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

by Freda Warrington

  When he’d gone, Kate ran down into the bailey and stood looking for Raphael. Someone touched her elbow, she turned, and he was there.

  They stood face to face, smiling. He looked older, with more presence, as if the journey had hardened him. He was every inch a nobleman to match Francis Lovell or Richard’s other close companions.

  “Look at you,” said Kate. She fingered the fur and quilted velvet of his doublet. His soft cap had a silver fox-cub tail depending from a jewel in the form of a white rose. “I don’t recognise you. Are these clothes from London? You look a true nobleman. You must have been magnificent at court.”

  “That is the idea,” Raphael said. He glanced down at himself, half-embarrassed. “Richard can’t have his retinue looking less impressive than another duke’s. He paid for all our finery out of his own purse.”

  “How generous,” said Kate. “How was London?”

  He pulled a face. “Overripe, cruel and stinking. Creator, I’m glad to be back. We all are.”

  “Is it true about the Duke of Clarence?”

  “Shh.” He glanced around. “Richard was distraught. He won’t want to overhear gossip.”

  “Believe me, it is not gossip,” Kate said thinly.

  “Can you meet me by the bakery in ten minutes?” he said. “I’ll change into something you recognise me in. I’ve so much to tell you.”

  ###

  “So Clarence is dead?” Kate asked. They were riding to their secret place, Aysgarth. The day was wet and chill, the trees leafless, the river high and fast.

  “Yes,” Raphael said. “At least they spared him a public execution. It’s said that he asked to be drowned in a cask of wine.”

  “And some say it would have been faster, had he not got out twice to visit the privy.”

  “Kate!” Despite himself, he laughed.

  “Well, you look so miserable. He must have died happy, in his natural element. I can’t say I’m sorry, after the things he did. But it seems strange, that he’d not there anymore, and his poor children have no mother or father. He spent years provoking trouble as if he were hell-bent on seeing how far he could go. Still, to be executed by your own brothers… dreadful.”

  “Richard had no part of it. He tried to stop it.”

  “Did he?”

  Raphael was quiet, remembering. Richard in the fireglow, his face ashen, telling them, “I am not guiltless. I played my part in bringing him to justice these past months. I wanted him tamed! To learn his lesson, to be shaken back to common sense. Not killed. But still, the Woodvilles and Edward wanted blood, and I, having gone so far with him, could not draw him back from the brink. Who made him thirst for his own brother’s blood?” Gloucester’s voice had been soft, like the scrape of a barber’s blade. “Voices pouring honeyed venom into his ears. The queen and her family. They despised George for his treachery. His and Warwick’s execution of her father and brother left them with a grudge heavy enough to sink England in the sea. So, it’s no cause for amazement that they couldn’t accept Edward’s forgiveness of George. God knows, George did much to hurt me too, but I’d better things to than waste energy on bitterness. But not the Woodvilles. They feed and fatten their grudges like prime livestock.

  “All Edward could say was, ‘George’s death is for the best.’ He looked like a fat bishop, red-faced and dissolute. I looked back at him and knew my pleas had no more effect than the bleating of an ill-behaved schoolboy.”

  Richard tipped back his head and sighed. When he looked at Raphael, Francis and the others, something changed in his eyes. The wary gleam turned hard and bright. “If not for the Woodvilles, Warwick and Clarence would not have betrayed Edward in the first place. If not for the Woodvilles, they would both still be alive.”

  Raphael closed his eyes in pain, recalling Richard’s grief. Worse, he couldn’t dismiss his vision, a vivid physical memory of murdering the Duke of Clarence. For all he told himself it was only a nightmare, the memory felt real.

  Later, as they rode back to Yorkshire, Richard spoke again. Twilight fell across a wild silver and black sky.

  “I have one thing left: Edward trusts me. Loyalty binds me to him, no matter what. That’s the one truth that never changes, and he knows it.” His voice blended with the rhythm hoofbeats, as compelling as low music. “The queen is a jealous mistress. She and her kin resent any favour Edward shows me, or William Hastings, or anyone not of their blood. They can’t find a pretext to destroy me – yet – but that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

  Raphael said, “It sounds as if they feel insecure on their perch.”

  “A fair point.” Richard smiled at that. “They could suck the king’s blood for a thousand years; it will not make their own more noble. That makes them furious with envy. At least I know the worst now. Given the chance, they’ll stop at nothing to destroy me as they destroyed George.”

  “Not while you have stout friends around you, Dick,” Lovell answered. And they’d ridden hard into the night, as if riding towards the edge of the world.

  Raphael related all this to Kate. The only thing he didn’t mention was his dream. They walked slowly, arms around each other under their cloaks. She was slim and warm, her hair falling enticingly around her like water in shadow.

  “Tell me about the court,” she said.

  “It was vile,” he said. “Luxury, marble floors, gilding, gorgeous clothes and jewels such as you’ve never seen.”

  “It sounds like purgatory.”

  “Let me finish! But the people: they’re like painted dolls. There’s something depraved about so much excess, and all the rivalry and fawning.”

  “Is Queen Elizabeth still beautiful?”

  Raphael gave a sneering laugh.

  “Hard to tell, under her layers of silver and veils and jewels. But yes, she’s still beautiful. She has a perfect oval face and long narrow eyes the colour of peridots. You’d never know how many children she’s had, her waist’s as thin as a willow. She glides like a faerie queen. You’d never dare address her in case her eyes turned you to stone. She’s always whispering with her brother Anthony. He dresses even more gorgeously than her. He goes about stroking his chin and smiling at everyone, which is as sinister as the queen’s iciness. But he’s very charming. They say he’s read every book ever written.”

  “I can’t tell if you hate or admire them.”

  “Both.” He laughed. “The queen’s younger son, Richard Grey, is a typical courtier, full of himself but with real malice. The only one to whom I took a real dislike was her oldest son Thomas, Marquis of Dorset.”

  “Why?”

  “He has that special arrogance of a person who spends every moment proving they are somebody. The man’s an ass.”

  Kate was amused. “I’d like to meet them and make up my own mind, but…”

  “But?”

  She turned and pressed close against him. “I’ve more important things to do.” Opening her lips, she received him with a kiss so deep that it was all he could do not to push her down on the wet grass. He tried to hold her away.

  “Love, we can’t…”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s cold and wet.”

  “The shrine will be dry,” she said, pulling him toward the path of stepping stones. The stones looked glossy and perilous in the high water. “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  Kate was right. Beneath the overhanging bank the hollow was dry and sheltered enough for their purpose. As Raphael lay twined against her sweet body, satiated at last, his guard dropped and he wanted to confess his hideous dreams. If anyone could illuminate their meaning, she could.

  “I’ve always been happy at Middleham,” he said. “I didn’t think it was possible to be happier, but I am.”

  “And look at me, who thought she never wanted a man!” She twined languidly around him. The Goddess of broken black stone watched benignly over them. Outside their refuge, rain began to fall.

  “Oh, Raph, look,” Kate said suddenly. “Som
eone’s brought her an offering!”

  He saw a posy of primroses in front of black figure. Kate’s eyes were bright sapphires.

  “We’ve done some good, then. But we must be vigilant. Unless we tend the sacred places, they’ll be like ruined gardens, gone back to the wild. Their power will be lost to us. We must nurture the serpent power or we’ll lose it. There’ll be no fire to warm the land’s heart. It’s already happening. Will you help me?”

  Torn flashes of memory. Priests and knights in white armour. His mother falling, his brother dying. He was afraid. He knew this was against the Duke of Gloucester’s faith, but he couldn’t refuse.

  “Yes. You’re the wise one.” He sat up and rearranged their clothing, wrapping her cloak tenderly around her. “Katherine… Do you know how it feels to be utterly loyal to someone and yet have unbidden thoughts of disloyalty?”

  She smiled impishly. “Have you designs on the village maids again?”

  “I don’t mean my loyalty to you. I meant to Duke Richard.”

  She looked shocked. “Well, I’ve sometimes been angry with my mother, but I still love her.”

  “This isn’t anger. I don’t know what it is.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He wanted to tell her. The dreams felt like tar, wouldn’t come out of him. It was unfair to inflict his vile imaginings on her. Eventually he asked, “What do you think of him?”

  “Richard?” Her voice was mild, but he felt her shiver. “I’m not sure. He makes me afraid, sometimes. Oh, not as Clarence did, not afraid for my life. It’s less clear than that. Unease.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. He can be cold. It’s so hard to know what he’s thinking.”

  “He’s not cold, Kate,” Raphael said with feeling. “I’ve seen him like stone to the Woodvilles, but not to his friends.”

  “Like stone to those outside the Church, also. I know full well he doesn’t approve of me. He avoids me because of it.”

  “Are you sure? He’s always courteous to women, Kate. Not like King Edward, who’d put his hand up your skirt before he even looked at your face.”

  Kate laughed. “I’ve met Edward. He was charming.”

  “So they all say. What’s Richard done to upset you, then?”

  She shifted, not looking at him. He sensed that neither of them was being honest, which unsettled him. “What’s he done to make you feel disloyal?” she countered.

  “Nothing, truly. It’s not him, it’s some idiotic fancy of my own, born from the foul humours of the court. I’m not breathing that poison any more. He’s suffered so much pain in his life, you can’t expect him to be light-hearted.”

  “The same pain as Edward. From what you say, it doesn’t stop the king making the most of life.”

  “Richard takes his duties more seriously,” said Raphael. “If you ask me, he’s disillusioned with his brother. Not that he’d admit it, but I believe he lost respect for Edward when he made that disgraceful treaty with the French. Edward went to make war, but instead accepted a shameful bribe from them to take his army away. I’ve never seen Richard so angry.”

  “Angry, that Edward averted bloodshed? That sounds perverse.”

  Raphael paused, at a loss to answer. Eventually he said, “Well, he’s a warrior, with a great deal of pride. Perhaps too much: I can’t judge that. And he hates the dissolute behaviour at court; Edward seduces every woman he can lay hands on, then passes them to his friends. Hastings and Dorset almost came to blows over some of them. It’s funny to watch, really. Or it would be in an alehouse, but not in the royal court.”

  “Richard doesn’t find it amusing, obviously,” said Kate.

  “He thinks the Woodvilles encourage Edward’s depravity, and Lord Hastings, who should know better, is colluding with them.”

  “You seem to know Richard much better than I do,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Well, I’d hope so,” Raphael said, surprised. “I hardly know Lady Anne, and wouldn’t expect to.”

  “Do you find it odd that he’s so straitlaced?”

  He shrugged. “No. I find it reassuring. You know where you are with him.”

  Her eyes widened briefly with a sceptical look he couldn’t interpret. Then she kissed him.

  “Let’s not talk about our master. He can’t stop us being merry.” Kate grinned. “Richard may object to my beliefs, but I do my duty and spend as much time as anyone kneeling on a cold chapel floor. I’ll never leave the Motherlodge. After all, it’s not the sisters of Auset who make war or chop off people’s heads. What do they fear from us?”

  “That you’re secretive, and not subject to the Church,” said Raphael. “If you did ride into battle and cut heads off, they’d understand you better.”

  “Ah.”

  “We should go back,” he said, looking at the rain. “Kate, I wish we need not be separated at night, and have to meet in secret like this…”

  She made no response, only stood up and said, “Let’s go back.”

  ###

  Anne lay with her head on Katherine’s lap, pale and drained by her monthly pains. She stared, dry-eyed, across the room, where Mary Bagott sat plucking tunelessly at a small harp. Nan sat at Mary’s feet, sewing. Kate stroked Anne’s long, fine russet hair and at last she admitted what was wrong.

  “We were married five years before our son Edward arrived. I miscarried once before him, and twice after; and since then, nothing. He should have brothers and sisters. It’s not fair on him. One little boy, to carry all our hopes, and children are so frail. We’re all so frail.”

  Katherine went on stroking her hair, keeping her own thoughts dark and close. She noticed that whenever Richard came home – from York or London or campaigns in Scotland – Anne looked drawn and anxious. Kate had jumped to the wrong conclusion at first. Now it was plain why Anne was worried; not because she was unhappy with her husband, but with renewed strain of wondering if, this time, there would be a child.

  The knowledge sent a little strand of sourness through Kate. She couldn’t admit it to herself, but believing their marriage to be uneasy had appeased her jealousy. She never saw any sign of passion between them – only courtesy – but that might be simple decorum. They shared a bed.

  Kate accepted this, and loved Raphael. However, the strand of pain sometimes pulled at her without warning.

  She and Anne had grown closer. They had little in common, but the connection between them was their love for Isabel. Anne wasn’t like her sister; she was self-contained, rarely inviting touches or hugs. For the duchess to lie in Katherine’s lap like this was unprecedented.

  “Kate,” she whispered, too faintly for the others to hear, “is there something you could give me?”

  “Only good food, my lady, and advice not to ruin your life worrying.”

  “I can’t help it. I feel like a dried-up stream.”

  “Is it you who is so concerned, or your husband?”

  “It’s all me.”

  “Are you sure? Or does he blame you?”

  “No, Kate, he doesn’t blame me. He says it doesn’t matter, we’re blessed to have Edward, and if others come it will be a gift, but if not, it’s the Creator’s will.”

  “Perhaps you should listen to your husband,” Kate said evenly.

  “I should, but it would so please him… I don’t want Edward to grow up alone. He needs a brother, a sister. I’d do anything. Kate…”

  Her words were loaded with despair. Kate leaned down, kissed the high forehead where a vein showed blue through the fragile skin.

  “What would you have me do? I can take you to the Dark Mother’s shrine and have you kneel before our black Madonna, and open your soul to her. She may grant your wish, but beware; her gifts come with lashing twists in the tail.”

  Anne drew herself out of Kate’s lap and sat up, shaken. “Why do you say this?”

  “How far would you go? What is your price?”

  “Katherine, you
look like an angel and talk like a demon.” Anne’s hand crept onto hers. “Shrine… what shrine?”

  “You could offer your devotion in return for your wish; but if you say, ‘Send me a child,’ she may send one that kills you as it is born, or grows up to destroy his own family; or someone else’s child. What happens may not be outcome you intended.”

  Anne’s eyes were wide, dark as blood. “Such power isn’t holy. I told you to turn away from it.”

  “And you know I can’t. Yet you are wondering if it might work for you.”

  “Sell my soul, for another babe?”

  “Your soul is your own, and there are no guarantees. And there’s the reason I can’t help you: you believe our ways to be devil-worship. If you take this path, you’ll never have peace again. You might even worry the babe itself came from the Devil.”

  Anne put her hands to her face. When she let them drop, she looked ghostly but calm. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t accuse you of worshipping devils, Kate, but I do fear for your soul. I can’t do it. There are prices too high to pay. I’ll pray to St Akelda, and leave myself in God’s hands.”

  “Or appeal to Auset, and leave yourself in mother nature’s hands,” Kate said gently. “There’s little difference, except that one comes arrayed with raging priests, original sin and hellfire.”

  Anne’s amber mouth formed a half-smile. “I know what you’re doing, Katherine, playing Devil’s advocate. I’ve been tempted, and I’ve passed the test. You’ve shone a clear light for me. Bless you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Kate, taken aback.

  “I’ve decided to rest in God’s hands, and stop fretting.” She rose, cool as rosewater.

  “Are you going to the chapel?” Kate asked. She would have gone with Anne, although she wouldn’t relish kneeling on cold stones for an hour.

  “No,” said the duchess. “I’m going to the nursery, to play with my dear only son.”

  ###

  The years passed, and no children came for Anne; none for Kate, either, since she used skills developed by the Motherlodge to prevent conception and the ensuing scandal. It saddened her that while she fed strengthening concoctions to Anne to help her conceive, she was taking others for the opposite purpose. Her own remedies worked; Anne’s did not.