He, too, looked wrong. He was older than Raphael remembered. His face was gouged with misery and fear. An endless string of words fell from his mouth, each as dull and painful as a tolling bell, describing some grim nightmare of treachery and drowning; on and on, until Raphael would have stabbed him just to silence him. The scene was purgatory. It soaked each fibre of him with dread, then pulled those fibres apart with soft fingers. Something evil dwelled here. Surely even treacherous Clarence did not deserve this.
Raphael looked at the man beside him and saw that his face was gaunt with fear.
“What? Art thou afraid?” said Raphael through the first murderer’s mouth.
“Not to kill him, having a warrant,” said the second, “but to be damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.”
“I thought thou hadst been resolute.”
“So I am – to let him live.”
“I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so.”
“Nay, I pray thee, stay a little…”
Raphael clutched the hilt of his dagger. His breath was thick between his teeth. “Remember our reward when the deed’s done.”
“Zounds, he dies!” cried the man. “I had forgot the reward.”
“Where’s thy conscience now?”
“O, in the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.”
Clarence slept as they crept towards him across the cell; but as they reached him he woke, befuddled as a child. In panic Raphael’s companion hissed “Strike!” but now it was Raphael who was paralysed.
“No, we’ll reason with him.”
“In God’s name, what are thou?” Clarence cried.
“A man, as you are,” Raphael said. The power of life and death felt horribly intoxicating.
“But not, as I am, royal.”
“Nor you as we are, loyal,” said the second man.
“Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.”
“My voice is now the King’s, my looks my own,” came the words from Raphael’s mouth.
“How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?” They tried to answer, stammering. “To murder me?” Clarence said. “You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, and therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?”
He was dignified but pitiful.
“Offended us you have not, but the King.”
“I shall be reconciled to him again.”
“Never, my lord,” said Raphael’s companion. “Therefore prepare to die.”
Clarence pleaded, eloquent as Gloucester had warned he would be; and Raphael was crushed in the spiked closet of the nightmare.
“If you do love my brother, hate not me; I am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hired for meed, go back again, and I will send you to my brother Gloucester, who shall reward you better for my life than Edward will for tidings of my death.”
“You are deceived. Your brother Gloucester hates you.”
“Oh no, he loves me and he holds me dear! Go you to him from me.”
“Ay, so we will,” Raphael murmured.
“Tell him, when that our princely father York blessed his three sons with his victorious arm and charged us from the soul to love each other, he little thought of this divided friendship; bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.”
“Aye, millstones, as he lessoned us to weep.”
“O, do not slander him, for he is kind.” Tears flowed now down Clarence’s ravaged face. And while he was pleading with the second murderer, it was Raphael who struck, in sudden hot anger, wanting to end it; stabbing, stabbing, blood running everywhere; his head pounding, the whole scene throbbing to a painful heartbeat as he dragged the weeping, gasping, dying weight of Clarence across the floor of the cell.
“If all this will not do,” he rasped, “I’ll drown him in the malmsey butt within.”
“A bloody deed, and desperately dispatched!” His companion’s voice came after him, a ghost-wail. “How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands of this most grievous murder!”
###
Raphael woke in choking horror, as if an eagle were trying to burst out of his chest. Gods, it had seemed so real – but he knew at once that he’d dreamed the scene. He managed to control himself, and not cry out. He didn’t want his comrades thinking he was possessed, sick or mad.
“Oh, Creator,” he breathed, his palm sliding over his forehead on sweat. “Oh Iesu, Lamb of God, Dark Mother, help me.”
What have I done to deserve such visions?
All along he’d known it was a dream, yet he couldn’t escape. As if a puppeteer had moved him through the motions… that was it. The dream had been vividly real, yet false, like a masquerade. Theatre.
“I saw something real,” he whispered into the dark, “but not about the Richard I know. Why do I keep dreaming he’s wading through blood, when I love him like a brother? How can I dream such villainy about him?”
Someone prodded him. “You’re talking in your sleep,” said Francis Lovell. “Wake up! If you go off in the screaming horrors again, I’ll throw you in the river!”
“Oh, God,” gasped Raphael, sitting up in a tangle of bedding.
“London gives you nightmares,” Francis said, sitting on the end of his bed and pulling narrow trousers onto his long, pale legs. “The bad vapours off the Isis affect some like that. What was it this time?”
“I dreamed two murderers had stabbed the Duke of Clarence, then drowned him in a vat of malmsey wine. One of them was me. Richard was going to pay me for it.”
Lovell tipped back his head and laughed. “Saints above, I’m glad I don’t have your imagination! Who was the other murderer? Me?” Abruptly he sobered: there was nothing to laugh at. “Christ, Raphael, are you going to tell him about this?”
Raphael hung his head. “I promised I would always tell him my visions. But this…”
“Mm. To tell him you dreamed he’d paid murderers… he’d not appreciate it.”
“He’d be furious,” Raphael said, wretched. “Outraged. How could he not be? It’s not what I think of him. How can I explain where it came from, when I don’t understand it myself? I’ll have to break the promise. I can’t tell him this.”
Francis rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re right, friend. That’s one dream we know won’t come true; Richard’s spent all night with Edward, pleading for their brother’s miserable life.”
“And all I can do is weave vile nightmares.”
“I hear something.” Frowning, Francis rose, pulling on a freshly-laundered shirt. He went to open the door. Lamplight spilled in, and from the hall came the murmur of men’s voices.
Lovell turned to Raphael, his face grave. “Get dressed quickly. He’s back.”
###
The Duke of Gloucester was in his chamber – where tapestries of battle scenes hung upon the walls – with Ratcliffe and Tyrell. He had been weeping. As Raphael entered with Lovell and Percy, he made no attempt to hide the fact, only acknowledged them with a look that said everything. Richard would not let anyone but his closest circle see him red-eyed; his trust was heart-turning. Raphael felt dizzy with shame. He was part of the trusted clique, yet he’d been betraying Richard all night with ghastly melodramas.
Richard sat with his elbows on the table as they gathered around him.
“Well, it’s done,” he said. He rubbed his hands over his face and sat back. “I was too late. Edward drank himself into a rage, and couldn’t be dissuaded. He said that George has broken all fraternal ties with us, and nothing short of death would still his quarrelsome nature. And I was too late. The only plea Edward heard was my mother’s, that George should be executed in private, by a method of his own choice. While I was entreating for his life, George was dying. A last indulgence in malmsey wine.”
The spectre of a smile touched Richard’s lips.
“Typical of him. So, the Woodvi
lles won. George is dead. Edward thinks he can live with himself! In time his regret shall turn as bitter as wormwood. And I don’t care if I never set foot in his cursed, hell-possessed court again.”
Inset: Raven Wings
Visions inside dreams inside visions. When Raphael has the nightmare about the murder of Clarence, it shocks me to the core. He lived through a scene in Shakespeare’s play. How is that possible? The play was created in a different time, even a different world. He can’t possibly have known.
Did I feed it to him? No, I’m sure I haven’t. I don’t know the scene by heart, I haven’t even been thinking of it. No, Raphael has some connection to my world that I can’t comprehend, and it’s nothing to do with me. I’m merely a spectator.
It makes me think of the other vision he saw, the murder of Henry VI. I remember how Richard seemed to deny it, then seemed to admit it, leaving it all as mysterious as ever. Poor Raphael is not only living through reality, but seeing how reality will ultimately be distorted and blackened.
He is witnessing the legend’s birth. Shakespeare’s glorious and terrible creation. The poison pens of historians, Carmeliano and Rous, who saw no problem in praising Richard while he was alive and reviling him once he was dead, of Andre who used the images of evil Richard and angelic Tudor to illustrate the concept of divine justice; and the masters, Polydore Vergil and Thomas More, who, in order to write their morality tales, would dissect him with such skill and sophistication that his reputation, despite the efforts of later writers, would never recover.
I need to calm down a bit. I go to our cafe for a cup of tea, but Fin isn’t there, just when I really need to talk to her. Instead I sit scratching on a notepad, trying to think.
So frustrating. I can’t reach Raphael to explain. That is, I could tell him what he is seeing, if not why. Yes, he seems to look at me sometimes; but in my day-dream narrative, no matter how hard I try, I can never make him hear me, any more than I can make the actors in a film hear me.
Richard himself, meanwhile, gives me no answers at all.
What does it mean, a phantom lover who comes to me in the darkness, folds me in raven wings and velvet, and reveals nothing?
So here he is.
Shakespeare’s “bottled spider”, an “elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog,” evil for the sheer glee of being evil.
Or a cynical opportunist.
Or a paranoid man, who destroyed his rivals from unfounded fear.
Or an upright, genuine man, forced to defend himself against scheming enemies.
Wickedly intelligent. Rashly impulsive but not that bright.
A good king, who took the throne to save the country, and was vilely betrayed for his pains.
A paradox.
Through Kate and Raphael, I’m delving for some connection to the truth. I rarely have actual dreams about them; if I do, they are just dreams, surreal glimpses. No, the waking visions I have are different; solid, even verifiable. I can go to my books and check facts. Except…
There’s so much I can’t place. Their technology seems slightly too far advanced, with exotic architecture and spectacular attempts at plumbing. At the other end of the scale, although belief in magic and in some kind of hidden world, the land of Faerie, is universal, in Kate’s world it lies beneath a very thin skin indeed.
There is no mention of a Dr Fautherer. The nearest equivalent I can find is Reynold Bray, Margaret Beaufort’s steward and carrier of secret letters, who schemed so hard for Richard’s downfall.
No trace of the Motherlodge. It seems to be a remnant of Isis worship brought to Britain with the Romans or their Egyptian servants, fused with timeless Celtic and native beliefs. Is it possible that such a religion survived, but was expunged from our records, as kept by men? Or just an anomaly of my daydreams?
Raphael and Kate draw me on a fascinating journey; following history so closely, yet so oddly skewed. I feel privileged and scared to death.
In the real world, too, I travel a lot. There are several sites to visit; castles where Richard lived, places where stayed; a sad and mysterious tomb in Kent where a natural son of his is said to be buried, with a heart-rending story attached. None haunts me as Bosworth does. The bleak peace of the battlefield always induces in me the strongest, most detailed narratives.
I have to go there again. I rise and began to gather my books. I might see Raphael…
And suddenly, I understand. I freeze and gave a gasp that makes the students at the next table look at me. But I can’t contact him to explain, because he must learn the truth for himself.
Chapter Eleven. 1478-1483: Edward
RICHARD
And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live;
Which done, God take King Edward to His mercy
And leave the world for me to bustle in!
Richard III Act I scene 1
Richard proved himself an energetic and efficient king.
Charles Ross, Richard III
The little church lay on the coast of France, at the heart of a village that was poised on a crag and buffeted by sea storms. Inside, the walls were stained yellow with candlelight. The air shimmered with the smoky golden glow. Dr Fautherer had lit many fat candles in brass sconces and placed holy water and wine and the sacred mantle upon the altar. Now he raised the lamb. It jerked and bleated in his grasp, flicking its ears.
Gathered around the altar were the remnants of the House of Lancaster: Jasper Tudor and his nephew Henry, both in exile, the latter a gaunt young man with wary eyes. Then the visitors: Henry’s doting mother Margaret and her friend, Bishop Morton. Lady Margaret’s latest husband, Thomas Stanley, was also present, standing apart and mouthing the Amens. He looked stiff and uneasy, Fautherer noted. Morton, by contrast, was serene and confident, his plump face beneficient.
The crossing had not been easy, but Margaret Beaufort had stood pike-straight at the rail of the fishing vessel and not shown a glimmer of discomfort. Desperate to see her only son, she never showed her desperation, only this tight, steely determination.
The Lancastrian exiles had greeted her warmly, bringing a smile to her rigid face. Now they filled the front four rows of pews, watching the ceremony that might at last bring them slender hope.
“We praise our Almighty Creator for the scything down of Clarence,” said Bishop Morton. “One more sinful soul gathered in, one more scion of York destroyed. This is the judgement of God. The House of York is divided and will destroy itself.”
“Amen,” murmured Fautherer. The congregation echoed him. The lamb’s bleating was plaintive. Its warm fleecy body was housed in a little coat sewn with white roses.
“The last precious blood of Lancaster resides in my son, Henry Tudor,” said Margaret Beaufort. “May Almighty God preserve him, bless him, elevate him to his rightful station.”
“Amen.” Jasper Tudor’s voice boomed out strongly.
The mantle that lay upon the altar was embroidered, like the lamb’s coat, with roses; but these were the red blooms of Lancaster. Beside it lay a crown of gold filigree.
Morton signalled with a thick finger. Fautherer laid the lamb upon the altar and slit its throat. Blood flowed. Wisps of shocked breath came from the onlookers.
“Thus let the House of York die,” intoned the bishop. “O Lord Creator, accept this sacrifice of innocent blood to nurture the field of the red rose. May all the sins of York flow out and be expiated in the redemptive light of Lancaster. Accept thy humble son, Henry Tudor: King of England and of France.”
“Thy will be done,” said Lady Beaufort, and the echoes rippled after her.
Some of the lamb’s blood flowed onto the mantle, flooding the red roses into a single crimson stain. Fautherer nodded; it was a good omen.
“This cloak is the kingdom of England,” said Morton.
Jasper and Lady Margaret lifted the mantle and placed it on Henry Tudor’s narrow shoulders. Bishop Morton anointed him with lamb’s blood and set
the crown upon his head.
“This crown, the crown of England. As in this sacred space, so in the outer world. Thy will be done.”
“Amen,” came the answering voices, strong with hope.
Henry, who looked weighed down by the mantle, put his shoulders back. His chin came up and his eyes cleared. He looked, at last, resolute.
As their hymn of thanks began – the hymn that, Fautherer knew, would one day be sung at Henry’s coronation – he saw Lady Margaret touch Morton’s arm and heard her whisper, “I thank you for your steadfast friendship, and Dr Fautherer for conveying my messages in these difficult times. One would think he was everywhere, like smoke. And my thanks to both of you for keeping my secrets.”
“Anything, my lady, if it means restoring the rightful line to the throne.” Morton answered warmly. “And our faith to its true centre of authority.”
Lady Margaret was silent for a moment. Fautherer saw her husband looking at her; his face with its neat beard impassive, the eyes shrewd, sly and measuring. Fautherer recognised a kindred spirit. He said nothing. His function was only to serve.
“However… This seems uncomfortably akin to sorcery,” Margaret Beaufort said at last.
Morton inclined his head, acknowledging and dismissing her concern in a single gesture.
“My lady, to activate the will of God is not sorcery,” he said. “Heathen devil-worshippers cling to the house of York like blackfly to a white rose. Their practices are sorcery. Ours are holy rites.”
In the body of the church, the Lancastrians in exile were dropping to their knees and crying out as one, “God save King Henry!”
###
Katherine was on the stairs to the keep, watching men bustling in the courtyard. The duke’s party were home: castle servants rushed to welcome the men at arms and tend their coursers and packhorses. A few minutes later, with a retinue streaming after him on foot, Richard passed Katherine on the stairs. In his sombre glory of velvet and fur and long leather boots, he passed so close she caught the scent of rain on his clothes. He spared her not a glance.
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 25