Young Edward of Middleham grew into a handsome, serious boy. Although Anne and Richard doted upon him, he remained wonderfully unspoiled. Kate wondered what kind of childhood caused ruin. They’d called George of Clarence “spoiled”, and she wondered who had spoiled him, because Richard was his opposite. Spare, dark, honourable, and ridiculously self-controlled.
Whatever frail ice-bridge had once joined Richard and Kate had long ago melted away. His eyes upon her were frost. He showed her the reserved courtesy that any duke should show his wife’s lady-in-waiting. In return she gave him due deference. All as it should be.
She’d told Raphael she was afraid of him, but Kate did not fear Richard exactly. He carried something with him, like a great winged shadow, that both repelled and drew her. Every time she saw him, she still experienced a jolt as if she’d never seen him before. The darkness of his hair and eyes, the way his presence made the world go still around him: she wasn’t the only one who noticed. People reacted strongly to him; not merely to his wealth and rank, but to something intangible that inspired devotion or hatred, even fear.
Sometimes – when she knew full well he was away – she would see him in the distance on the battlements, or sense him behind her, only to turn and find no one there.
Raphael asked her a dozen times to marry him. She put him off with light remarks, laughter and kisses. Yes, but not yet. I like being as we are. You’re always away in your lord’s service; Anne needs me. We will, but not yet, not yet.
He was patient, but his face became graver each time. “You know Richard would give us a grant of land, don’t you?” he said once. “Our own manor.”
“What time have I to run a manor?” she answered. “The duchess relies on me, and the duke on you. Later, when the time is right.”
The truth was that Kate enjoyed being a lover, rather than a wife. She liked the subterfuge and the freedom. She feared that if she married Raphael he might change; grow bored and possessive, as husbands sometimes did, and turn elsewhere for pleasure.
Each time she came close to having to make the decision, something intervened to reprieve her. This time it was news Kate had dreaded: Dame Eylott, high priestess of the Motherlodge, was dead. Kate wept, remembering the sweet heart-shaped face and all the dame’s care through the hardest time of her life.
The news also meant that Eleanor’s time had come. She was to be invested as Mater Superior of the Motherlodge of Auset.
Kate went to York to attend her. Eleanor looked beautiful, her coppery hair long and loose on her shoulders. She wore a robe of dark blue silk, thickly embroidered with fruit and flowers, and over it a black mantle edged with gold. The cellar temple glowed in the flickering light of cressets. Wreathes of incense layered the air, peppery and fragrant. So many women packed into the small space – men too – that it was hard to breathe.
Kate and Martha acted as her mother’s handmaidens, washing her hands and feet. Bridget Marl conducted the ceremony, calling down the elements and the Goddess herself, anointing Eleanor with oil. On her hair they placed a coronet in the shape of a serpent, its raised head crowned with a sphere of opal for the moon.
When the traditional salutation was murmured, “All hail, Queen of the Underworld,” the hairs prickled on Kate’s neck. She wept. Her mother was transformed, a goddess.
As they came out of the cellar temple into the courtyard – the place where Kate had first met Raphael – Eleanor took her hand.
“Do you feel different?” Kate asked.
“I feel as if I’m going to sneeze,” said Eleanor, and did. “They overdid the incense somewhat.”
“Well?”
“I feel a huge sense of responsibility. To preserve the lodge and protect our followers… The task can only grow harder.”
“But nothing is impossible to the queen of the hidden world.”
“As leader I’m there to serve, not to rule. Anyone who thinks they can rule the hidden world is an enormous fool. Yes, I feel changed, Kate, but I’m still myself.”
They stepped into the street, with dozens of followers arrayed in midnight blue, bearing flowers and black banners powdered with moons and stars. Kate smiled at the dark-haired boy who carried Eleanor’s train. Even Friar Bungay and Father Dunstan wore blue robes to show their support. It was a tradition, that on the inauguration of a new Mater Superior they paraded to a tavern, the Yellow Pard, to partake of a celebratory feast.
This was one of the rare times the Motherlodge showed a public face. Citizens gathered to watch them pass. Some cheered and threw flowers in their path.
Kate laughed, and her mother said, “What is it?”
“We are so disapproved of, but look how many people are grateful for us. What I am can’t be acknowledged at Middleham. If they only knew how many women come to me in secret for advice or help. Men, too. It amuses me.”
“Such is the paradox of our existence,” said Eleanor, squeezing her hand.
As they rounded a bend in the street, with creamy-grey houses rising on either side, they found their way blocked by a wall of men. Friars, priests, a handful of angry laymen. In their centre was a tall bishop, resplendent in yellow vestments and a dark purple cloak. He planted his crook on the pavement and raised a hand to halt the procession.
Eleanor marched on until she was nose to nose with him. The parade came to a ragged stop, her followers treading on each other’s heels.
Kate recognised him. It was the Archbishop of York, Thomas Rotherham. His heavy red face was angry and a little nervous.
“My lady, your procession is an abomination and an insult to the Almighty.” His voice was gravelly with authority, but held a slight tremor. Kate wondered if he’d been pressured into this confrontation. “Take down your banners and disperse.”
Eleanor glared at him. “We will not, your Grace. Our procession is a lawful tradition. Please stand aside.”
“You shall disperse, for we shall not move until you do so.”
“Then we could all be standing here for quite some time,” she answered politely.
“Your temple is an affront to the Holy Church,” said the Archbishop. “It may be accepted by temporal laws, but not by God’s. Be warned. We shall not tolerate it. Your days are numbered.”
“At whose behest do you threaten us?” Eleanor spoke mildly, but Kate – who knew her – saw the glitter of danger in her eyes.
“We harm no one,” said Bridget Marl beside her. “We help many. Only ask these good folk around us.”
“Seducing good folk away from God is the worst harm you could do. Take down your banners.”
“Put plainly, your Grace: no.”
They stood off for a moment or two. The archbishop looked furious and embarrassed. One of his followers, a monk, rushed at a girl just behind and to one side of Eleanor. He seized the pole of her banner and tried to wrest it from her. She struggled, crying out, but the banner came down, falling across those who were standing nearest. Fabric fell across Kate’s head and she angrily pushed it off, swung round and grabbed the monk’s arm.
“How dare you–”
Turning, he shoved her over. She hit the cobblestones, more indignant than hurt. All around her were cries, chaos. She heard Friar Bungay yelling, “What? You’d attack innocent women, your Grace?”
“There are men among you,” a priest yelled at him, “who should know better! Like you, devil’s arse-licker!”
Eleanor helped Kate up. They were caught in a nascent riot; the priestly mob surging forward, the followers of Auset striking at them with the banners they were trying to pull down. The street boiled. Rotherham was jostled against Eleanor and his mitre was knocked off.
“Oh – I didn’t mean this to happen,” he said.
Dame Marl raised her arms and yelled, “Stop!” but she might as well have yelled at the tide. She began shepherding Eleanor, Kate and Martha to the side of the street when they heard, above the noise, horses’ hooves clattering towards them from the direction of Micklegate Bar.
The crowd spilt raggedly in two. The fighting died. Into their midst rode the Duke of Gloucester on a big bay courser. Beside him was another nobleman, mounted on a grey. The Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, was a thin pale-haired man with a beaky nose who put Kate in mind of a heron. With them came their retinues, at least forty mounted men wearing Gloucester’s white boar or the white crescent of the earl.
Richard, stony-faced, rode his horse at a brisk walk straight towards the Archbishop. He drew to a halt with one gloved hand on the reins.
“Your Grace,” Richard greeted him. “What’s happening?”
“Yes, what the devil is this?” said the earl. “A riot?”
Stammering and redder than ever, Rotherham began to explain.
“Christian conscience binds us to make a stand against the continued presence of heathen temples in our towns. These witches parade blatantly among us! This cannot be tolerated.”
Kate bit her lip and stared at the ground. Richard would agree with the Archbishop. His position would not allow him to do anything else. Beside her Eleanor waited, silent.
“Let them pass,” said Richard.
“What?” Rotherham said, blunt with disbelief.
“Remove yourselves from the street and let the sisters pass unmolested. Some may not like it, but they have the right.”
“But my lord…”
“Do so, or you’ll answer to me. I take disturbances of the peace very seriously; and you, Archbishop, should know better. I don’t believe your protestors are even citizens of York, are they?”
Rotherham fell back, chastened. Gloucester signalled, and his men moved forward to chivvy the demonstrators out of the way and clear a path for the sisterhood. A loud cheer rose from the onlookers.
The Earl of Northumberland was having difficulty controlling his horse. “You astound me, my lord,” he said, out of breath. “It’s not what I would have done, but your command of these people is impressive. I can’t bear mobs.”
Kate raised her chin and found Richard looking straight at her. His face was serious, his eyebrows raised. She looked back boldly, not caring what he thought. Then he gave her a faint smile; a rueful look, more tolerant than she’d expected. Normally the look would make her bristle but now, for some reason, she felt grateful.
“Go in peace, good mother,” he said to Eleanor. “The earl and I will ride before you, to ensure no further difficulty.”
“Thank you, your Grace,” Eleanor said with dignity.
The sisterhood of Auset passed on their way to the Yellow Pard, preceded by the two greatest lords of the north; Gloucester and Northumberland.
###
Anne was ill. For three weeks Katherine worked day and night, making concoctions of herbs, flowers and roots to ease her cough. She’d driven out the physician, whom she suspected might actually kill Anne with his potions of mercury and powdered amber. She attended Anne constantly, delegating tasks, sending the cooks scurrying to prepare dishes to tempt her weak appetite. At night she slept on a bed beside Anne’s, waking every half hour to check she had not grown worse.
As the fever subsided, Kate sat reading to her from Mallory, Christine de Pisan and the new printed books sent from London.
Richard was away, touring his other castles in the north. He didn’t know Anne was ill, so Kate was determined she would be better by the time he came home. Life had fallen into a gentle rhythm over the years. Kate couldn’t now imagine living anywhere but Middleham. After a struggle, at last she could enjoy the presence of Anne and Richard’s son without being constantly, painfully reminded of another child she rarely saw. Eleanor wrote often, with pleasing if strange news.
Attacks upon sacred Hollows, at least in Richard’s domain, had ceased.
Kate had travelled twice to London with Anne, accompanied by Nan and Ursula. They’d found the court at once fascinating and loathsome, as Raphael had described, a mixture of smothering etiquette and debauchery. The last time, in the January just past, King Edward had bestowed even greater powers upon Richard, effectively making him king of the north.
Relations between the two brothers appeared warm.
Kate, though, had hardly recognised the king as the handsome young man who’d once tried to seduce her. He was almost a caricature; loud, raucous, his body bloated. A pretty blonde woman sat on his fleshy knee in full view of the queen. She was his famous mistress, Elizabeth Shore, who called herself Jane so as not to offend Queen Elizabeth. And the more ferociously arctic the queen became, the sweeter, wittier and more full of laughter Jane Shore appeared in contrast.
“Kate,” said Anne, interrupting her thoughts.
Starting, she saw the duchess trying to get out of bed. “Madam, what are you doing?”
“Help me to my chair, I’ll sit up for a while. Richard comes home today. I don’t want him to discover his wife a bed-ridden invalid.”
Kate supported Anne’s thin frame to her favourite chair. She seemed so delicate and still so young, a child-saint.
“Richard has emulated the best of my father and created a kingdom of his own,” said Anne. “I’ve never seen him happier. I think from now on our lives will become as they should be, all sorrow and conflict left behind. A peaceful kingdom for our son to inherit.”
“I hope so,” Kate said with feeling. As she made to fetch a coverlet to warm the duchess’s knees, Anne caught her hand. There was a glint in her eye.
“Katherine, dear, isn’t it time that you and a certain Sir Raphael were married?”
Kate nearly choked. “My lady?”
“It’s an open secret that you dote upon each other. Six years is a long courtship. He has no reason to hesitate so long; Richard will gladly grant leave. I’m not suggesting that anything improper has occurred between you, but you’d do well to avoid even the risk of scandal.” She spoke teasingly.
“Yes,” Kate muttered.
“Why do you look astonished?” Anne smiled. “Do you want me to speak to Raphael, or the priest to do so?”
“No! No, Anne, it’s all right. He’s asked me a dozen times; he won’t be shocked. In fact he might swoon if I say yes.” Kate took a deep breath. Anne was right. She loved Raphael; she’d only delayed out of fear of change, faint ghosts of the past. “Yes, dear Anne, you’re right. Thank you.”
“A spring wedding will be beautiful. Write to your mother. All the village will come, and crown you with flowers.”
###
Panic stopped Kate sleeping that night, drove her upstairs onto the roof of the round tower. The April night was thick with cloud and wind, winter still clawing at the hem of spring.
She’d agreed to marriage. It had seemed a good idea when she spoke to Anne, but now she was terrified. She clutched her cloak around her throat. She’d spoken to no one yet, not to Nan or Ursula, not even to Raphael himself. She loved him, but to give up freedom, give up all other possibility…
Richard was on the battlements. When she saw his unmistakable silhouette some distance away on the western wall, her heart sank. He was talking to a guard, both men leaning on the parapet. Then the guard went on his way and he was alone.
The temptation to walk softly to his side and surprise him was overwhelming, but the counter-pull proved stronger. There was no point. There was nothing between them and never could be. She couldn’t stand his polite self-restraint, nor the emptiness of disappointment that would follow… even though she had no clear idea of what she wanted of him. A frisson of clandestine excitement that Raphael could not give her? Kate cursed herself, dismissing the urge as pitiful. When she looked again, Richard had gone.
A few minutes later, growing cold, she began to descend the spiral stairs, feeling her way in the dark. As she reached the landing that led back to the chambers, she collided with someone coming up from below. Both recoiled, apologising. Richard’s hand was on her elbow, steadying her.
“We should carry lanterns, not creep about in the dark,” he said. She heard a smile in his voice.
> “Then how could we creep about successfully?” said Kate. “My apologies, your Grace.”
“And mine. I didn’t mean to alarm you, my lady.”
“No harm done.”
“Sleepless, like me?”
“Yes,” Kate sighed. “I was going back to bed, only for the delight of Dame Bagott’s snoring.”
“Ah.” He laughed softly under his breath. Then he said, “Come with me.”
“Oh?” Kate took a step towards him, puzzled.
“Yes, come on. I’ve something to show you.”
She followed him down. Strange, but now he was there, her over-magnified spectral images of him vanished. He wasn’t cold or threatening, simply a man she found easy company and charming… and still painfully attractive, in the most dangerous way.
He led her down into the bailey and towards the stables, with the walls of the western range on their left and the keep on their right. She pulled her cloak hood over her head. The guards might see them. A man and a woman alone in the night were never viewed as innocent. The mere fact that they were together made them as guilty as sin.
“From all reports, it seems I must thank you for saving Anne’s life,” he said.
“That’s putting it a bit strong,” she said. “I stopped the physician killing her, possibly. The rest was common sense, to ease her fever and make sure she ate well.”
“All the same, without you…” She could barely see him in the darkness. His velvety voice came out of nowhere.
“And yet you’re not at her side?” Kate glanced up at the slaty sky. Night-lights glimmered in some windows; others were dark. She imagined the hundreds of people in the castle breathing steadily in sleep.
“She needs to rest. Despite riding all day I’m still wide awake, which is nothing new. I went to look at my son, who was soundly dreaming and didn’t know I was there. All that’s left is to haunt the battlements.”
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 27