“There will be no announcement,” Richard said at last. “I’ll write only to Buckingham; he’ll keep the news close and secret. It may even please him.” He exhaled. “At there is dignity in silence, and perhaps the benefit of the doubt. Raphael, you’re frowning at me.”
“Not at you, sire. At those who would refuse to believe your word. How can they be so perverse?”
“You can’t believe they’d dare to think ill of me? That’s touching, but you can’t be so innocent.” King Richard met Raphael’s eyes. His gaze seemed to fall from a high, chill place, not of Earth. “I have often cursed their existence. Alive, they were a focus of unrest; dead, they are still a focus of unrest. I cannot win. Will their deaths make my reign easier, or infinitely harder? I wonder.”
Raphael’s head swam with sudden disorientation. He felt that this had all happened before. He’d gone through this same wretched scene a dozen times, each time slightly different, but as terrible. The room echoed with phantoms.
“We are all agreed, then?” Richard said, quiet and stern. “Once we leave this room, we never speak of this again.”
###
York was a sweet illusion, with its pageants and banners and celebrations. Richard was adored there. He always trod easily in the city, as if chains had lifted from him. His young son, Edward of Middleham, shone on the cathedral steps, glorious in robes made from the rich materials that Raphael and James Tyrell had brought from London. He stood bewildered and happy between his proud parents, bearing all their hopes: the new Prince of Wales.
Not for him the destiny of his cousins, fading to skin and bone in the Tower.
Raphael’s heart shrivelled. Not for him that fate – as long as Richard was secure on the throne. Nothing was certain. The wheel of fortune lifted men up and cast them down.
After their visit to York, the queen returned to Middleham with her son, taking Kate and her other ladies with her. Raphael was lonely then, but relieved. He couldn’t tell Kate about the princes’ deaths. Something had turned dark inside him. It was all he could do to look her in the eyes, let alone tell her the truth.
Richard, meanwhile, continued on his royal progress. True to his word, he did not speak of his nephews again. He was self-controlled, calm, even cheerful, as if nothing had happened. But there was a shadow upon him. Sometimes Raphael could physically see it.
In Lincoln, where the breeze blew the tang of the sea across the wide, bleak fens, devastating news arrived. It was everything Richard and his supporters had been dreading. Richard’s face blanched with anger – as stark as the stone walls of the inn where they lodged – as he received the urgent messages sent by his loyal friend, John Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
Treason. A large number of knights and gentlemen – former servants of Edward IV, disaffected with Richard – had formed an unnatural alliance with the Woodvilles and the pretender, Henry Tudor. Uprisings were planned across the kingdom.
“Buckingham?” said Richard. His voice became a hoarse whisper. “The Duke of Buckingham is involved in this?”
The messenger, haggard and nervous, nodded. “It is so, sire. Buckingham himself wrote the letter to Henry Tudor. They’ve invited Tudor to invade the kingdom, to deliver it – pardon me, sire, these are not my words – to deliver it from tyranny. To claim the throne, on condition that Tudor takes an oath, as agreed between his mother Lady Beaufort and Elizabeth Woodville, to marry King Edward’s eldest daughter…”
“Over my dead body will he marry her,” Richard interrupted. “But Harry Buckingham?”
“The story goes about, as my lord of Norfolk has gleaned, that when the duke heard of the deaths of the two princes, he repented with many salt tears that he had ever supported you.”
“He’s a bloody liar!” Richard shouted. His voice rang off the walls. The messenger jumped. “The last time I saw Harry there was no hint…” He stopped in thought for a moment, then gave an ice-cold grin. “I gave him a gift… Oh God. The Earl of Warwick’s sword.”
“This is Morton’s doing,” said Ratcliffe.
“More fool me, for taking Harry’s honeyed friendship at face value. For imagining he was strong enough to resist Morton’s wiles.”
Raphael saw his eyes turn silver with misery. He’d never seen Richard look so alone, and so silently furious and impenetrable.
“Margaret Beaufort, who ingratiated herself with Anne and myself deeply enough to carry my wife’s train at our coronation, repays me by entering a devilish pact with Dame Grey. Beaufort’s precious son! He’s a penniless fugitive, a nobody descended from two lines of bastards. By what reasoning does he claim the throne of England?”
Lovell looked sideways at Raphael. His face was as grim at the king’s.
“No doubt Buckingham is egging him on in hopes of claiming the throne for himself.”
“Yes, Buckingham,” Richard said acidly. Betrayal was the one thing he could not endure. Raphael saw the thorn go deep into him. “He who swore the utmost devotion of his entire being to me. Tell me, what is the worth of his loyalty?”
Richard turned away and began to dictate the first of many letters to his secretary; only to seize the letter and finish it himself, in a savage untidy hand, the pen a tiny dagger spilling black blood.
###
Katherine helped to peel Anne out of her robes. Underneath, her skin was pale and cold, marked by the indentations of seams. She’d lost weight, Kate realised, noticing suddenly how thin she was. Although the chamber was baking in the roar of a stoked fire, Anne was shivering.
“Oh, Kate, it never feels real to wear those garments. Not real at all to be called queen. I feel like a cookmaid dressed up.”
She smiled. The effect, on a face that was bloodless and smudged brown with exhaustion around the eyes, was ghastly.
“Your father wouldn’t like to hear you say so.” Kate wrapped Anne in a thick fleece-lined mantle and sat her down near the fire.
“My father got what he wanted, a daughter upon the throne, even though it was not as he planned.” Anne’s voice had a bitter edge Kate had never heard before.
“My lady, you’re not well.”
“A little fever, that’s all. Ah, I would keep Edward at my side forever if I could. My son, Prince of Wales. Why are men so eager to be king, when it brings nothing but anguish? Must he go through years of trouble, such as Richard endures constantly?”
Kate paused in combing her hair. “What trouble?”
Anne unfolded a letter and held it flat, so that Kate could read it as Anne related the contents. “An uprising, by the man we thought his dearest ally: the Duke of Buckingham!”
Kate stared at the letter in disbelief. Rebellions were fermenting all over the country, an unbelievable coalition between Buckingham, the Woodvilles and Henry Tudor. Richard wrote in such despair that she could almost hear black laughter in his tone.
“I never trusted Harry Stafford,” Anne said quietly. “He came from nowhere, promising Richard the world.”
“I didn’t think much of him,” said Kate. “Too fond of his own looks. Barely spoke a word to me. He was full of himself, and resentful of everything and everyone else. But he did seem devoted to Richard.”
“Richard gave him all he asked for, which was far more than he deserved.”
“Then why’s he doing this? Has he gone mad?”
“I doubt it.” Anne ran her pallid fingers over Richard’s scrawled, angry handwriting. “I think that the moment he saw Richard crowned, Harry was jealous of him. He thought being Kingmaker would be enough; but when it came to the point, it wasn’t. My father was the same. Harry has a slight claim to the throne; better than Tudor’s, whose ancestors’ marriages are in such doubt. However, they both forget that the throne is already occupied.”
“Then why ally himself with Henry Tudor?” Kate was outraged. She couldn’t understand why Anne was so calm, then realised from her next words that she was not calm at all.
“Because Harry Buckingham’s no better than a whore.” The letter’
s wax seal snapped in two between Anne’s fingers. “He will lie with anyone he thinks might give him the power he covets. I know our Creator meant us to turn the other cheek, and to accept everything that befalls us as His will; but I have a confession. I hate Buckingham, and I’m afraid.”
Kate was suddenly full of energy. What she must do was plain, and there was no time to argue. “My lady, will you give me leave to go to York?”
Anne was silent so long that Kate was sure she would refuse. Eventually she said, “You are fortunate indeed, being free to come and go as you please. I almost envy you.”
###
York was a city of spectres. Warm, golden October had been swallowed by damp mists. The buildings were dark with dew, dripping with the condensed breath of fog elementals, brooding. Kate trod the streets as if walking the bottom of deep gullies, small as a mouse. High grey walls towered around her. Window slits peered down from crenellated heights. The cathedral floated above the rooftops, yet she felt blessedly invisible. Even the Church could not object to her mission, since it was to aid the King of England.
Katherine had summoned as many sisters as she could to the York Motherlodge. Any sister of Auset could do this when the need was great enough; but it was the first time Kate had exercised the right herself. The responsibility made her apprehensive. Suddenly she had power, and wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Entering the sanctum, she was startled to see how many sisters had come. There were women of every rank; wives of barons and of merchants, their serving women, a great many nuns, and ladies she’d never expected to see at the lodge. Remarkable, since she’d told no one the purpose of the gathering. Pleasure warmed her. As Mother Marl said, she thought, I have much to learn.
Eleanor was there, and greeted Kate warmly. Power thrummed in the air, even before they began their working.
“Since you called the circle, you are Mater Superior for the ritual,” said Eleanor, kissing her cheek. “What do you intend?”
“I’ll explain once the circle is cast.” Kate swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
Patiently she attended the women as they threw off their cloaks and shoes and unbound their hair. Here they were all equal. She greeted them all with a kiss and the blessing of Auset; then she anointed each one in turn with oil: their feet with a crescent moon, their foreheads with a solar disc.
The women formed a circle three deep, with Kate in the centre. She called down the blessing of the goddess, summoned the elementals of wind and fog, of water and earth, of fire and stone, to weave spheres of protection about the chamber. The women responded eagerly, chanting the summonses, their voices low and eerie like those of monks. The atmosphere bristled. Incense billowed around them. Kate lifted her face to the heavens, her hair flowing down her back, feeling her own voice vibrate through her body, strong and clear.
For the first time in her life, she felt like a true priestess.
When the circle was cast, Kate paused, and looked round at their intent faces. Plain, comely, young, old, rich or poor; all looked radiant.
“Our beloved King Richard, best appointed and approved by the sisterhood of Auset, is threatened by many enemies,” she said. “I’ve asked you here to summon the powers of the Serpent Mother, to aid Richard and confound his foes. By the love of Auset I adjure you to help me. You are bound to the temple and cannot turn back. Let us rouse the wrath of Auset from the depths!”
The women looked nervously at each other. What they were about to do was strictly forbidden in the outer world. Yet no one quailed. The air burned with excitement and they were wholly with her.
In the centre of the sanctum stood a large stone bowl of brine, containing the black eel sacred to Auset. Its long thick body circled the bowl. Kate looked down at its hideous upturned face, its gaping jaws filled with rows of razor teeth. Legend told that it had been drawn from the depths of the ocean, as wondrous as the horns of unicorns that sailors brought from far-off lands. It glared at her, and she felt a thrill of fear.
“I want you to envisage that which we desire. As you tread the circle to raise the power of Auset, keep the intent in your mind, as if it has already come to pass. Richard’s enemies confounded. The king safe. As we will, so must it be!”
Kate began the chant and the women joined in. They began a slow dance, bare feet slapping on the flagstones. The chill air grew clammy with their heat. The drumbeat of feet and voices sank them deep into trance. Kate saw energy coming from them like a scarlet mist, made from millions of tiny flames, each an elemental born of their inner fire.
In the bowl, the eel rose from the bottom and began to circle, faster and faster.
Kate lowered her voice and let them speak on without her. The chant was unstoppable, like low rhythmic thunder. She raised her hands, holding in the right an athame, a ritual knife with a twisted snake for a hilt. She pressed the blade to her left wrist and let her blood dribble into the water.
The serpent thrashed madly. The water boiled. Even through the droning chant, she heard soft gasps.
The first woman she called into the centre, beckoning her with a blood-streaked hand, was Eleanor. Kate let a little of her mother’s blood into the bowl, sent her back and called the next.
Faster and faster the water whirled in the bowl. The serpent opened its jaws wide to sift the blood from the brine. Kate focused all her attention upon the water until it became the world. The cauldron was the land, the spiralling vortex of water the sky, the eel the raging power of Auset. She gathered all the throbbing, frantic energy of her sisters into a single spear of intent with her hands and her whole being, and hurled the blazing spear of Auset’s rage into the heart of the Earth.
###
The signs began gently, ominously. A thread of icy wind lifted off the marshes of Kent, sighed down the flanks of the Welsh mountains, ruffled the grey waves of the Channel. Soldiers looked up and shivered. Clouds began to congest the sky, purple and storm-swollen. All turned black, and the wind rose.
Gales swept through towns and villages, tearing roofs to tatters, sweeping masses of leaves from the trees like a lethal hail of arrows. Rain dropped in a relentless, iron-heavy curtains. Roads turned to streams, meadows to quagmires. Streams branched and joined into single vast sheets of water. Rivers rose like the mounded backs of turtles, filled the fields, swept bridges away.
In the West Country, rebel soldiers closed their eyes against the savage wind, turned their backs and gave up. In Wales, Harry Buckingham urged his soaked and wretched troops onwards to cross the river Severn before it was too late. Henry Tudor’s fleet defied the storms in the Channel, only to be tossed back by the peaks and chasms of a raging sea. The sky drenched their tiny ships with its thundering displeasure. And since the Creator favoured their cause, it could only be the Devil who sent this deluge.
In castles, manors and cottages all across the kingdom, people sat close to their hearths, starting at each slamming door or moan of wind. Outside, in the storm, they could hear elementals rioting, demons flapping their leathery wings; all the denizens of the otherworld emerging to claim the night.
The cauldron of blood and water whirled. Boundaries dissolved. Hidden and outer worlds became one. Rising, the Dark Mother unleashed long-suppressed passion; the ice of her breath and the downpour of her tears. In the flickering storm, she danced.
As Buckingham’s hopes of crossing the Severn leeched away into the swelling mud-brown plain of water, so his troops melted back into the Welsh hills, disheartened and grumbling. Rain was all it took to dissolve their faint commitment to a lord they’d never loved.
The worst storm in living memory held the land hostage for days, sucked the rebellion into its brown floods and swept it away.
###
Harry Buckingham looked out through a small window at the Forest of Dean. Massed trees were all he could see. Great trunks like pillars, branches still thick with leaves in defiance of autumn gales. Russet and bronze were the trees, still green in places. Leaves lay in wet layer
s on the grass. He could taste the season in the air; woodsmoke and decay.
His greatest pride, his buttery hair, hung in waxy strings. He was alone; deserted, frightened, hiding in this cottage like a toad beneath a stone. His protector was one of his own tenants. He’d never seen eye to eye with the man but was forced to trust him. He chewed at his lip, bitter with humiliation.
It had seemed a bold and faultless scheme, the purging of all his frustration. Bishop Morton, when Buckingham had finally broken down and confessed his confused feelings towards Richard, could not have been kinder. Harry remembered his shining, smiling face, the gentle shake of his head, the plump hands lifting him up. Absolution; that was what Morton had given him. Then hours of kindly concern, showing him the way to salvation. And – for Harry now hated Richard as violently as he had once loved him – a means to exorcise the demon.
Morton’s conviction that Richard was of the Devil’s party, while his protege Henry Tudor was divinely marked for kingship, was a firm, practical blend of religious conviction and worldly ambition. Harry appreciated his view, but didn’t share it. His main concern was to punish Richard. To do so without losing everything; that was the trick. To take the risk and gain everything.
What a fool he’d been, ever to think it was possible.
He should have realised that no one would support his own claim to the throne; but those silver-tongued ambassadors, Morton and Margaret Beaufort and the skull-faced whispering Fautherer, had promised him the world if he threw himself in with Richmond’s divine cause. How easily they had seduced him.
Buckingham had always been a Lancastrian at heart. He was only returning to his true self, he told himself, to the Lancastrians’ austere piety and fire, to the cause of a king who would be Henry the Fifth reincarnate: not Tudor, but himself. Anyone could make a mistake, and fall. He’d made an appalling mistake in supporting Richard, but he would atone for it by unseating the usurper. Yes, God would raise him up again and forgive him. Rebellion was the right choice, God’s will, so he had felt.
Until the storm from hell struck.
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 37