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

by Freda Warrington

  Buckingham sat staring into the forest. His mouth was dust and his right knee bounced under his elbow with a violent tremor. All those he’d planned to fight for – Richmond, Morton, even the Woodvilles – were gone from his mind like phantoms. All he could think about was Richard.

  Such was the great, turning wheel of fortune. One moment, hand-in-glove with a king. The next, a fugitive among peasants.

  Buckingham pushed his hands through his unwashed hair.

  “Creator, why was I such a fool!” he said aloud.

  A shadow, seen from the corner of his eye, made him start. Richard was in the corner of the room, magnificent in black, like an executioner. He looked tranquil with his hands folded and his dark hair falling about him, an angel of judgement.

  The perfect lips moved. “Why, Harry?”

  Buckingham fell to his knees. “Richard, please. Forgive me. I meant none of it. It was all a misunderstanding. Please. I love you.”

  “Too late.”

  “No.” He looked up. There was no one there. He was pleading with shadows and cobwebs.

  Rushing to the window again, he saw movement between the trees. Soldiers in silver, red and blue. King Richard’s livery. He leapt up in panic but there was no escape; they were all around the cottage.

  For the delicious reward of one thousand pounds, his tenant had betrayed him.

  ###

  Salisbury. A plain under a grey and black sky, a circle of tall solid stones that had stood since times unknown. Here they brought Buckingham to be executed.

  He’d caught a single glimpse of Richard before they cast him into his prison. From a distance, Harry saw him entering the town with a grim but victorious retinue. The king was aloof upon a pure white horse; unreachable.

  “I must see him.” Buckingham was imperious with his gaolers, confident at first. When they only sneered, he grew angry. “The king will see me. We were friends. Ask him for the sake of the deep love we bore each other, that he graciously grant me an audience. Tell him – tell him it was all a misunderstanding, I am no traitor!”

  They went away to ask. Buckingham sat in the straw, chewing at loose skin on his thumbnail until it bled. All day they had heaped foul news like ordure upon his head. His estates had been confiscated. Bishop Morton had vanished. His tenant had handed him over to the king for a disgustingly large reward. Tudor had fled back to Brittany. The rebellion was an utter failure.

  All of this news was nothing against Buckingham’s terror of his own fate.

  Richard would come. He would stand there dark and majestic, lift him up and forgive him. There would be angry words, but he would soften. Buckingham knew he had a gentler nature than most gave him credit for. They would embrace, reconcile… and if not…

  Buckingham felt the shape of the hunting knife concealed in his sleeve. His mind was a blur. He didn’t know what he wanted, except that it must be extreme. Richard must love him: if not, he must die.

  A key rattled, and his door swung open. Buckingham shot to his feet. A man came in between the gaolers; not Richard but his coarse, unsmiling henchman, Ratcliffe.

  “He won’t see you.”

  Buckingham fell apart. He pleaded, yelled, abased himself. Ratcliffe was unmoved.

  “Tomorrow you die as a traitor,” Ratcliffe said quietly. “Your fair golden head will fall into the dust, like that of any common rebel. The king has nothing to say to you.”

  Buckingham’s legs gave way. He fell into the straw, giggling, not caring that Ratcliffe stared down in disgust.

  “I won, then. Read the bitter hurt in those words – that he refuses to see me. I cut him to the core.”

  ###

  Katherine trod the long corridors of the palace of Westminster, walking very fast, head up, with all the dignity she could muster. She was in her finest gown of dark blue, black and silver, completed by a hennin of indigo tissue scattered with silver stars. The king had summoned her.

  The gallery thronged with petitioners: lords and commoners who were there to plead their cases, seeking reward or pardon for their part in the rebellion. She eased her way between them, trying to ignore their stares. There were murmurs as Raphael appeared to escort her to the throne room. He looked wondrous in brand new court livery. They exchanged a tentative smile.

  Richard was in counsel with other nobles, and kept her waiting in an antechamber until her feet ached and her mouth was parched with thirst. Raphael seemed tense, and hardly said a word. He was preoccupied, very much on the king’s official business.

  “Do you know why he wants to see me?” she asked.

  His eyes were hollow and wary. “That is between him and you, my lady.”

  “Raph, are you all right? Anyone would think the king had lost, not won, from your expression.”

  A smile ghosted across his face. “I must talk to you, Kate. But not now.”

  The doors to the audience chamber opened. Between two rows of heralds, to Kate’s absolute amazement, Elizabeth Woodville came striding out. In pale green and silver, with a tall confection of gossamer on her head, she seemed immense. She was an elf-queen. Everyone fell out of her way, Kate included.

  In her wake trotted a number of fair daughters. The eldest, Elizabeth of York, known as Bess, gave Kate a glance and a sly, conspiratorial smile.

  “Elizabeth Woodville has emerged from sanctuary?” Kate exclaimed. “I thought she was part of the conspiracy!”

  “Hush!” said Raphael, though she had whispered. “She is pardoned, on condition of her future good behaviour and loyalty. Creator knows, she made things awkward for the king, cowering in hiding as if he was some tyrant threatening her life. Thank goodness he’s coaxed her out, at last.”

  “How did he manage it?”

  “Her conspiracies failed. She has nowhere else to go.”

  “Richard must have been very persuasive.”

  “She emerged in return for public guarantees of her safety, and that of her daughters.”

  “And what of her sons?” Kate frowned. Raphael looked away, his face taut, eyes black. “Raphael? Do you know what…?”

  “Don’t ask, Kate, and especially do not mention it to him. Go in.”

  When Kate entered the chamber, Richard was alone but for a handful of attendants who stayed by the doors.

  “Katherine, my lady,” he said. He looked down at her from the throne, like a king of the underworld in layers of crimson, gold thread and ermine. The throne itself resembled some fantastical gateway, carved of ebony in a design that soared and branched like trees of the faerie realm. Against the dark hair his face was shell-pale, with lines inscribed about his eyes and mouth. He looked drawn, fierce, soulless. Kate tried not to fidget, deeply uneasy under his scrutiny.

  “You asked for me, your Grace?”

  The king rose from the throne and stepped down from the dais. He beckoned her, a ruby shining on the third finger. “In private, if it please you,” he said.

  He led her into a small private chamber behind the throne. Dismissing a servant who was waiting there, he leaned on the table, and glared at her.

  “Sire?” The word dried in her mouth.

  “How dare you?” His voice was low but full of anger.

  Her eyes widened. “How dare I – what?”

  “I know,” he said. “I know what you did to aid my victory against Buckingham and the other traitors.”

  “What I… did?” A pulse began to beat in her throat.

  “Sorcery. Unnatural weather stirred by a coven of sorceresses, involving blood sacrifice and who knows what pacts with unholy powers.”

  She realised her mouth was open, and closed it.

  “There were a lot of people there, I understand,” Richard went on. “Some were too elated by their success to keep their counsel. Rumours always reach my ears eventually. No doubt they were sworn to secrecy; but as I know all too well, you can never trust everyone. Is it true? You’re slow to deny it.”

  She drew a long breath. “I could tell you it�
�s a scurrilous rumour, concocted by jealous enemies.”

  “Is it?”

  “No. I’ll tell you the truth, but I will not give you names.”

  “I’m not asking for names, Kate,” he said thinly. “The general truth will suffice.”

  “Well, then. Yes, we performed a working to aid you. I rather thought you might be grateful.”

  Richard drew himself up. His tone was mild but his face was wintry. “Did I ask you for any such help?”

  “No, sire.”

  “You know full well it’s against the laws of the Church to practise sorcery. How dare you think to aid me by witchcraft? I am not Edward. I did not ask for this unholy help.”

  She felt her heartbeat through every part of her; throat, arms, feet. “We prefer the term ‘influence’. I did nothing unholy, sire. The Dark Mother is powerful, but sacred. Not evil. We sought to help you.”

  He walked a few paces, turned to glower at her. “I need no help from sorcery,” he said. “If my Creator is not on my side, then let me lose! I want no assistance from his Adversary.”

  “The Motherlodge worked for you!” she cried. “We have no dealings with Satan, we don’t recognise Satan; he is part of your theology, not ours. Ours is an older faith, as old as the bones of the earth, before your devils were even thought of!”

  “I won’t stand here arguing theology with you.” Richard was all ice. She’d seen him like this when he had executed traitors. “I asked for no help from your sisterhood. I’ll win my battles by the strength of my own arm, if heaven wills it. Not by sorcery. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  She touched her tongue to her front teeth and tried to remember she was Eleanor’s heir, and therefore Richard’s equal; but that was a flimsy illusion. No one in the outer world would recognise her as such, least of all the king.

  “Sire, we acted to help you. Yes, we did so without your command or approval. To be plain, I didn’t ask your approval because I knew you wouldn’t give it. A little secret influence: that’s all I intended. If I’ve offended you, I apologise. No one is to blame but me, and I plead guilty, but only out of love for you. Nothing devilish or evil was involved. Only our love of Auset, whom you revere in her guise as Mary.”

  “That was perilously close to blasphemy,” he said, very low. “Can’t you get any closer?”

  “Without a doubt,” Kate said thinly. “Are you going to cut off my head?”

  “If you were a man, I might be tempted.”

  “Or perhaps you will parade me through the streets of London as a penance.”

  Richard exhaled. “If you are referring to my treatment of Jane Shore, you’re hardly helping your own cause. I know she was a member of your Motherlodge, Kate. You could have told me that yourself, but you chose not to.”

  “I had no choice,” she said, indignant. “We take an oath of secrecy. You, of all people, should know that such an oath is binding. I wanted to tell you, but couldn’t.”

  “Then your loyalty to your sisters does you credit.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “It’s no mystery, Kate. I had her followed. Since you appear to be entirely undiscriminating about who you let into your Motherlodge, don’t be surprised if they are not all trustworthy.” The anger left his voice at last. “I didn’t make her do penance for sorcery. I was punishing her for all she represented. Her part in the corruption of Edward and his court. I set out to shame her. A dishonourable action on my part, I know, but I was angry.”

  “A lesson not to act in anger?” Kate looked levelly into his eyes.

  “You might say so. The crowd adored her. I only punished myself.”

  “I take it I won’t be let off so lightly, then.”

  “Kate, for God’s sake. I’m not proposing to punish you. This is a warning. I appreciate your goodwill, but please understand that my enemies will seize upon anything to discredit me. If they can connect me with witchcraft or devil-worship, they will. I have troubles enough already.”

  “I see that. I’m saddened me that our Motherlodge is still viewed in those terms.”

  “I can’t change that.”

  “So this is political?”

  “Yes, but also personal. My enemies would love to reveal my faith as hypocrisy. I cannot be seen to seek the aid of the Motherlodge.”

  “Then please accept my sincere apologies.”

  He was standing close to her now. She caught the scent of new-made fabrics warmed by his body, scented with spice of cedarwood. “Kate, I’m thinking of your safety as well. You are allowed to exist, as long as you do not practise… influence. If you’re caught, it will be the excuse the Church needs to put pressure upon Parliament to change the law.”

  She said nothing.

  “I know you meant well. But this must never happen again. Never.”

  His demeanour was formal; he considered the matter at an end. Kate, still seething, could not look at him.

  “You trust me,” she said. “You have always been able to trust me, and you know it.”

  “Yes. Do as I ask, and nothing more will be said.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your Grace,” she said tightly, and curtseyed.

  He held open the door for her; a strangely intimate gesture, considering the river of polite distance that flowed between them. The gulf had never seemed wider. As imperious as Elizabeth Woodville before her, Kate raised her chin and strode away.

  ###

  Nottingham Castle was a great square white structure, seated on a massive plug of rock above a sea of trees. The perpetual groan of water-wheels echoed, drawing water step by step into its heights. Beyond, Sherwood Forest rustled with the fresh green of April, rich with game and haunted by pagan gods: Robin and Marian. Long gone, yet still present and watchful.

  Released from duty for a few hours, Kate and Raphael raced their horses through the forest, laughing and dodging branches. Birds fluttered squawking out of their path. How magical to be out of London, away from court. She breathed sweet, fresh air and felt ecstatic. It would have been easy not to turn back, to urge Querida onwards and flee. Away from service and duty, to be herself again. Tempting.

  There was a time of relative peace following Buckingham’s execution, but Richard was never still. He travelled constantly about the kingdom, working tirelessly as if driven to prove he’d earned kingship. He was generous to the pardoned rebels; he made hundreds of laws to help the poor; he began to win abiding love, but never enough to make him secure. Two blond ghosts haunted him.

  There in the forest, as she and Raphael lay together in a green bower, he told her at last about the princes. He trembled as he spoke, his head against her shoulder.

  “So Richard did not kill them,” she said at last. “I never believed he had.”

  “But he blames himself. In his own mind, he is guilty.”

  “Then that is for his conscience, but in public, the truth should be told.”

  “But don’t you see, love? The truth would not make any difference. If people are determined to believe the worst, they will. Rumours take on a life of their own, like elementals. The hardest thing is to watch him tormenting himself over it.”

  “He doesn’t look tormented to me,” Kate said shortly. She had hardened towards Richard since he’d rejected her help. She understood why he’d done so, respected his point of view; but her devotion to him now was distant and formal. Her heart could not forgive him.

  “You don’t see him all the time.”

  She leaned up on one elbow and stroked his cheek. “Raph, must you take on all his troubles? You’re like a mirror. You can’t take his pain away by suffering for him.”

  “But I can’t help it!” His fervency startled her. “Kate…”

  “What is it?”

  Raphael frowned. He seemed upset, hostile.

  “I can’t help if you won’t tell me,” she said, but he only looked away. They seemed to be quarrelling without anythi
ng being said. When he didn’t reply, she exclaimed, “Richard is like a shadow between us! He’s always there. We’re never free of him.”

  “He’s the king! He is my master. If you don’t like it…” He jumped up and stomped towards his horse.

  “Raphael.” She sighed, following him.

  After a few minutes of riding in silence, Raphael said, “I’m sorry.”

  They exchanged a rueful glance. His face relaxed.

  “Race you,” said Kate.

  As they approached the castle, Raphael let out a grunt, as if he’d been struck. Kate saw leaves whirling across the vault of the sky. Leaves, although it was not autumn? Birds then; or little smoky elementals, crying distress.

  In the courtyard there was a strange, subdued chaos with messengers arriving and leaving, officials rushing about with bleak faces. Kate saw Francis Lovell and flung herself out of the saddle in front of him, her mare almost knocking him down.

  “What’s happening? Not another uprising?”

  Regaining his balance, Francis took a moment to focus upon her. His kind face was grey, his eyes red. “No. It’s the king and queen. Their son is dead.”

  ###

  Anne was asleep at last. Kate emerged into the chill fresh air and looked up at the sky. The faintest wash of dawn was absorbing the stars. No hope of sleep now. All night she and the other ladies-in-waiting had kept vigil with the queen, holding her through terrible bouts of trembling and hoarse cries that were as much of physical pain as grief; fits that faded at last into glass-eyed, waxen shock.

  The king had not been present. Kate hadn’t seen him. Perhaps they couldn’t bear each other’s grief. She didn’t blame them.

  The other women also slept now, exhausted. Kate was wide awake. She looked up at the salt-white walls rising all around her, ran her gaze along the battlements to the high, square tower on the north-west corner. A pang of anxiety went through her. She remembered how he had always haunted the battlements at Middleham.

  Approaching the tower, she saw a couple of Richard’s esquires just inside the door: Geoffrey and Marmaduke. They looked grim. Behind them, light glimmered through the half-open door of the guard chamber.

  “Have you seen the king?” she asked.