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

by Freda Warrington

  “You’ll be able to rest and eat now,” she said briskly. “In my capacity as healer, I suggest you do so.”

  He held back the corner of the arras for her to leave.

  “You were on your way somewhere.” He sounded vague with shock. She could only wonder what was in his mind. “May I walk with you?”

  Kate shook her head. She couldn’t tell him she was on her way to Raphael. Her lover would have to endure the night without her.

  “No, I thought I heard something outside the door, that’s all. Good night, your Grace.”

  “Good night, my lady.” He turned, and she watched his narrow form moving away until it melted into the blackness.

  ###

  A butcher’s block, stained crimson, oozed blood on the sloping green beneath the walls of the Tower. The block was all that remained to mark Lord Hastings’ demise.

  Now it was over, Raphael felt drained. He saw the same blankness on the faces of the other men who’d arrested and executed William Hastings. There had been soaring exhilaration in seizing a lord out of a council meeting, manhandling him down the stairs and into the dusty summer air, forcing him down upon the block and the axe falling, Buckingham supervising like an angel of death… but the horrific thrill soon congealed. In the aftermath, a handful of them sat in a guardhouse that looked out upon the green, trying to numb the shock with ale.

  The door was open. Raphael and Francis Lovell sat side by side on the top step.

  “Hastings was a conspirator and a traitor,” said Lovell, “but people are going to ask why he didn’t get a proper trial.”

  “Should he have done?” Raphael asked. “The end would have been the same. He doomed himself.”

  Lovell’s face, usually cheerful, was grave.

  “Richard couldn’t afford to wait, or risk him being acquitted. The same with him sending Ratcliffe north to carry out the execution of Rivers and Grey, even though the Council refused to agree. He has to strike fast and hard, or he won’t survive. But it’s dreadful work. I fear it will do great damage to his reputation. He might salvage it, if he acts quickly. He’s walking on the edge of a bloody sword, Raph, but there’s no other way.”

  “And we promised him we’d walk with him, all the way,” Raphael said. Their eyes caught and held for a moment, confirming the pact. Francis gave his forearm a quick, steadying touch.

  A traitor, Raphael thought. He felt a mixture of sorrow and contempt for Hastings; his naivety, his disbelief at being found out, a stumbling confession of guilt and insistence that he’d meant no harm. Horror, as it dawned that the Lord Protector – a man he’d considered a friend – was not inviting a debate but dispatching him to immediate death.

  Richard had trapped the conspirators. He’d summoned them to the White Tower, ostensibly to discuss the coronation: Hastings, Bishop Morton with Dr Fautherer at his side, Archbishop Rotherham, Thomas Stanley and their various assistants. A charming and affable Duke of Gloucester greeted them, lulling their suspicions. Then he left to ensure that his men-at-arms were positioned outside the doors.

  No one knew he planned anything beyond the traitors’ arrest, not even Buckingham. Raphael suspected the execution had not been planned at all.

  “I called you here to discuss political matters,” he said on his return. “However, it seems we must discuss the cousin of politics instead. Conspiracy.”

  And with those words, the convivial mask dropped. Richard presented the accusation that they’d conspired with the queen to destroy him. Bishop Morton’s smooth face became waxen as he realised, faster than the rest, the peril they were in.

  “Have I fought at my brother’s side all my life for this? To place a clan of gluttonous, drunken wastrels in charge of the kingdom? To see another thirty years of strife? I fought beside Edward but you–” glaring at Hastings– “you drank with him and ruined him. You, Rivers and Elizabeth Woodville’s depraved sons. The ex-queen and Mistress Shore have practised sorcery upon me, and you colluded, in hope that I would wither to a shadow and vanish. But I am still here.”

  Raphael had never seen anything as pitiful as Hastings’ sickly, astonished expression. He’d thought he could manipulate events as if it were some idle game of chess. When Richard leaned over him, one finger pointed dagger-like at his heart, he physically shrank.

  “There is no worse traitor, my lord, than a friend. Who slid the nectar of poison into your ears?” The room was silent. To see all those powerful, voluble men in thrall to Gloucester was astonishing. Indicating Morton, he said, “Cosy, the image of you whispering with Bishop Morton, a lover of Lancaster.”

  “Richard, I never betrayed you,” Hastings gasped.

  “No, far worse. You betrayed England. Now let all traitors see what they shall receive for their treason!”

  He shouted the last word – the cue to his supporters. The chamber doors burst open. Dozens of armed men surged in. There was a scuffle. Thomas Stanley was yelling indignantly. Morton groaned as two armed men seized him, sweat drizzling down his face.

  Raphael himself had been directed to seize Fautherer. The doctor of divinity remained passive and expressionless in Raphael’s hands, and his limbs felt skeletal through his robe.

  Even now, Raphael couldn’t shake off the sense-memory of bones through cloth.

  Hastings went quietly at first, limp in their hands. Only when they got him outside and he saw the wooden block – hurriedly dragged into place at Richard’s order – did he begin to fight, and then, when a priest came to hear his confession, to weep.

  Richard was like iron, implacable. Raphael thought he would execute them all, even the bishops, and from their faces they were sure of it too. Instead, he brusquely ordered them to be imprisoned. It was over.

  “Their faces as they were taken away!” said Raphael to Francis Lovell. “The bishops and Lord Stanley, I mean. I never thought I’d see such powerful men reduced to the state of frightened children.”

  “Quite pleasing, to see Richard knock them off their perch,” said Lovell. “Hastings knew the risk he was taking, and he was jealous of Buckingham. Richard was never sure of him.”

  “He’s sure now,” Raphael said dryly. “He doesn’t waste time, does he?”

  “Don’t look so worried. Just learn this lesson: don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

  Raphael frowned. “His anger in the meeting… that wasn’t a performance. He was furious.”

  “And afterwards, as white and shaken as Hastings. He’s strong, Raph, but he’s not made of stone.”

  “What will happen next?”

  Francis shrugged. “As far as everyone knows, the coronation of Edward the Fifth is still due to take place. If only he can persuade the queen to let Richard of York out of sanctuary to attend his brother’s coronation, otherwise the York boy will be a focus for rebellion, and that’s the last thing Richard needs.”

  “The queen must let the boy go,” said Raphael. “There will be sermons, public declarations than Edward and Richard of York are bastards, barred from the throne. The citizens will have no choice but to ask Richard to take the throne instead. Most will be relieved. As for any that oppose him – after today, they won’t dare say a word. Richard will be king.”

  “What?” Lovell exclaimed. “Where did all that come from? Are you a seer?”

  “I don’t know,” Raphael said, startled. “I just know, as if it’s all happened before.”

  ###

  Katherine lay awake long after Raphael fell asleep beside her. He’d described the day’s events in details so vivid she could see, touch and taste them. She shouldn’t be shocked by Richard’s actions. She’d known for years that he was ruthless, and what else could be expected? The heads of his own father and brother had been stuck on spikes on Micklegate Bar for the world to gape at. What other way did he know?

  It wasn’t the beheading that shocked her so much as the fact that Richard had virtually told her, in advance, that he was preparing to do it.

  Did he say t
hat? she thought, struggling to remember. Or am I reading too much into his words, an intention that wasn’t there at the time?

  How does he know about Jane Shore?

  I didn’t tell him. Will Mistress Shore assume I betrayed her, and complain to the Motherlodge? What if Richard finds out I knew and didn’t tell him?

  Kate tried to calm herself.

  She imagined Hastings smugly plotting to disempower Richard. She murmured into the darkness, “If only he’d executed that oily Bishop Morton alongside him, and miserable red-faced Rotherham. Not the done thing to execute priests, indeed.”

  A cry startled her.

  Raphael had woken, and was sitting up, trembling. As she reached for him, she felt cold sweat on his skin. Her touch made him jump. He turned and glared at her, eyes mad, as if he didn’t know who she was.

  Alarmed, she fumbled for the low-burning lamp and turned up the wick. His face was streaked with sweat. His chest glistened, rising and falling.

  “Raph, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she said.

  No answer. His expression contorted suddenly with despair, or disgust. He turned his head away.

  “Raphael!” She spoke sharply, gripping his arm. “Wake up! It’s all right. What was it, a nightmare about the execution? It’s all right, it’s over. Tell me, then it will go away.”

  After long moments, his face cleared and he lay down again. He stared up at the ceiling, both hands on his forehead.

  “No,” he said at last. “Not the execution.”

  “What, then?”

  “It was about a man writing a book.”

  “Writing?” She gave a silent laugh, a reflex. “How was that horrifying enough to make you wake up in a sweat?”

  “Don’t laugh at me!” he said savagely.

  “I’m not laughing. Tell me.”

  He groaned. “I saw a clergyman of some kind, walking up and down in a long room with a row of high windows. It was very clear. Dusty light shining on dark wood and gold. He was describing what happened today, dictating to a clerk. That’s all. The scene was bland, yet it filled me with… indescribable dread. He kept backtracking to embroider what he’d said, making it more and more dramatic to show Richard in the worst possible light. He had Richard accusing all and sundry of witchcraft, of withering his arm and deforming his body, things like that. And each time he described something new, I could see it, until Richard became a monster. It was so real. Hideous. That’s why I cried out.”

  “Oh, love,” Katherine whispered. She pressed close to comfort him, but his body stayed rigid and resistant to her touch.

  “Is this wrong?” Raphael asked softly,

  “What? That we’re lying together and still aren’t married? That makes us no worse than half of London and no better than most of the court.”

  “No,” he said, kissing her temple. “I mean Richard taking the throne.”

  She rose on one elbow to look at him. “Why? Are you having doubts?”

  “No. I love him, but the dreams…”

  “Your dreams are an expression of fear, and that fear comes from too close an adherence to the outer world.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The outer world is black and white and goes in a straight line. It says that Edward the Fourth’s son should follow him, no matter what. But the hidden world goes in spirals and tangents. There is no King Arthur coming to save us, love. We must make do with the best king available to us at the time. That isn’t always the rightful king, but the best appointed king.”

  “Strange,” he said, curling strands of her hair around his fingers. “You never say what I expect you to, Kate, but you’re always right.”

  ###

  The coronation was magnificent, the most glorious England had ever seen.

  As she moved into the cathedral, part of the procession holding Anne’s train, Kate could hardly believe this was real. Later she would write to her mother, telling her everything: the sparkle of jewels, the froth of lace and tissue, the sea of knights, lords and ladies, the floods of cardinals and archbishops. Everything shone, painted with light. Gold and crimson, lush ermines, violet and lapis, emerald and sapphire; the colours blurred and shimmered in her sight. Her heart lifted with awe. Richard was king.

  The King of England was once my lover, she thought, faint with wonder. Now I hold the train of his wife, his Queen, and I love her, and I would not have anything different, but…

  One of the other train-bearers caught her eye; Margaret Beaufort, the noble and immensely rich widow who had married Thomas Stanley. Kate barely knew her except by sight. They had nothing in common; Lady Margaret was of different rank, age, disposition, religion, everything. She was tiny, narrow-faced and intimidating. How Thomas Stanley could have preferred her to Eleanor was beyond comprehension… but no, the allure of her estates explained everything. Kate desired no contact with her, but they were yoked together by Anne’s train and she was examining Kate from beady, perceptive eyes. The look was one of haughty judgement, as if she’d seen Kate dancing naked under the moon. I have your measure, witch.

  Kate looked away, burning. The choir’s voices were like crystal, rising into the lofty vaults above them. Like flocks of birds spun from golden glass, their voices soared. Katherine saw Richard with his eyes closed, caught up in the music. Anne was solemn and dignified, but her face showed strain. Pride, too. She found a frail smile for Kate and her other attendants.

  Kate witnessed the King and Queen stripped to the waist and anointed with holy oil; their heads tipped back, hair falling on their naked shoulders – Anne’s fine red-gold, Richard’s sable – as they made their sacred vows. Then clothed in finery again.

  So Anne’s father, Warwick the Kingmaker, had got what he wanted after all. A royal crown upon his daughter’s head. And one day, a Neville grandson on the throne. They sat together at last upon the throne of England; King Richard III and Anne, his Queen.

  Kate wondered what Edward and his little brother were thinking in their Tower apartments. Were they sad, or bitter, or obliviously playing games? Even relieved. The danger was over; the Woodvilles broken; the House of York restored; Richard safe, his family and his supporters safe; there would be no more war. From where he stood in the ranks of knights, Raphael caught her eye, and they both smiled.

  Katherine looked up at Richard, glorious in velvet and furs upon his throne. He was gazing straight over her head, oblivious to her, so she could stare at him unabashed. He was the centre of the world, darkly shining, enigmatic, compelling. Perhaps she was only seeing an image of her most extreme desire, not reality. Yet for a moment she came close to hating the pale, resigned woman at his side. No, not hating Anne, never that. Only wishing her to vanish.

  The King of England was once my lover, she thought, and wept.

  Chapter Fourteen. 1483: Robin

  He contents the people where he goes best that ever did prince; for many a poor man that hath suffered wrong many days have been relieved and helped by him and his commands in his progress. And in many great cities and towns were great sums of money given him which he hath refused. On my truth, I never liked the conditions of any prince so well as his. God hath sent him to us for the weal of us all.

  Dr Thomas Langton, letter of 1483

  The Duke of Buckingham paused in an antechamber to the king’s apartments to consider his appearance in a mirror. His cheeks were shaved to glassy smoothness, eyebrows plucked into arches that the ex-queen Elizabeth would envy. His hair lay groomed to golden perfection over his shoulders. He thought of this as a Lancastrian look; an ethereal shape gifted by God to signal their moral superiority over the earthly Yorkists.

  Still, he was a Yorkist now. His magnificent clothes of sapphire-blue velvet, all his new servants, his countless lands and titles, he owed to the Yorkist king he’d helped to create. The costly chain he wore was set with white roses, not red.

  “Kingmaker,” he mouthed to his reflection. Raising one eyebrow, he gave himself a long
, satisfied look.

  Buckingham had grown to despise the late king. Edward had given him nothing, no preferment, not even the inheritances stolen from him. He’d pushed the duke out of office and out of court. Edward had made no secret of his dislike, so Buckingham’s resentment had grown extravagant. How he’d loathed that gigantic, coarse-living idiot.

  Richard was his opposite. Richard was spare and dark, thoughtful and discreet. He was strong-willed, and yet amenable to good ideas and common sense. In him, Buckingham found the twin half of his soul.

  He joined Richard in his own dukedom of Gloucester. The king was some way into his royal progress, which would take him on a serpentine route throughout the realm. At Reading and Oxford he bestowed generous honours on his supporters, showing kindness to the widows of traitors he had executed. He wanted to show that his quarrel was only with the men themselves, not with their families.

  Henry Buckingham moved towards the doors of the king’s private chamber. He’d imbibed several glasses of wine, but was not so drunk that anyone would notice. Attendants ushered him in and retired. Richard was alone. Even the ever-present Lovell, Hart and Tyrell were absent. Buckingham liked none of them.

  Richard was dressed in crimson, the doublet cut close to his slim form, with long pointed sleeves lined with green silk. The colour was dramatic, and suited the darkness of his hair and brows. He might not have the height or flamboyance of his brothers, but knew the importance of presenting himself well. Appearance was everything. Yet he had qualities deeper than the trappings of monarchy. Presence, strength and vigour of spirit that shone out of him; and a wounded quality, too, that made him wary of his peers, yet tender towards the downtrodden.

  He is more than a king, Buckingham thought. He is… blasphemous to think it, but he is like a quiet god. And if he is a god, then I am his archangel, ever at his side and armed with swords of flame. Ha.

  The image pleased him. Dark and light. Together, they made a whole.

  “Harry, welcome.” Richard rose from his seat, smiling. The duke knelt and kissed his hand warmly, in mutual acknowledgement that they’d overcome their foes together.