The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (26 page)

“Bastards!”

“What on earth are you doing?”

She dropped to her knees, scooping the black chunks of rock into a single stack. “I’m sorry. Great Mother, I’m so sorry.”

“Kate?”

“Help me find all the pieces. We can put her back together. Iesu’s blood, this makes me so angry. They think, with prayers and bit of metal, they can destroy us?”

Raphael knelt beside her and helped.

“Was this a…”

“A Hollow, yes.” Calmer now, she became still, scenting the air until she perceived the sullen echoes of elementals. Swift spirits of the river rose from the bubbling water to chill the air. Those of the earth clawed upwards beneath her feet, blind and gnome-like. Cracks in the rock became vague, craggy faces. “It still is, or could be.”

She stacked three pieces of the statue on the battered remains of the altar: belly, chest and head. It would take mortar to reattach the arms and legs. Yet the bulbous, primitive figure still had presence. She had no candles, no incense, no offerings. Tears ran down her face and she wiped the moisture away and smeared it on the statue instead; an offering of herself.

“Great Mother, let me heal what they desecrated,” she murmured.

The hidden world glimmered blue around her. Raphael caught his breath and grabbed her arm so hard it hurt. Auset’s answer came in a booming, incomprehensible whisper, like the wind.

“I hear something.” He sounded awestruck. “A voice. What is it saying?”

Kate gave a quick, wondering laugh.

“That’s the voice of the Earth. The priests don’t understand that they can’t destroy the sacred places. Chanting prayers, breaking statues and planting symbols changes nothing. It offends the spirits and warns good folk away, but for all their efforts, they cannot seal the gate.”

They knelt face to face. Raphael gazed at her, his face flushed with awe. She reached for him, sliding one hand beneath his shirt to caress his bare chest. She felt the strong beat of his heart. He gasped.

“I am a priestess and your lover,” she said. “Raphael, you’re born to this as I am. Give yourself to the Hidden One, Auset, Mother of All. Help me bring back her blessing energy to this place. Give yourself, in perfect love and perfect trust.”

She felt his tension and the growing heat of his body, the lightest dew of sweat forming on his skin. Warmth swelled and ached between her thighs. Unseen power trembled in the air.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Kate…”

###

Months later, Raphael still thought of that afternoon. Whenever he and Kate were apart, he remembered and smiled. London, wet and wintry, was a stew of bodies and overripe colours, of stench, gossip, perfume and intrigue. Yet to escape, he had only to close his eyes and a red sunset cast long shadows from their feet as he and Kate walked home, arms twined around each other in the languid after-glow.

The world had seemed enchanted. Reluctantly they’d walked back to their horses, knowing they wouldn’t reach the castle before dusk and that there would be questions and teasing, but not caring. Kate still looked proud and untouched. Raphael smiled. He knew the truth. He’d promised not to dishonour her, only to discover a short time later how unnecessary the promise was. Kate was not a woman who could be dishonoured. She was a priestess, a lioness.

Each time he was away from Middleham with the Duke of Gloucester’s retinue, he missed her. Anne suffered frail health and preferred to stay at Middleham with her son, Edward, so her ladies stayed with her. Even when the duchess accompanied her husband, it was near-impossible for Raphael and Kate to meet. This made their snatched encounters more poignant.

Raphael felt guilty for being so happy these past few months, when Richard had such troubles.

George, Duke of Clarence, was in the Tower, sentenced to death for high treason.

King Edward had thwarted his intention to marry Marie of Burgundy. This, and his conviction that the Woodvilles had murdered Isabel, had sent Clarence into a spiral of rage and extravagantly provocative behaviour. At Edward’s command, two of George’s servants were arrested for alleged black magic and conspiracy against the king, but Clarence ignored the dire warning. Instead, he’d burst into a Council meeting and pleaded his servants’ innocence, thus undermining the king’s justice. All George achieved was to be arrested for the murder of Ankarette Twynyho.

From all accounts, imprisonment had shaken him. He’d been arrogant at first, convinced that Edward would soon perceive his genuine sense of injustice. He was wrong. Edward’s patience had expired.

Raphael was startled to hear the list of accusations against him. Despite being forgiven for his treachery with Warwick and showered with land and titles, nothing had satisfied Clarence. He was accused of slander against the king and queen, of stirring rebellion, of sorcery, murder and treachery.

Perhaps the old Edward would have forgiven his brother yet again. Edward, though, had changed. He was growing coarse, lazy, self-indulgent and addicted to the flattery of the Woodville clan who invaded every area of the king’s life, even supervising the education of his son and heir.

Only Richard’s presence seemed to shock Edward back to a semblance of his old self. Richard wanted George punished, frightened back to his senses – but not executed.

For all George’s wayward behaviour, they were still brothers.

Richard had brought his most trusted men-at-arms to London: Francis Lovell, red-haired, outspoken Richard Ratcliffe, James Tyrell, who was taciturn but utterly dependable, and Robert Percy, a cheerful, helpful soul. They lodged in Richard’s house, Crosby Place, a handsome building with the look of a cathedral. From there Richard went daily to court and Parliament, trying to resolve the matter.

Winter fell cold and wet across the city, choking the streets with snow and then with filthy melt-water. The Isis surged brown and angry between her banks. Raphael was resigned to the season’s daily discomforts; from frost-bitten fingers, leaking boots and damp clothes to the stifling heat of Edward’s palace. Returning to the stately, echoing silence of Crosby Place was always a relief.

Like his master, Raphael was morose and restless to go north again. He wrote to Kate daily, wondering if the letters would ever reach her along the bogged roads. Today, Richard had gone to the palace with Ratcliffe, leaving Raphael and the others behind.

“Wake up,” said a crisp voice. “The duke is home.”

Visions of Kate in the sunset vanished. Instead Raphael opened his eyes to dark red walls, a vaulted ceiling, twisted pillars of blue and gold – and Francis Lovell, facing him across the great hall’s dark oak table.

Raphael jumped to his feet, hurried to take Richard’s cloak and to summon the pages who waited to bring their lord wine and fur-lined slippers to replace his damp boots. Richard carried the scent of winter with him.

He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, grim and colourless. His companions took seats around him.

“The Woodvilles have spies in the Tower,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “They report to the Queen Elizabeth the venom that George spills daily against her and the king. His confinement has taught him nothing, only made him resent Edward more violently than ever. I never thought I’d feel sorry for George, but I do.”

“Sorry for him?” said Lovell.

“The queen insists he shall be punished for his insults and damage to her reputation. The queen’s reputation!” Richard gave a short hollow laugh. “She and her brothers and sons have persuaded Edward to put him to death.”

After a long and awkward silence, Lovell spoke. “Did he need much persuasion?”

Richard didn’t answer. Firelight carved shadows into his face.

“Clarence has committed treason,” Lovell added. “He was aiming at the throne.”

“In the most blatant, bungling way possible,” said Richard. “How can such a reasonably intelligent man act like such a fool? I’ve spent half my life despairing of him. My brother has cried from the rooftops what most only dare think of the Woodvilles in secret. For being ambitious and jealous, I forgive him. For his treachery, he deserves to be stripped of all his land and titles. But to die? No. He is still our brother.”

As he spoke, a visitor appeared in the doorway, breathing hard. He threw his heavy cloak at a servant and came striding into the hall, rain flying from his yellow hair. Raphael recognised him. The Duke of Buckingham would no longer be mistaken for a female, but he had the same glorious hair and the look of an angelic messenger.

“Richard, I agree with you,” he said, throwing himself into a chair next beside Gloucester. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you all the way from Westminster. I hadn’t the sense to keep secret the fact that I despise the Woodville mare they made me marry. I had the excuse of youth, but still, Elizabeth cannot forgive me for loathing her sister and saying so.”

“You still managed to get her with child,” said Francis. Raphael saw Richard smile involuntarily. “A fair daughter, I heard.”

Buckingham recoiled in plain revulsion. “Entirely at her instigation, not mine. One could endure it by closing one’s eyes and pretending… The point is that the queen hates me, as she hates Clarence. That’s why I’ve never received my rightful position at court. The Woodvilles are too powerful.”

“So, Harry, you’ve chased me across London to state the obvious?” Gloucester said. He tilted his head to look at Buckingham, not unkindly.

The young duke paled a little, twisting his beringed hands together. “You can see how obscenely powerful it will make them, if they bring about the execution of the king’s own brother?”

“Perception is everything.” Richard lowered his head. “I’ve tried to make Edward see this. He’s intransigent… but he’s hesitated for days since the death sentence was pronounced. I have not given up hope.”

“If you can’t persuade him, no one can,” Buckingham said quietly.

“I’m touched by your support, since you were the one who pronounced sentence upon him in Parliament.”

“Only to save you from having to do so.” Buckingham touched Richard’s arm. “You know that.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful to you for taking that burden from me.”

“I hope it’s clear that, despite the unwelcome duty forced upon me, I can’t support the king in this,” said Buckingham. “I support you.”

“And I’m grateful, Harry.” The Duke of Gloucester looked up. His eyes were narrow, fierce. “I can’t let the Woodvilles win. They’ll execute one brother, only to make an enemy of the other. Now I know that they will not stop short of killing me, if the opportunity should arise.”

“They’ll say that you’ve benefited from Clarence’s fall.”

“I suppose they will. He’s forfeited his estates and titles, and I know Edward will give some of them to me. But I repeat; I wanted George to desist, not to die, if only for our mother’s sake. After all…” his voice went very soft, “what if the queen really did have Isabel poisoned?”

“Richard,” Buckingham said, closing his eyes in pain. “I came to tell you that Parliament is pressing the king to carry out the sentence. I heard their whispers, minutes after you’d left. They mean to execute Clarence within two days.”

###

Richard returned to the palace of Westminster to plead one last time for George’s life.

“It will be a long night,” he said, looking exhausted even before it began.

He took Ratcliffe, Tyrell and only a few others with him, leaving the rest at home, including Francis Lovell and Raphael. There was nothing for them to do but drink and play disconsolate games of dice. Something malevolent crept through the streets. Raphael could sense it. Dark shapes flapped overhead, like gigantic bats, paper thin; but when he looked out of the windows, there was nothing to see.

He dreaded sleep. He knew that something hideous waited him in the limbo of dreams. Deep into the night he tried his hardest to stay awake over dice games, but his companions were drifting to their beds or falling asleep where they sat. Tiredness dragged at his eyes. A dreadful presence waited for him and there was no way to avoid it. Like time itself: a man couldn’t go around it, only through it. Better to confront the nightmare.

The fire burned low, painting the room with a sweaty gold aura. Resigned, Raphael had a last drink of claret, and took himself to the chamber he shared with Francis Lovell. He lay down on his pallet and closed his eyes.

###

He was walking through thick fog near the Tower. The grey curtains rolled back and revealed three figures, standing under the ancient mottled flank of a wall. Dark vapours whirled around them and strange shadows spread from their feet. Two of the men were indistinct. Ruffians, they appeared, with drab clothes and crafty eyes.

The third was Richard.

He looked as Raphael had never seen him before, his shoulders bent as he whispered with the two men, and a terrible look on his face; a grin that had no mirth, only a chilling, cynical look of hell in it.

“Sirs, be sudden in the execution,” he said. “Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; for Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps may move your hearts to pity if you mark him.”

The first man tutted. “My lord, we will not stand to prate; talkers are no good doers. Be assured, we go to use our hands, and not our tongues.”

“Your eyes drop millstones when fools’ eyes fall tears,” Richard answered. “I like you, lads; about your business straight.”