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

by Freda Warrington

  Raphael observed all this through a veil of wonder. He’d imagined the splendours of court a hundred times. The reality was infinitely more colourful, rich, noisy and wasteful than he’d ever dreamed…

  He recalled the violence that had preceded this celebration. The truth was stark and lent the scene a garish, bloody edge. Everything he witnessed was tainted by the ghastly dream. He’d seen these laughing, triumphant folk murdering a confused old man. He suspected they were all in on the conspiracy. How could he observe anything with innocent delight? He hardly touched his wine, lest there was some worse horror waiting to reveal itself.

  He looked around for Katherine, but couldn’t find her. Although Clarence was at court, his wife Isabel and her ladies were not. Kate was the one person who might make sense of his vision.

  “Come, cheer up,” said Lovell, topping up his goblet with burgundy. “Who put you on a platter and stuffed you with chestnuts?”

  “What?”

  Francis indicated a huge, staring fish that had been placed before them. “You look as joyful as that pike. More bad dreams?”

  “No. I was thinking about… the battles, the executions.”

  “For Creator’s sake, put that out of your mind. What d’you think feasting is for? If a few cut off heads bring peace, it’s worth it.”

  “I feel out of place.”

  “Nonsense. You’re here as a faithful knight of Gloucester. That makes you more fit to be here than half the folk in this place.”

  “Oh? Which half?”

  “You’re a fast learner.” Lovell winked. “What better excuse for gossip?”

  Francis schooled him well. By the time the hall was readied for dancing, he knew the main players. The queen’s relatives were a court in themselves, plying the king with flattery, quips and backslaps. King Edward loved it, gorging happily on their adoration. Raphael watched the queen’s brothers, who rode high in Edward’s favour; Anthony Woodville a powerful presence of silver-fair energy, Edward Woodville a darker, sterner creature with narrow eyes. The two strutting young stags, Queen Elizabeth’s sons by her first marriage, Thomas Marquis of Dorset, and his younger brother Richard Grey, were all arrogance and bravado. This might impress some, but not, Raphael understood, Richard of Gloucester.

  As courtiers paid their respects to the king and queen, Raphael noticed their expansive smiles, the curtseys and bows and hand-kissing as they greeted one another, the mutual flattery and assurances of love. Then he saw how they fell into little cliques, looking around with slitted eyes like daggers.

  He learned the faces of the Stanley brothers, Thomas and William, with their neat beards and watchful eyes. They sat with a small, rigidly dignified woman who dressed with the austerity of an abbess. Francis told him this was Lady Margaret Beaufort.

  “And yes, she always looks that miserable,” Lovell whispered. “They say that all she thinks of is her son, Henry Tudor, gone into exile with his uncle Jasper who fled to France to avoid Edward’s wrath. Jasper was about to fight for Marguerite, until Tewkesbury put paid to her.”

  “And who is the Bishop with them?” Raphael asked.

  “Morton,” said Lovell, as if he’d tasted vinegar. “He transfers his loyalty from one king to the next with the ease of a snake upon soap.”

  Most of the bishops present were dressed in silver and yellow pomp. Morton was subdued, in bruise-purple. He was sleek and plump, watching proceedings from the mild, dark pools of his eyes. Beside him was a gaunt man with a shorn, blue-veined skull.

  Raphael laughed. “And the one beside him, who looks like a half-starved monk?”

  “His assistant, Dr Fautherer. No one trusts him; too damned quiet.”

  The Duke of Gloucester was on the dais at the king’s table with his brother George of Clarence, the forgiven traitor. Raphael watched them. Clarence, trying to out-shine Edward, had upholstered himself in too much velvet and fur. Sweating, throwing off layers, he now looked dishevelled and wine-stained.

  Richard was his self-contained opposite. Isolated, Raphael thought. Against the florid splendour of the Woodvilles he stood out in sombre colours; violet and dark blue. Perhaps his taste in dress looked like a snub, a silent accusation of excess. He joined the conversation in brief, intense bursts; at other times he sat as still as a priest, with eyes only for Edward.

  When Edward seized Richard, embraced him and sang the praises of his incredible bravery loud enough for the whole court to hear, the faces of all the Woodvilles – especially that of the queen – drew tight with resentment.

  Afterwards, Richard, flushed with embarrassment and pleasure, came to sit at the table with Lovell and his other friends.

  “How are you faring, Raphael?” Richard asked.

  “Dizzy,” Raphael said, and everyone laughed.

  “Did you see the queen’s face while Edward was extolling your virtues?” Lovell exclaimed.

  “No,” Richard said with a grimace, “but I felt my skin burning black and falling off my bones.”

  More laughter. Raphael’s eye was caught by a bright golden hair. A slender creature was edging around the crush of dancers towards their table. The golden hair, unveiled, poured over her shoulders to her waist. Mysteriously, she was dressed in male clothes, maroon velvet patterned with gold lions.

  Raphael, staring, said, “Who on earth is she?”

  The roar of mirth that erupted almost knocked him off his chair. Lovell actually had tears running from his eyes. He put his arm around Raphael and leaned his head on his shoulder, shaking. When he could speak, he gasped, “Raphael, she is the Duke of Buckingham. He’s all of fourteen. Oh God, I have to leave, excuse me…”

  Lovell slipped away, still choking, as the slender duke came to them and threw himself into an empty chair next to Richard.

  “Edward must hate me,” he said.

  He pushed back the blond hair and Raphael saw that it was indeed a boy, albeit with a pretty, full-lipped face.

  “What’s wrong, cousin?” Richard asked, smiling at him. William Hastings, Edward’s friend, approached and stood leaning on the two chair-backs, which were carved of ebony carved with a snake motif. Hastings looked huge in a puffed and padded gown of sky-blue damask.

  “He has still given me no high office,” said Buckingham.

  “Lad, you’re but a youth!” Hastings said jovially.

  “You forget yourself, my lord; the correct address is ‘your Grace’,” Buckingham retorted. “I could be sixteen or twenty-six, it wouldn’t make the king treat me as I deserve. I’m old enough to know that he’s taken advantage of my youth! His dealings with me are an abomination!”

  “What’s he done now?” Richard asked gently.

  With his face set in a sulk, Buckingham jerked his head at a knot of women, the queen’s sisters. Raphael saw one of them looking at him. She was large and well-proportioned, mousy blonde, her eyes dark and stern.

  “Ah, Catherine,” said Richard. “Harry is married to her,” he told Raphael.

  “Forcibly married, when I was too young to protest,” said Buckingham. “I am a duke. I should not have been made to marry a commoner.”

  Raphael looked again at Catherine Woodville. She was a good deal older than Buckingham, and looked as if she would crush him in bed. He tried not to smile at the image. The young duke’s distress was real.

  “I agree with you,” Richard said, his expression darkening.

  Hastings said, very low, “It’s disgusting how every noble family in the land has had a Woodville thrust upon them. Elizabeth’s quite the equal of Marguerite for grasping ambition.”

  “I want an annulment,” said Buckingham. “Either that, or recompense, reward, some recognition of who I am!” He thumped the table, then looked pleadingly at Richard and Hastings. “Will you intercede with Edward for me, gentlemen?”

  Richard sighed. “We’ll try, Harry. He does as he likes, though.”

  “He’ll listen to you,” said Buckingham. He flung himself out of the chair and stro
de away, buttercup hair floating behind him.

  Shaking their heads, Richard and Hastings went towards the king’s table, and were lost in the crowd.

  Raphael watched the steady disintegration of the evening from pomp to chaos. Edward became drunk and red-faced with laughter; Clarence drunker, banging his fist on the table in argument. Cloaks were thrown off in the heat. Wolfhounds and salukis ran loose, scoffing the debris of bones and spilled food from the floor. The dancing, stiff and stately at the beginning, grew ragged and wanton.

  Suddenly Raphael saw a much fatter man in the king’s place. Beauty, bloated and ruined by ceaseless excess. Shocked, he blinked hard, and the illusion was gone. Edward was lean and magnificent again.

  Now his arm was crooked around William Hastings’ neck. Somehow Raphael doubted they were discussing the Duke of Buckingham’s troubles. As they roared with laughter, Raphael noticed the queen’s son, Dorset, looking at them and leaning to whisper something to his uncle Anthony. The uncle, abruptly sober, gave a mysterious smile and tapped a finger to his own cheek. He rose and moved away.

  “And you, my dear sir, who might you be?” said a friendly voice. Startled, Raphael looked up to find Anthony Woodville in front of him. He rose, bowing awkwardly, but Woodville pushed him down and sat beside him.

  “I’m Raphael Hart.”

  “Duke, lord, knight?”

  “The last.”

  “And nothing wrong with that, Sir Raphel. My good father was once a plain knight and none the worse for it.” Anthony’s face was big and strong-boned, with pale green eyes full of intelligent curiosity. His doublet was silver-grey, pleated and jewelled with tiny scarlet garnets. Jewels sat proud upon his fingers and in the velvet bonnet on his thick fawn hair. Anthony Woodville was immaculate, and exuded a scent of perfumed oil. “Welcome, then, Raphael Hart, to the court of my noble sister Elizabeth.”

  So grand that even her own mother must kneel to her. Lovell’s acerbic words sprang into Raphael’s mind. He tried to forget all the scandal he’d heard about the Woodvilles.

  “Honoured to meet you, my lord.”

  “I make a point of welcoming every new face personally.”

  “You’re most kind.” Raphael was shocked to find this great man talking to him. He’d formed the impression that the Woodvilles were too mighty to deal with commoners any more, as if contact might rub the gilt off them.

  “How are you enjoying the service of my lord of Gloucester?”

  “I would be with no one else.”

  “Ah, loyalty, the most excellent of virtues.”

  “That’s true. I hold true to my lordship’s motto. ‘Loyalty binds me’.”

  “We’re all loyal to the king, God keep him. The king!” Anthony Woodville yelled suddenly, and a score of voices joined in, raising vessels in a ragged toast. Raphael hurriedly lifted his own goblet. Anthony laughed. “I never tire of doing that. So you’ve been in Gloucester’s service – how long?”

  “Since Barnet.”

  “Ah, then you’re the lad who lent him the horse?”

  Raphael smiled, flushed with pleasure. So, tales were told about him. “Yes. My own lord was killed. But I knew the duke before. I met him once as a child – in fact he saved my life – and he remembered me.”

  Anthony Woodville looked thoughtful, nodded. “He is the sort of man one either loves or loathes. I see straight into your kindly, open heart and know that you love him.”

  “Yes, my lord, I do.”

  “Good, good. What do you think of that, then?” He leaned over, nudging Raphael with his shoulder, and nodding at the royal dais. Edward had his arm around Clarence and was holding forth to the nobles clustered around him. Elizabeth sat rigid, her perfect face sour, her green eyes frozen on nothing. Then her gaze found Anthony. Looking at him, she saw Raphael. He shrivelled. That was a look to strike a man dead. Awkwardly he bowed his head, and when he looked up, her attention was elsewhere.

  “What, my lord?” Raphael breathed.

  Anthony’s voice had an edge. “That traitor there, the turncoat Duke of Clarence, clasped to the bosom of the brother he tried to destroy.”

  Raphael’s mouth went bone-dry. He was being asked his opinion for a reason. “Well, it’s the Almighty’s will that we forgive… the prodigal…”

  “And you’re a right generous soul to think it, but my sister… Don’t you agree, it must be hard to watch her husband embrace the man who razed the heads off our beloved father and brother?”

  “And hard for your lordship, too,” Raphael said uncomfortably.

  “He and Warwick were equal in guilt. Clarence drove my sister into sanctuary, her husband and brothers into exile. Is this how the king rewards treason?”

  “It’s how he rewards his brother for coming to his senses,” Raphael answered carefully.

  “And for dispatching Edouard of Lancaster.”

  “The king has a generous soul.”

  “Too much so, some might say. It’s a reckless virtue, to love everyone. And you, Sir Raphael, say it had been Gloucester who revolted; to whom would you have lent your loyalty – your master, or your king?”

  “That’s easy. I’ll never have to make that decision, because my lord is unswervingly loyal to the king.”

  He thought he’d answered well, but Anthony raised his eyebrows, gave a conspiratorial smile. “Ah, too hard to make? That answers me, then.”

  He opened his mouth to deny any disloyalty to the king; horribly aware he would tie himself in knots while this clever charming man sat laughing at the sport. Before he could dig himself deeper, a voice interrupted. Richard was back with Francis at his side.

  “My lord Rivers,” Richard said coolly. “I hope you are not subverting my knight.”

  Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, bowed graciously with no sign of mockery. He swept his velvet cap down almost to his elegantly-pointed toe. “Your Grace, I make a point of welcoming new blood to the court. I congratulate you on finding this noble young man to replace those you sadly lost. I’ve no doubt he’ll do you credit.”

  Richard blinked, black eyelashes framing his wintry gaze. “It’s good of you to sound out my men for me, Anthony, but there’s no need; I trust my own judgement.”

  Anthony gave a broad, warm grin and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Oh, this is but simple friendliness, gentle brother.” With a flourish he strode away, to be welcomed into the adoring arms of his sisters.

  Richard sat down, put his elbows on the trestle and his head in his hands. He sighed. Then he sat up straight again. He folded his long hands. He wore a single ring on the middle finger, gold with a large blood-red garnet.

  “Raphael, what did he say to you?”

  Nervously, Raphael told him. Richard listened, his face tight with anger; just as he’d looked when he killed the deposed king, Henry – but that, Raphael reminded himself, had been a dream.

  When he finished speaking, Raphael sat uncomfortably, waiting for the duke to respond.

  Eventually Richard said under his breath, “These bloody Woodvilles.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Lovell.

  Richard turned to Francis and said in the softest voice, “The worst thing is that I almost don’t blame Warwick. Never could I condone his treachery, but I know why he was so inflamed. His proclamation, against the ‘deceivable and covetous rule and guiding’ to which Edward is subject, was the plain truth.”

  “Blood of Iesu, man, you’re not suggesting you’re tempted to rebel as well?”

  Lovell was probably the only man who could get away with saying this. Richard’s eyes were burning-cold stones. Then he smiled. “Very funny, Francis.” He rose to walk away. “Even funnier, addressed to the one subject in the realm who would never speak such treason.”

  When he’d gone – a narrow shadow swallowed by the swirling colours of the hall – Raphael felt close to collapsing with anxiety. “What will he do to me?”

  “What?” Lovell said. “Lamb’s blood, Raph, what’s w
rong with you? You said nothing out of place. He’s angry with Woodville, not with you. Drink this.”

  Raphael couldn’t explain that it wasn’t the exchange with Anthony Woodville that disturbed him, but his haunting vision of murder. He could barely breathe. All he could see was the knife-blade sliding under Henry’s breastbone… He took a gulp of wine and the room became clear again.

  “I’m sorry, Francis. I’ve used to living among horses and hawks. I’m new to this. I feel as if I might drown.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” said Francis.

  ###

  The chamber to which Richard summoned him had red walls, a frieze of gold-leaf fleur de lys, and a great bed hung with silken drapes. Two oak chairs faced each other across a small table. Richard bade him sit down. A page poured claret, and left the room. Richard leaned back in his chair, his left side painted by firelight, the right side in shadow. He looked distracted and serious. Raphael was uneasy. He took a sip of wine, his hand shaking so badly he nearly spilt it.

  A line indented Richard’s forehead. “Francis fears you are unwell.”

  “I am perfectly well, your Grace.”

  “Not tempted to gorge yourself on the feast?”

  The corner of his lip curved up. Raphael knew he meant the extravagance of Edward’s court. “No, my lord. I should be ill for certain.”

  “Wise,” said the duke. “Beware of my family.”

  Images of Henry’s murder flashed into his mind. “Yes?”

  “They will probe you to see if you’re persuadable or useful; to test whether you might spy on me for them. You’ve gone white.” He leaned forward. “What is it, Raphael? Understand this about Francis; he’s no tell-tale. I don’t know why he thinks you’re troubled, but he told me out of kindness and concern, nothing sinister.”

  “It was only a dream,” Raphael blurted.

  Richard sat back, his chin resting on curved fingers. “What dream?”

  He listened without comment, without expression, as Raphael miserably told him everything. Then he sat twisting his sweaty fingers together, waiting for the sky to fall.