“Your wife has not yet joined you upon your progress? I trust her Grace is well?” Buckingham spoke disingenuously. He didn’t actually care.
“She remained in London to rest for a few days. She’ll join us later. By the way, I’ve a present for you…” The king took an object from a sideboard and balanced across his palms. A sword in a scabbard. “It belonged to my father-in-law.”
He meant the Earl of Warwick, who’d stirred such love and such hatred. Harry breathed out in awe. How uncannily appropriate this was, as if he and Richard shared the same thoughts. It was a gorgeous object, the leather scabbard like polished wood and set with jewels, the black bronze hilt sporting a ruby the size of a walnut.
“Have you not given me enough?” Buckingham received the sword with grace. He drew the blade an inch or two: the metal was as lovely as silver. “You can’t part with this.”
“A gift lightly parted with is not much of a gift. Here, I’ll place it on the table for you to take when you leave.”
“Thank you,” Harry said softly, and kissed Richard’s cheek. The present was astonishing, and made him feel oddly restless. There was something ominous in it, reminding him that no gift of Richard’s was ever quite enough to content him. I’m like a graylix, Harry thought, disturbed. The more I eat, the hungrier I feel.
“Sit down.” Richard waved him to a chair and poured claret into goblets of purple Roman glass. “It’s good to see you.”
“I hear the royal progress is, ah, progressing wonderfully.”
“Yes.” Richard smiled. “To my surprise.”
“Why are you surprised?”
“I’m not the king they were expecting.”
“A better one by far,” Buckingham said fervently. Their glasses chimed. He drank deeply. “Don’t be surprised, Richard. Your reputation is known, your appearance and retinue as magnificent as befits your station. People are much taken with your generosity and charm.”
“Harry, please. I don’t want to see my last meal again.”
“I’m stating facts. You’re a grown man, not an untried child. The acclaim with which they greet you is a measure of their relief and trust. They love you.”
Richard sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, twisting the stem of the goblet between his fingers. “Apparently. Which is gratifying. Some, but not everyone.”
“They’re not worth your attention.”
“A plot to release my nephews from the Tower, thwarted. Another plot hatched by Elizabeth Woodville to spirit her daughters abroad, so that if anything befell the boys, she might marry the eldest to some foreign prince who’d aid her in claiming the throne. Certain factions will not desist until they are in the grave. I have to give this some attention, at least.”
“None of her children has any claim! Bastards, all!”
Richard sighed. “The trouble is, few believe it, especially in London. They think that the story of Edward’s first betrothal was concocted. My enemies were bound to say I invented it. Or, knowing Edward, they might well believe it, but still think it would have been good manners to ignore.”
“How are the former conspirators behaving themselves?”
“Fangs drawn. I pardoned them quickly to reassure the rest of the nobility that the danger was past. Rotherham is contrite and doing his duty assiduously. Thomas Stanley made his peace with me – swore it was all been a misunderstanding and he’d be the most dutiful of subjects from now on.”
Buckingham gave a sharp grin. “It must have been pleasant to see fear on his pompous face.”
“It was,” Richard said softly.
“Do you trust him?”
“Not as far as I could throw him in full armour. But he values his survival. For as long as he’s afraid of me, he’ll make a good workhorse.”
“Wise Richard.”
The king gave a twisted half grin. “I’m not sure I’ve done anything wise in my life. Only expedient. How is our friend the bishop?”
He meant Morton, who was now in Buckingham’s custody in Wales. Harry shrugged. “A docile prisoner. Guest, rather. He thinks of himself as my guest and I treat him as one. It’s more civilized that way.”
“Contrite?”
“I doubt it.”
“No. That’s why I gave him to you. He’s not one to be cowed into submission and he’d give up breathing before he gave up plotting. Let’s keep him harm’s way.”
Buckingham looked at his master and felt the same pang again, stronger now. Desire, envy. Richard was as elegant as a panther, with an edge of self-deprecation that made him irresistible.
Harry thought of his own achievements. He’d spoken eloquently on Richard’s behalf, persuaded Parliament to accept his claim, presented their petition to Richard that he take the crown, and presided over the coronation. Richard had showered him with rewards. He, Buckingham, had risen from nowhere to become the most powerful man – second most powerful man – in the kingdom. And yet…
Nothing was ever enough. The moment he saw Richard crowned and anointed, acid began to gnaw his heart. A series of gauzy imaginings had passed through his mind. He saw himself at Richard’s side in place of Anne, both with their heads thrown back as holy oil sheened their chests. Their sable and blond hair streaming, set on fire by light from the high cathedral windows…
He wanted to be Richard’s equal; to rule with him, to press close to him, to pass inside and through him… to be him. Impossible. There could be only one king.
“You’re frowning,” Richard said after a few seconds. “Is something wrong?”
Buckingham’s hand shook. He took another gulp of wine. He’d had enough now to make him pleasantly dizzy and unguarded. “One or two unfinished matters.”
“Have I left anything out? Neglected some estate, title or office that you desire?”
Harry sat poised on the edge of his chair. “You’ve given me far more than I asked or deserved. Never think that I am ungrateful. No, I was only musing… Do you love your wife?”
Richard looked sideways at him. “What a strange question. Yes, I do.”
“Come on, I know there’s no passion between you.”
“She has often been ill.” The words fell coldly.
“I wish to God mine had. Creator knows, you were lucky to choose your wife and not have some great Woodville heifer thrust upon you, some lumbering milkmaid with a better moustache than her father.”
The king laughed out loud. “That’s a frightening image, Harry.”
“It was not meant to be funny.”
“Catherine’s not so bad. She’s nearly as fair as her sister.”
“And nearly as much a bitch, but without the charm!”
“Calm down.” Richard spoke kindly, still laughing. His very kindness made Harry more furious. “You were one more victim of the Woodvilles’ greed, but it’s over now; you have your revenge. You may have grounds for annulment, if the Pope will sanction it. If you’ve a new wife in mind…”
Harry shook his head impatiently. “No, no. I would prefer no wife at all, but I wouldn’t cause such pain to my children. They love her, even if I can’t. I have a daughter. You have a son. We spoke some time ago and agreed it would be a fair idea if they were to be married…”
And then one day I will be father to the queen, just as Warwick was, though he never knew it. And like Warwick, it’s the closest I’ll ever get.
Looking up, he saw a withdrawn look in Richard’s eyes and his heart tumbled in disbelief.
“Well,” said Richard, and paused. “Nothing was agreed. I may have said I would consider it, that’s all. Harry, dear friend, I understand, and if I have a second son, I’ll give him to your daughter gladly. But Edward is Prince of Wales now. I’ll almost certainly have to make a foreign marriage for him. It’s politics, that’s all. You appreciate that.”
Buckingham expected to feel rage and instead felt an odd hollowness, hope falling away.
“I believe this is the first time you have refused me anything.”
>
“Then forgive me for refusing you in just this one thing.” The steel eyes regarded him with measured warmth. “I’ve tried to express my appreciation of your support in words, in rewards, but I know nothing is adequate. So the greater part of my gratitude goes unspoken; but never doubt that it’s there.”
Harry leaned back in his seat. His thoughts whirled.
“Well, the truth is…”
“What?”
Even half-drunk, Buckingham realised he was about to say too much. The truth is that I don’t care for my daughter’s status, except in as far as it enhances mine. I want it for myself, not for her.
This single refusal of favour made him feel desperately insecure. He must claw back what he’d lost, bind Richard eternally to himself. The facts sobered him. All the power I have is through Richard alone, and I must remain the archangel at his right hand, or lose everything.
“The truth is I’m not concerned for myself,” said Harry. “I’m more concerned about these plots you mention.” His voice fell. “The princes…”
“What of them?”
“As long as the princes, the ex-princes, live, the Woodvilles will never stop plotting rebellion.”
Richard couldn’t know, but Harry was parroting the words of Bishop Morton. Buckingham and Morton had spent several evenings conversing by the fire, as he and Richard were doing now. Although Harry had been reluctant to spend time with the enemy, he found something compelling in Morton’s plump, clever face. He was worldly and funny. Harry found him fascinating. Guessing what Morton might say next was a game.
During a late-night conversation, the bishop had uttered the last thing Harry would have expected. It was said in confidence; not a remark for public consumption, but the plain truth.
“You know that as long as Prince Edward and his brother live, the Woodvilles will never cease plotting to place the boy on the throne. No wise king would let them live. And if Richard falls, so will you.”
“They are a problem,” Richard said.
“Which will only grow worse as they grown older.”
“I could certainly wish them not to exist.” Richard stared into the fire. “But since they do, there’s nothing to do but keep them close and powerless.”
“Nothing?”
Harry leaned forward and placed his hand on Richard’s knee. Richard gazed back. Dark understanding passed between them.
“I cannot arrange their murder, if that’s what you mean. They are children.”
Harry sneered. “They’re almost men. If Edward considers himself old enough to be crowned, then he’s old enough to swallow the fate of all deposed kings.”
“Choose your words carefully, my friend.” Perhaps Richard’s smile was meant to soften his words, but only made him look more menacing. “You seem to be suggesting that I deposed him, rather than being offered the throne by right.”
“No, no.” Buckingham sat back, flustered. “My words were badly chosen. I am thinking of your security, your well-being.”
“I’m not sure their deaths would aid my security. I must think of something to do with them that will not have their supporters forever rallying armies against me and soaking the land with blood for another thirty years.”
In a quick movement Harry knelt in front of the king, hands clasping his arm, pleading. “Kill them. It’s the only way. If we are to go on ruling…”
His breath dried his throat. Richard sat so still under his hands that he might have been dead. Eventually he tilted his head to look down at Buckingham. His eyes glittered under the lashes. His lips parted.
“Take your hands from me.”
Harry jerked back as if struck by lightning. The king’s face and demeanour were granite. Buckingham slumped on his knees, unable to shape a single clear thought.
“We? Did you say we?”
“A slip of the tongue.”
“Really? Do not tell me what to do, Harry. I have no feelings for them. My nephews are only a reminder of the harm my brother’s lust for a Lancastrian widow wrought upon this family – but I cannot kill them.”
“Alive, they’re too dangerous.”
“And dead, they’re a source of opprobrium, fuel to the fire of any chancer – such as that posturing Tudor son of Margaret Beaufort – who thinks he has some tenuous claim to the throne. But the throne is fully tenanted.”
“I know.” Buckingham hung his head. His eloquence and composure deserted him. He burned with confusion and Richard had done this to him, Richard alone.
“For God’s sake, get up. Are you drunk?” the king said mildly. He obeyed. Richard uttered a soul-deep sigh. “Harry, both boys are ill. I dare let no one see them. They’re kept in the finest apartments, with the best doctor in London to attend them; but I don’t know what will happen. Half of me wishes they would die, but the better half of me dreads it. If they do, I’ll never sleep a quiet night again.”
“Oh, God,” whispered Buckingham. Richard looked so haggard that he felt sick. “But my dear lord; they would be better gone.”
“And so, my lord, would you. Never speak to me of this again.”
Buckingham’s confusion resolved into clarity. Love and hate were a breath apart. The image of Richard shifted in a heartbeat; a dear friend, a figure of power, an object of desire. Object of envy. Obstacle. This was the closest Buckingham would ever going to come to him. He could not love him physically, nor cling so close they became one fused being, a god-king. Richard was always going to be there, but separate, standing between him and fulfilment: a wall.
That was all Richard was now. A maddening, untouchable basalt wall. Buckingham wished he truly were an archangel, with eyes of flame to burn the king he’d created to ash.
Perhaps this was how Warwick had felt, when he turned against Edward.
Richard was oblivious. For that, Harry hated him more. The king tapped his fingers to his lips, hands in the prayer position. When he looked up, his face was calm, his eyes bleak and formal.
“Harry, we must still work together. This was an unfortunate misunderstanding. We’ll forget this conversation ever took place, and no more shall be said.”
“As you wish.” Buckingham bowed, equally formal. “If I spoke out of turn, pardon me.”
“Don’t let me keep you from your lodgings. I’m tired. I’ll write to you at Breccon.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Don’t forget the sword.”
“Of course.” Buckingham swallowed. Receiving the beautiful weapon was bitter-sweet, but he took it anyway. Their hands brushed. “Thank you.”
“Don’t let us be at odds,” Richard added gently. “I have need of you.”
If only you did, Buckingham thought, as he slipped away to be alone with his misery. If only you did.
###
Each time Katherine visited her mother, the landscape of Lytton Dale still amazed her. Limestone escarpments swept up to the sky, their crags softened by dappled light. She saw the familiar peak of Bride Cloud, the sheep meadows and woodlands of home. Vapour rose from the waterfall at Old Mag Heads. All was poignantly familiar and yet strange, for she hadn’t been home for so long.
Trapped in London until Anne was ready to leave, Kate had longed to join the king’s procession. She envied Raphael, always in the thick of affairs.
The reception that the king and queen received amazed her. It grew more ecstatic the farther north they went. Kate found it hard to reconcile the swirling treachery of London with this respect for Richard.
As they travelled towards York, Kate felt an itch of obligation and longing. She asked leave of Anne to visit her mother and had ridden here with Ursula and Nan and a handful of men in royal livery, to startle Eleanor with their finery. The tireless Spanish mare, Querida, Richard’s gift, had carried her all the way. The whole village had turned out to see them arrive.
“Such a shock,” Eleanor said later, when they were alone in the solar. “Richard of Gloucester taking the throne! Such a great change.”
&
nbsp; Katherine knew her mother had a certain fondness for King Edward. His death had deeply upset her.
“For the better?”
“I don’t know, dear. I know he’s well-loved in the north. I won’t forget the way he protected us on the day of our ceremony in York. And I am heartily glad it’s not his brother George.”
“It’s as if everything was leading to this,” Kate said thoughtfully,
“Will he come here on his royal progress?” asked Eleanor; tongue in cheek.
Kate laughed. “He can’t call at every tiny manor! You’re talking of the king.”
“I’ve dealt with kings before,” Eleanor retorted.
“Yes, I know, but he and Anne – sorry, I mean Queen Anne – can’t wait to reach Middleham to see their son.”
Eleanor looked steadily at her, and Kate realised her question had been serious after all.
“That’s why I wondered if he might come here. Not to honour me.”
Kate said nothing. She pressed her lips together. Her throat hurt.
“You still haven’t told him?” asked her mother.
“No. I decided I never would. You know that.”
“Not even now?”
“Now would be the worst time of all! It would look as if I expect money, compensation, or advantage. I can’t. The humiliation of being paid off would insult to my dignity.”
Eleanor nodded, with the hint of a solemn smile. “A determined woman with a cool head.”
“In some ways, I am your daughter. In others, I’m a rag-bag of confusion.”
A floorboard creaked. A boy stood in the doorway, awkwardly twisting a cap between his hands; a slim lad in rough linens, a battered leather jerkin and long boots. The smell of horses rose from him. Kate started. Her mouth dropped in amazement at how tall he’d grown.
“My ladies,” he said, bowing to Eleanor and Kate in turn. “You sent for me?”
He was soft-spoken, with a long, pale, gentle face and thick dark hair to his shoulders. Thirteen years old now. He was the image of his father; no one who saw them both would have a moment’s doubt. Every time Katherine saw him – too rarely – the resemblance took her breath away.
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 34