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

by Freda Warrington

  Henry’s face drained to yellow. Even Bishop Morton paled.

  “What are we to do?”

  “We must flee to France,” said Morton. “France will aid us.”

  “Horses are already waiting,” said Fautherer. “Thank God we were warned in time.”

  ###

  “It’s foolish gossip,” said Katherine, straightening sheets and scattering drops of rose oil to freshen the air. Anne was a ghost against the pillow. Even her hair seemed spectral, a veil of reddish silk.

  “All because Bess and I wore similar gowns at Christmas.” The queen’s voice was weak, torn with coughing. “It seems so long ago now. I gave her that gown! She had nothing new to wear, and it was such beautiful material and so much left over; how could I not show her that kindness? Yet all they can construe from it is that Bess seeks to replace me!”

  They were in Westminster Palace, where Anne said she never felt at ease. Kate glanced at Anne’s other ladies, who were scattered about the chamber. Kate still felt an outsider among them. They were perhaps envious of Anne’s trust in her, although they were quick enough to run to her when they needed help.

  Kate tried to ignore their political jostling, but Ursula took a keen interest and reported every murmur back to her.

  A fragile hush lay on the room. Nan sat intently sewing. She couldn’t bear Anne’s illness and tried to keep busy at every moment, but Ursula was ever watchful. If anyone spoke, it was in the faintest whisper, as if the slightest sound might make Anne’s soul flee. Kate’s voice sounded loud to her own ears.

  “I’d like to know who brings these stories to you,” she said, pressing a cool cloth to Anne’s forehead. “You are meant to be resting.”

  “I don’t know,” said Anne. “I hear people talking outside my door. The tales seep in to me. Nothing stays secret in this place.” She drew a rattling breath and clutched Kate’s arm. “I don’t want to be sealed away from the truth. You say it’s gossip, but what if it’s true?”

  Kate stiffened. Martha had had a saying: You can only embroider upon cloth, not upon thin air.

  “Your husband is the one to answer that, not me.”

  The feverish eyes darkened. “But he would say what I wished to hear.”

  “You never used to distrust him.”

  “No. No, I never did. Everything feels different now. My physicians have told him not to come to me in case he should catch my sickness; and when he does, he looks at me so helplessly, as if he has no idea what to do.”

  “He is a man. Of course he has no idea,” said Kate. Anne gave a skull-like smile.

  “Richard should marry again,” she said. Her jaw trembled. “But not her. Not her.”

  Anne had not recovered from her son’s death, and never would. She succumbed to one malady after another, behind them all a single rolling cloud of illness that was slowly consuming her. Katherine had laboured for months to cure her. She had argued with physicians, plied Anne with every healing herb she knew and cleansed her chambers of the smoky spirits that fed upon the dying. She’d loosed all her arrows, and still the queen faded. There was nothing left in her armoury but palliatives to ease Anne’s distress.

  Richard, king for less than two years, was besieged by ill-fortune. Spring was here, yet Kate felt her whole world had closed down to this dim stale chamber and the struggle to preserve Anne’s life. She’d hardly had a moment to spare for Raphael. She had failed with Isabel, and hadn’t been there for poor Edward of Middleham. If Anne died, too…

  Anne let out a sigh. Her eyes closed. She was asleep. Kate let her rest, watching her chest rise and fall narrowly, like a child’s.

  As the queen slept, something dark came into the room and stood there.

  Kate rose. Her heart was thudding, yet no one else in the room seemed to notice. They seemed far away as if behind glass. She couldn’t see the presence clearly, but she could feel it. The cloud of malevolence settled in a corner and watched.

  How could she drive it out, without alarming Anne? Her hand crept to her serpent pendant. She clutched the warm metal and called silently for the protection of friendly spirits. Faint green ripples moved the air. The candle flames danced, and the watcher turned its attention to her, as if to say, I know what you are doing and I’m not afraid.

  After a time, very slowly, it vanished.

  Anne’s eyes flew open. “What are they saying?” she gasped.

  “My lady? You’ve been asleep. You’re dreaming.”

  “Are they tolling that bell for me?”

  “There is no bell.”

  Kate tried gently to push her down, but Anne rose under her hands with terrible, bony strength. “They’re saying that I’m already dead!” she cried.

  Somehow she struggled out of bed, got past Kate, and ran in her bed-gown through her apartments and beyond, out into the marble corridors of Westminster Palace. Shocked, her ladies-in-waiting gave chase, calling out after her. No one could catch her. Kate was tantalisingly close as Anne rushed, as sure-footed as a deer, down the curving steps into the main gallery. Not close enough. Anne’s sleeve slipped through her fingers.

  Richard was there, with a group of nobles, beneath the array of tall leaded windows. Kate stopped. The king looked up to see his wife flying barefoot towards him, her hair unbound. Startled, the other men parted to let her through. Kate saw astonishment on the faces of William Catesby and Thomas Stanley. Catesby was distressed, Stanley disapproving yet amused.

  Richard stood frozen as his wife ran to him and clawed at the pleats of his doublet with luminous, sparrow-thin hands.

  “Would you wish me to my grave early, putting it about that I am already dead? There’s no need for your physicians to pour poison down my throat! I’m hastening to be with my Edward. How fast would you have me go? Don’t toll the bells for me yet.”

  She put her hands over her ears. Richard stared at her with stark horror. For an instant, he caught Kate’s eye: she looked back, dumb. Then his hands rose to grasp Anne’s wrists and push them away.

  “No one,” he said hoarsely, “no one has put it about that you are dead, Anne. No bells are tolling. Who has told you this?”

  “Someone.” She pulled away from him, her hands flying up in a helpless gesture. “Someone who longs for my death. I thought I’d made my peace with you, for being barren, a burden to you. I want no more of this world; the sooner I’m called to join our son, the better.”

  “Anne,” he said, “you’re not a burden. I have never said that to you.”

  “I know what I am,” she whispered.

  “Please. Go back to bed. I’ll come to you.”

  “No. Don’t come.”

  He lifted a wary hand towards her, but she turned away and walked to Kate with her head high, all fragile dignity, as if she trod on coals. Kate stood ready to wrap her in a robe that Nan had brought.

  Leading Anne away, she glanced back at Richard and saw him rooted there with the same despairing expression. His eyes were silver with tears.

  ###

  Anne slept, fading. Kate sat in an adjoining chamber, watching Ursula comb Nan’s hair as they made ready for bed. Ursula combed with gentle thoroughness until Nan’s hair was sleek.

  Kate sighed. “Do you two ever wish you weren’t in service? Always at the beck and call of others?”

  Two faces turned to her in astonishment, glowing in the candlelight. Nan’s eyes were wide with surprise, Ursula’s dark and sharp. “Why, Lady Kate?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you like a life of your own? To be free to marry, to order your own affairs? I feel guilty. I don’t wish to compel you to stay.”

  Ursula looked at Kate with a kind of pity. She smiled and frowned at the same time, shaking her head. “Madam, we’re with you by choice. We love you. You can’t question our devotion, surely?”

  “No, no, of course not. I’m sorry. But if you met a young man…”

  Ursula went on with her combing. She and Nan smiled at each other, and Kate saw something in the
look she’d never seen before. They shared a life of which she knew nothing. She envied their closeness, felt foolishly arrogant for thinking their world revolved entirely around her.

  “Everything we want is here,” said Ursula, and kissed Nan’s head.

  ###

  Raphael knew the queen’s illness was serious. He’d barely seen Kate for weeks, and understood. When she came to him one night, seeking comfort, he felt more sad than happy to see her. She looked exhausted. Drooping, she sat by the fireside in his small chamber and told him about Anne’s outburst.

  Raphael wanted to comfort her, but her tale made him angry.

  “These are bitter rumours about the king,” he said. “Are they so pernicious that even his wife believes them?”

  “She has nightmares,” said Kate. “It’s the fever.”

  “But what provoked such a nightmare?”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  Raphael bit his lip. “Yes,” he said. “But I can’t say what causes mine, so how can I know what provoked hers?”

  Kate’s brilliant gaze held his. “We love the king, and yet some outside force is trying to persuade us to hate him. Murder, poison…”

  “Why? Are his enemies practising sorcery upon us?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps they are.”

  “I would have thought you’d have the answer, priestess of the hidden world.”

  “I’d have thought you would, since you’re the one who weaves sinister dreams about him!” She rose with her hands on her hips. “Raphael, why are you angry with me?”

  He shook his head, ashamed. “I’m not. Forgive me. I’m angry with his enemies, and with whatever cruel fate has brought him such misfortune.”

  He took Kate in his arms, held her against him and breathed in the spicy fragrance of her hair. It was too long since they’d been together. Sometimes he was close to cursing the king and queen for taking up their whole lives, giving them no time to be lovers, let alone man and wife.

  “Are you crying?” Kate asked gently. “You are. What for?”

  “For the queen. Richard never shows it but he’s been distraught, ever since his son died and Anne fell ill.”

  He felt Kate’s tension. She took a short breath and asked, “Do you think seeks comfort from his niece?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  Raphael made a sharp sound of annoyance. “If he has, who could blame him?”

  He felt Kate shudder.

  “You know something.” Her words were an accusation.

  “No,” he said. “He has always been fond of Bess. I’ve seen and heard no more than you. It’s only court gossip. Why are you so troubled?”

  “Because it hurts Anne! And if it’s true, it will destroy her!” She pushed herself away from him. “He has better friends than Bess of York. Still, I know he’s often in her company, and with the full approval of her mother. Elizabeth Woodville – Dame Grey, I mean – would do anything to make her daughter queen. Anything. One moment she’s trying to destroy Richard, the next pushing her daughter at him!”

  “Richard wouldn’t marry his own niece. What would be the point? She was declared a bastard, along with her brothers. What do you think?”

  “That you’re being naive,” said Kate. “I suspect that beautiful Bess is infatuated with him, and he’s lonely and flattered by her interest, thus giving his enemies more poisoned darts to hurl at him.”

  She was shaking. Raphael held her again, trying to soothe her. He kissed her neck. “Let’s not talk about them anymore,” he murmured.

  Kate responded with a hunger that startled him.

  Later, as they lay sated, a dream overtook him. He hadn’t suffered such a dream for weeks. Why did it have to happen during this one, snatched night with Kate?

  He’d fallen asleep pressed against her, his arm over the warm valley of her waist. The next he knew, he was floating, disembodied, in darkness.

  He was in the Tower of London. The air was heavy and black, with a hint of bed hangings sketched upon it. Nothing was clear but for two young faces shining like those of cherubs against the dark. Looming over them was a threatening shape, hunched and terrible. An executioner.

  The shape turned, and it was Richard.

  His chiselled face was serene, lit by an inviting, conspiratorial smile. A long dagger glinted moon-cold in his hand. With the same calm, malevolent joy he lifted first the older boy, then the younger, and in turn slit their throats.

  Their faces contorted with bewilderment. Their mouths moved in mute pain, like drowning puppies. Blood gushed everywhere. Crimson flooded over their sheets, spraying Richard from head to foot so that he stood dripping with gore. Hands and face and dagger were blood-soaked. There was no other colour in the scene; only black, white, red. And through the red veil, Richard was still smiling.

  Raphael heaved himself out of sleep and lay gasping like a salmon dragged from a weir.

  He opened his eyes to find a woman lying beside him, her face inches from his and her eyes wide open. In his confusion he had no idea who she was. He thought a succubus lay with him, instilling nightmares so she could feed upon his terror.

  He scrabbled away from her, fell off the bed and knelt on the stone floor, staring at her, out of his mind. She rose up, her face white and ghastly. Her black hair writhed over her shoulders.

  “Raphael?” she said. Her voice was high with fear. “What’s wrong?”

  Her concern seemed malevolent, mocking. So she was the one who’d been feeding him the horrible visions all along.

  “Get out,” he growled, and crossed himself. “In Iesu’s name, begone!”

  “Raph, it’s me, Kate. Wake up!”

  She fumbled to light a lamp. Bronze light chased out the shadows and the woman gazed at him, pushing her hair back behind one shoulder. Suddenly the dream let go of him and he knew her again.

  Cold sweat sheeted over his body and he began to tremble. “Oh, Lamb’s blood,” he gasped. “God help me.”

  “You frightened me,” she said. “Get back under the covers.”

  “I’m sorry. It was so real.”

  She passed him a goblet of watered wine. The liquid was balm to his dry tongue. “Raphael, you’re ice-cold. What dream this time?”

  He could hardly get the words out. The nightmare clung to him. Every time he recalled the images, it was as if he was still there.

  Eventually Kate said shakily, “You don’t think this really happened, do you? You told me that you saw the princes…”

  “Yes. Dead of a fever, and their attendants in a flurry of panic.”

  “Then he didn’t kill them. He can’t have done. He was in York at the time.”

  “I know!” Raphael cried savagely. “That’s not the point! I know full well he didn’t murder them, but something is trying to make me believe he did! In any case, he wouldn’t have done it by his own hand. The visions are symbolic, I know that, but they won’t stop. And they’ll keep on until I go mad! What does it mean?”

  She touched his shoulder. He shook her off. Suddenly he couldn’t bear her there, witnessing his distress, his weakness. How could she understand?

  “Raph, it’s all right. I’m here.”

  “It’s not all right,” he said softly. “Kate, you’d better go. The queen needs you.”

  “She has other ladies. I can’t leave you like this.”

  “It’s best I’m on my own. Please don’t argue. Leave me.”

  Her face now was wary, hurt, withdrawing. “If you want, but…”

  He couldn’t find any tenderness for her; she seemed a stranger. Savagely he snapped,

  “For God’s sake, go!”

  At that she slipped into her clothes and left, quick and wide-eyed, without a word.

  ###

  In the days that followed, Anne was calm. Against the royal physicians’ advice, Richard came to see her, but the visits were difficult. Kate observed that he never kn
ew what to say and almost feared to touch her. Repelled, she surmised, less by the illness itself than by Anne’s eerie serenity. It was as if they’d disengaged from each other and were polite cousins again.

  No, not always. Sometimes, although they said nothing, the ease of familiarity softened their demeanour, and Kate sensed that volumes passed between them without words.

  Then, with the subtlest change, Richard was obsidian again. Anne was already gone from him, and he knew. She’d been slipping away since the moment of her son’s death. Now it was plain that her husband had no claim upon her emotions, no relevance to her future.

  This must torment Richard, Kate was sure. It frightened her, too.

  One evening Anne was talkative, even cheerful. Kate dared to ask, “You don’t truly believe Richard wanted to hasten your death, do you?”

  “I believed so for a time, I was out of my mind and the Devil is an opportunist. It must sicken my husband to see me lingering like this. If part of him wants it over, I can’t blame him for that. But no, he has been my trusted companion, always.”

  “He loves you,” said Kate.

  Anne smiled. “You’re sentimental, just like Isabel. Our father Warwick said that women shouldn’t read, since it would only fill our heads with stories of courtly love that bring nothing but disappointment and unhappiness. He was right in wanting to protect us. Still, we couldn’t help hearing the minstrels’ songs… Isabel was the romantic one. She was determined to believe Clarence better than he was, and to adore him for it. I was lucky, I listened to my father and followed the hard path of duty. No high-born woman expects romantic love, Kate, but I have been lucky. I married a man who was my loving cousin and dearest friend. We shared our faith. We had a dear son. I couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Nor could he.”

  “Oh, he could. A wife like Elizabeth Woodville, fertile and as strong as a horse.”

  “Is that all kings want?” Kate said softly, frowning. “Land and power and heirs. It sounds so cold, heartless. I suppose they would not be kings otherwise.”

  “Richard isn’t heartless. He is human. He wanted a birthright for our son, whom I shall see again in heaven very soon. Isabel and our father too; they’re waiting for me. Kate, don’t look so sad; it’s the sweetest knowledge. I need nothing else.”