist so hard her nails bit in. “If you go on alone, you will die. George isn’t the on
e doing the work! There’s a line between brave and stubborn, Isabel.”
“Do as she says,” said the countess.
Another racking spasm. When Isabel spoke again, it was a rasp. “All right. Enough. Help me, please.”
“Can you really do this?” Anne asked softly.
I hope so, Kate thought. “Breathe with me, Bel,” she said softly, sinking onto the hard bunk beside her and holding Isabel’s clammy hand. “Relax and think of nothing but breathing, breathing. You’re safe. I’m here. I’m with you now…”
Altered awareness came swiftly upon Kate. The roar of the sea dwindled. The waves’ violence became a gentle weightless rocking in a red mist. And then the first wave of pain came, making Kate tear her throat with cries. Dreadful pain pierced all through her womb and back and shoulders. There was no part of her that did not hurt as she bore down, as if a huge cannonball were trying to void itself from her body.
Gods, was it this bad for my mother? She never said, never complained…
As Kate laboured and cried out, Isabel lay with closed eyes, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. A surrogate could not take all sensation away but she took the worst of it. As if her own body became mother and midwife in one, she sensed how the child lay. She had fresh strength to go on forcing it out when the mother’s own vigour failed.
Kate sank deeper into the red void. Deep enough even for the pain to become distant. She must push it away in order to endure it. Her mind reached out for echoes of happier times. She sank into unreality and then into clear memory.
###
A year had passed since the Anne Beauchamp had taken her to Warwick Castle, a princely residence that would swallow her mother’s house ten times over. The family called it homely, the most comfortable of their castles, but to Kate it was too grand to seem friendly. There were chambers like crimson caskets, guard rooms so full of weapons that they smelled of blood, a great hall lofty enough for a king. There were long galleries painted pale gold, where she and Isabel would chase each other like children, playing tag around the fat, enamelled columns.
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 11