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

by Freda Warrington

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Everything has been weighted against me from the beginning. I did what was needful and I’d do so again. I’ve no regrets. There’s nothing left to bind me to Earth, after all.”

  His tone of resignation alarmed Raphael. “You won’t just give in to Tudor?”

  “Did I say that?” The king gave a thin, wolfish smile. “Win or lose, I’ll give him the battle to end all battles.”

  Raphael’s heart leapt with a flame of excitement. “I’ll be at your side.”

  “You’ve been ill.”

  “No. I’m fully fit, and raging to fight.”

  “Then I’ll argue no more. One thing more; this battle you saw…”

  Raphael described as much as he could, the placing of the troops, the order of battle, only to realise it was all frighteningly vague.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. The vision was so powerful at the time, but when I try to recall details, it falls into confusion.”

  “Well, it’s not been fought yet. What you’ve told me sounds feasible, but I will not delude myself into thinking that I know exactly what will happen. What if I changed strategy because of your prescience, and it was the wrong choice?”

  “That’s what Kate said.” Raphael gazed at Richard, thinking of Kate and Robin. How unfair, to have this knowledge when Richard was oblivious – but he kept his painful promise.

  “I’ll take things as I find them, and make decisions accordingly,” said the king. He made to rise.

  Raphael said quickly, “There’s something more.”

  “Yes?”

  “After all the bad dreams, there was a better one. You left us too soon but you were never, ever forgotten. Plays and unending books will be written about you. Hundreds of years in the future they are still arguing over you, long after other kings are forgotten. And you still have lovers and defenders who never forget you. Even those who are determined to blacken you can never forget you.”

  The dark eyebrows rose, cynically amused. “Truly?”

  “You will die, but become immortal.”

  Richard sat gazing at him, his face contemplative. He was strangely tranquil, considering what Raphael had told him.

  “Which fate is preferable? Violent death followed by immortality, or a long happy descent into obscurity? The first is more fitting to a Plantagenet king.”

  “No. Entirely unique to you.”

  “You’re a strange creature, Sir Raphael. When I found you in the hedge, are you sure you weren’t dropped there from the Faerie realm?”

  ###

  Later, as Raphael walked past the chapel on his way to bed, he glanced in and saw the king there. He was on his knees, praying. Candle flames glinted on statues, on rich decoration of gold and jewels. Around Richard himself candlelight made an aurora, less a halo than an otherwordly glow, like a marsh light, spectral and deathly.

  Chapter Eighteen. 1485: Tudor

  KING RICHARD

  Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds!

  Have mercy, Jesu! – Soft! I did but dream.

  O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!

  The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.

  Richard III Act V scene 3

  Summer lay heavy and motionless on the land.

  Under a thick caul of heat the earth baked and cracked. Cattle tramped the mud of drying streams, tormented by clouds of flies. Leaves curled, crops withered. Shimmering elementals soured the milk. Hounds lay panting in the sticky ochre heat; even graylix were too lethargic to growl at anyone who approached their cages.

  In towns and villages, people were succumbing to a cruel fever that basted them in salt rivers of their own sweat. Some survived, many died. August wrapped the land in a baking, airless shroud of fear.

  In Wales, the air was fresher. Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, was on the march. He had landed at Milford Haven, kissing the wet sand while his priests gave thanks for a safe crossing. The sun was setting, turning the beach to a wet golden mirror as he prayed, while above them in the hills the beacons began to flash the news of his landing.

  Tudor wound his way up the coast road, then inland towards the hills. Dr Fautherer rode with him in Bishop Morton’s train. The chatter of voices around them was mainly French, with some Scottish and now Welsh voices mingling with them. As yet, their force was tiny. Yet Fautherer knew, with his usual dark instinct, that this didn’t matter.

  Richmond was becoming a messiah for the Welsh. He had experienced commanders including the Earls of Oxford and Pembroke. Lady Margaret Beaufort, Henry’s doting parent, had been hard at work raising money and allies in England. Her husband Lord Stanley had pledged his secret support. All of southern England was poised to rise against Richard.

  Most importantly, the hosts of heaven marched with Henry Tudor. Morton had encouraged Tudor to believe this with a passion.

  The little force wound their way between mountains. Above them, great slopes towered, touching the clouds. Mist rolled down over the stones. The landscape was immense, grey stroked with green. Against it, the giant red dragon snapping above their heads was garish, as threatening as fire.

  Fautherer took in everything with a clear cold eye. The grandeur, and the rabble of mercenaries that disturbed it. Past the mountains they crossed a wild land of hills, the Welsh marches, the border with England. Through these lands, once ruled by the Duke of Buckingham and now controlled by the Stanleys, Henry Tudor passed unopposed.

  When news of the sweating sickness reached them, Fautherer saw Tudor’s face lengthen with anxiety. He must learn to hide that vulnerable streak, Fautherer thought. Henry was young, however, and learning fast. The expression was gone in an instant, replaced by inscrutable heavy-eyed calm.

  “We have nothing to fear,” said Bishop Morton. He swatted a fly away with a fat hand. Beside the road, petitmorts were feasting on a dead sheep.

  “Indeed not, your Grace?” Richmond said in a thin voice.

  “England is sick, your Majesty,” said Morton. Their king-in-waiting planned to adopt a loftier address than that afforded to mere dukes and archbishops, to elevate him from mere grace to majesty. His followers flattered him with it, bolstering both his ambitions and their own. “Ailing in body and in spirit. God’s anger lies on the land.”

  “Yes, of course.” Richmond nodded. Fautherer and all those around him murmured keen assent.

  “The cause of the sickness is King Richard, the Hog.”

  “Do not call him king, I pray you. Hog by all means, but never king.”

  “Certainly not for much longer,” said Morton, unperturbed by his own slip of the tongue. “Once we’ve cut out the canker, and placed the true king on the throne, God will be pleased, and the land will heal.”

  “Amen,” said Tudor. Then, thoughtfully, “I am already king. If Richard opposes me, he commits treason.”

  Dr Fautherer smirked. He approved of such twisted logic.

  ###

  Richard was in Nottingham, and had been there since June. Raphael was with him, feeling much older, sadder and wiser; but no longer tormented. It had been a pleasant summer, with nobles freely enjoying the king’s hospitality, and hunting and hawking in Sherwood. Pleasant, but for the unceasing preparations for war.

  Henry Tudor was expected to invade at any time. Ever efficient and self-disciplined, the king sent out his orders: his officers to muster all able-bodied men, every knight, squire and gentleman to answer the call to arms. Nobles were strictly enjoined to set aside their own quarrels and aid the king. Sometimes the tone of the commands held icy threats. England bred so many traitors that he trusted almost no one. Many in the Midlands still revered those whom Richard had executed – Hastings, Buckingham, Grey – and resented him for it. And yet, thought Raphael, no one ever seemed grateful for clemency. He wondered if Richard’s trouble was not that he had been too harsh, but too merciful.

  In London, Robert Brackenbury commanded a large force to protect the Tower. Lord
Stanley went to muster the men of the north-west, Lovell to superintend the naval defence of the south coast. From Nottingham, the heart of the kingdom, Richard could keep an eye on all quarters, and gather men quickly. He made his preparations, and waited.

  Raphael knew that Richard both loved and hated Nottingham. He felt the same. There was a soothing majesty in the great salt-white castle. But Raphael could never come here without thinking of Kate. How they’d raced their horses through the forest, so happy… only to return the king and queen’s terrible anguish at their son’s death.

  The king and a handful of his friends were hawking. Raphael and Will Shaw had charge of the hawks and for a time forgot everything in the pleasure of admiring the sleek birds, in flight across the sweltering blue sky. Raphael missed Kate, but found he could bear it.

  He had no visions now. Eleanor had purged him. Kate had returned to her mother. Lady Bess was out of harm’s way in Sheriff Hutton Castle. Plans were in motion for Richard to marry a Portuguese princess, though he’d shown only resigned indifference to the prospect.

  He seemed more eager for Tudor’s invasion than another marriage. In none of Raphael’s visions had he ever seen Richard with a new queen. Only alone and betrayed.

  Raphael kept thinking of Kate: that she’d deceived him for years. Never told him she had a natural son. Worse, never admitted that she and Richard were once lovers. He forgave her, yet he could not think of her without seeing her in Richard’s embrace…

  Their intimacy seemed a form of sacrilege. As if she’d intruded on territory that Raphael had believed to be his alone. Not of the physical plane, but of intimacy and secrets.

  He felt sad their paths had divided, but his future lay with Richard, and always had, to the bitter end. It was easier to forgive Richard. As the priests said, men blundered into sin; but women led them there, knowingly.

  When he looked at the king, however, he never pictured Kate, or Anne, or anyone else beside him. Richard had always seemed a creature alone, like a hawk against the sky. Since Anne had died he had worn only black. Fine clothes of damask and sable fur, midnight velvets sewn with jet, embroidered with silk thread and dark oily pearls, but always black.

  Richard’s presence was as real and vivid as that of any sleek-feathered bird of prey; all warmth and energy, with the familiar smile and tilt of his head as he spoke. He was alive and vigorous, the most charismatic person Raphael had ever known. Alive now… but the grains of sand were falling, and Raphael had seen the bleak shape of the future.

  A messenger came riding into the glade, sweating nearly as hard as his blowing bay horse. He threw himself onto his knees at the king’s feet and gasped his message.

  “Your Grace, I’m sent from the constable of Pembroke. Henry Tudor’s landed in Wales. He’s marching towards England.”

  The king lifted his head. There was no anger in his face, rather a look of relief. His eyes were intent and narrow. All he said was, “Good.”

  ###

  Above Redemore Plain the sky darkened. It glowed violet, bluest violet, smudged with bars of cloud. On the humped back of Ambion Hill the encampment slept, waiting; the wind dropped and banners hung as ragged and as blue as the night. Silence rolled in.

  Outside was the chirrup of frogs and toads, the owl’s haunting cry. In the king’s tent a lamp burned, pallid as the gaunt face that reflected it. The king had talked to Raphael for hours, spilling anguished secrets that pierced Raphael to the core, for there was not a sliver of self-pity in them.

  In their preparations for battle, Raphael had only seen Richard lose his temper once, when messengers came to him with the news that Tudor had entered Shrewsbury unopposed. Then he had raged in a low savage voice that made everyone around him quail. He rarely showed such passion, but it was there deep inside, a slow-burning energy that drove him. With the same leaden resolve, he’d ordered the arrest of Lord Strange, Thomas Stanley’s son. A hostage, to ensure the cooperation of a man who could not be trusted.

  The battle was hours away but Richard could not sleep. He talked instead, holding Raphael in thrall.

  “Have I been so bad a king? There is a shadow in me, a great and dreadful shadow that would blot out the entire world if it were left unchecked. And this has not been stamped on me by enemies. They’ve glimpsed it, and that’s why they fear me. But the shadow was born with me, and awoke when I was a child… Let me tell you about the waking of the shadow.”

  Raphael had never known him talk so much, nor so freely. He spoke of the hidden world, of an encounter with a sorceress and a witch-child who had terrified him and set him fleeing down the unlit paths of his life. Raphael wished the night would not end. Beyond it was no future, only a portcullis slamming down – for himself as well as for Richard.

  “For all I’ve done, for all I am, and for all the sins of my family, I am punished,” the king said softly, looking out into the night. “I’ve spun a web of soot and barbs. And now, the final act.”

  Around them, fate gathered, filled the heavens and began slowly to spin about them. The camp was waking, Raphael could hear the clatter of hammers on steel and men’s tired, grumbling voices. The night was almost over. His last night with the king. There was nothing more to say. Richard rested his hand on Raphael’s shoulder and they stood wordless, watching two figures toiling up the hill toward them.

  One was a woman.

  “Oh, God,” Raphael breathed. “Your Grace… It’s Kate.”

  ###

  Katherine looked up and saw light spilling from King Richard’s pavilion. The sky glowed behind the hump of the ridge. All around her the camp spread out, fires glowing, the shadows of tents and horses mingling with the dregs of night. With her hand firmly through Robin’s arm – he was too old for hand-holding – she stopped. The pavilion with its banners and undulating walls looked unassailable. She couldn’t imagine entering. Couldn’t contemplate standing in front of the king and telling him… Her tension ebbed into disappointment. She realised she was going to walk away, dissolving back into the twilight.

  “Mama…?” Robin’s tone was soft and questioning as she pulled at his elbow.

  “Lady Katherine?”

  One of Richard’s squires was in front of her: Geoffrey, whom she’d met in Nottingham when the king’s son died. “My lady, why are you here? This is no place for you.”

  “Would you ask Francis Lovell if the king will see me?” Her voice was steady. “It’s important.”

  Geoffrey frowned, but didn’t argue. With a slight bow, he turned. “Of course, my lady. I’ll escort you there and bring an answer as quickly as I may.”

  Robin snatched his arm out of her grasp. He wanted to appear a man, not a child. She understood. He was, after all, very nearly grown. At his age, Anne Neville had been married, Margaret Beaufort the mother of an infant Henry. Kate’s palms felt like slippery ice. They climbed, and stood waiting outside the cloth-of-gold walls. Three minutes stretched to feel like an hour.

  Her son looked at her with dark, suspicious eyes. “Are we really going to see the king?”

  “I don’t know, Robin. He may be too busy.”

  On the journey from Derbyshire he’d been trusting and excited, so thrilled to be travelling with his mother that he hadn’t questioned her at first. They were a good twenty minutes into the journey before he asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to meet your father.”

  “Why?” He asked the question with a weight of meaning behind it. Why now? Why at all? With what intention? He had a right to know, but she couldn’t answer. There were no words in her dry mouth.

  He’d accepted her silence for a good five minutes. Then, more insistently, he tried again.

  “Who is he? You said his name was Plantagenet. So someone royal, close to the king?”

  Had he not worked it out? Or was he trying to force her to admit it?

  “I’m afraid you’d not believe me,” she said. “I can best tell you by showing you. You must have looked
at yourself in a mirror?”

  He bristled. “I’m not a girl.”

  “So you don’t know what you look like?” she said sardonically.

  “Well… of course I do. I’ve seen my face in water, or in passing in Lady Eleanor’s chamber.”

  She smiled. “That will do the trick. I guarantee, then, that when you see your father, you will know.”

  “I don’t know why you must be so mysterious,” he said. He feigned impatience, but excitement lit his eyes. Kate, though, felt no joy. The last thing she wanted was for Robin to be disappointed.

  Now, standing cold in the encampment and dreading Richard’s rejection, she wished she were anywhere but here.

  Robin whispered, “My father is in the king’s service, then?” He still hadn’t guessed. To him, the obvious was not obvious, since it was clearly impossible. “A cousin, a royal duke?”

  As he spoke, Geoffrey came out, followed by another man; not Francis Lovell, but Raphael. He looked tired, his expression grim. They regarded each other like strangers. His lips twitched, more grimace than smile, as if her presence was unwelcome but inevitable.

  “Kate, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know, but I am.”

  “He’ll see you. But he’s tired; he’s hardly slept, and we’re arming before dawn. He shouldn’t be burdened with more troubles tonight.”

  She felt a touch of anger. Raphael had been with the king all night, and yet resented her taking ten minutes of his time?

  “According to your predictions, I shall have no other chance to burden him.”

  Raphael lowered his eyes. He seemed a different person. Without comment he held open the wide flap of the pavilion for her, and she went in.

  ###

  While Kate spoke to the king, Raphael walked among the tents like an exile, breathing the ripe scents of horses, leather, smoke. The clatter of preparation grew. He’d felt a touch of anger and worry that Kate had come, but it faded. He was the one who’d tried to persuade her to tell the king about Robin. Richard had a right to meet his son, if only once. Nothing seemed quite real. He felt that he walked in a vision, where two mirrored worlds overlapped.