The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (53 page)

Will Shaw had got ahead of the king and was fighting furiously, striking down foot-soldiers on every side. His sally took him into John Cheyney’s path. It happened in a moment, even as Raphael reached Will’s side. Cheyney swung a massive axe and struck Will from his horse as if swatting a wasp. Raphael cried out. Will fell, blood spouting from his neck. He hit the ground with a grunt. The giant knight’s axe swooped towards Raphael and he ducked by reflex, feeling the hiss of air an inch away, tensed for the return blow that would dispatch him after his friend.

Then Richard was there, silver and fierce as the sun. His own axe bit into the giant’s breastplate like a meat-cleaver into bone. Cheyney doubled over and rolled heavily out of the saddle. His horse, startled, barged into Richard’s, and Fame of York stumbled backwards, put his back hooves into the marsh, and fell.

Raphael’s heart thundered as if it would explode. He threw himself off Red Briar and stumbled to Richard’s side. As he did so, he looked up and saw his nightmare brought to life, the path ending in the abyss, as the kindly gods had tried to warn him – William Stanley’s soldiers were pouring towards them, to overwhelm Richard’s force and make an end.

Richard’s beloved knights defended desperately – falling, dying. Raphael was attacked before he could reach the king. Foot soldiers were all around him, striking at him. The last thing he saw was their pinched, pocked faces. He went down under agonising blows, choking, drowning, down into darkness…

He was floating in another place. Everything was mist-grey and indistinct. He saw the faint outlines of a church or cloister around him. Great tombs, a sense of sepulchral age. The muse was there. He saw first her veil of brown hair and then her sad, thoughtful face as she turned her head to look at him.

“He is the sacrifice,” she said. “It can’t change.”

He saw the taut pain in her eyes, her falling tears. Yet she gave a sad smile. Someone else was present, a bony ghost of a man with a haunted, suspicious face. He looked twenty years older, but Raphael recognized him as Henry Tudor.

“Here is your consolation,” said the muse.

Raphael tried to speak. No sound came out, but she answered his silent question anyway.

“No one will ever love him. Henry will die unmourned. Richard will live forever.”

With a horrible jolt he recovered consciousness. His attackers must have thought him dead, and left him. Mud and water oozed around him. A roar of sound scoured his ears. Every inch of him felt bruised. He was still in the marsh with Fame of York struggling beside him. The charger’s mouth was open, nostrils working like bellows.

Beyond rational thought, Raphael staggered to his feet, seized the grey’s bridle and began urging him to his feet. Fame of York struggled, like a fly mired in honey. Then, with a sucking rush that nearly dragged Raphael over, he fought free.

Richard was ten feet away, fighting back to back with Robert Percy, as Raphael brought his charger to him.

Richard slew his opponent, said, “Bless you, good friend,” and swung back up into the saddle. The words were brief, rough with exhaustion, but they held a depthless well of feeling.

Of Red Briar, there was no sign. Raphael stood, his feet apart, on the destroyed grass, dwarfed by the mounted king. He clutched his lead-heavy sword two-handed and looked around for the next attack.

A crimson-coated foot-soldier suddenly crashed past him in flight, yelling “Northumberland!”

The air shuddered with yells and the sound of furious fighting nearby. Panting, Raphael looked up and saw streams of men pouring down the slopes from the direction of Ambion Hill onto the plain of battle. Northumberland had thrown his rearguard into the maelstrom at last. His forces crashed at an angle into William Stanley’s men.

Raphael beheld his vision subverted, fate shattered, like lightning forking along an unpredicted path. Half of Stanley’s traitorous force turned to defend itself; the other half fled, men flinging down weapons as they went. Richard’s cavalry, held in reserve, now entered the fray, bearing down upon Henry Tudor’s beleaguered position. As they rammed home, the last stand of Oxford and William Stanley roiled into a cauldron of screaming horses, dying men.

“He listened,” Raphael said under his breath. “Northumberland listened to me!”

Only now did he realise that Richard hadn’t positioned his cavalry as he had in the vision. Instead he’d placed them where they could better help him, with a clear route to come to his aid.

Henry Tudor was alone, his bodyguard pared to nothing. Raphael saw him carried back and forth as he fought to keep his horse from bolting. He looked paralysed, a small figure shrinking in armour too big for him. Raphael saw his watery eyes, his face melting with sweat. He almost pitied him, even thought he’d brought this upon himself.

Then Tudor saw Richard coming, an armoured seraph rayed with silver fire. The last of his defenders hit the ground in streams of gore. Henry visibly quailed and shrank. Breaking, he gathered himself for flight, so that he was turning flank-on as Richard reached him. Henry hauled on the reins, panicking madly as he struggled to defend himself. For a few seconds his eyes were full of a jaundiced light; more terror than hatred. One wild sword-blow aimed at Richard missed entirely, throwing the pretender off balance. Fame of York collided with the brown horse, shoulder to shoulder. Richard’s axe hacked through Tudor’s breastplate.

Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, hit the ground with a surprised grunt.

The fighting washed away like a wave upon sand. Tudor’s supporters knew the day was lost. Most were in flight, leaving nothing but their discarded, bloody surcoats. No one wanted to be caught in the pretender’s livery. Once news spread of Tudor’s fall, there was nothing to fight for.

Richard slid down from his exhausted mount and leaned on his sword. He stood like a statue, dented and bloody. When he pulled off his helm he was drenched underneath, as if he’d emerged from a waterfall.

His knights and servants flocked to him and he embraced them each in turn. Now they would begin the account, Raphael thought, of who lived and who had died. The standard bearer came with the king’s leopards and lilies billowing high. Peace descended but it was uneasy, the atmosphere rent by echoes of violence. Corpses lay everywhere.

Richard said quietly, “Creator bless and acquit the friends who died for me this day. Who have we lost?”

“I’m still here.” It was Francis Lovell, who’d come down with the cavalry. He walked unsteadily towards the king, leading his horse. “Ratcliffe is slain, Catesby wounded but alive. Will Shaw’s slain, Geoffrey and Marmaduke Constable alive. Of the others, I can’t say.”

“And here’s Raphael, thank God,” said Richard. His eyes were bruised, the whites bloodshot, but his were irises as clear as water.

“I couldn’t save Will,” said Raphael. He felt a chasm open in his chest. Will Shaw had always been there. He couldn’t begin to imagine his absence, let alone feel it. He was drained. There were knives in his joints, and the sun’s heat slowly broiled him in his own juices; but he felt a wondrous calm. All his nightmares were purged. It was over. He suddenly thought of Kate, with regret and new hope.

Richard acknowledged the loss with a nod. “Let the corpses be gathered and borne to Leicester with all the honour due to them.”

“Even that?” said Lovell, looking over at the twisted heap that had been the pretender, Richmond.

“Even Henry Tudor. If only for his nerve.” Richard gave a faint smile. “What of the Stanleys?”

His standard bearer answered. “William was killed. Thomas is captured.”

“Good. Good.” He fell quiet, then said softly, “This is England’s victory, not mine.”

“Amen,” said Francis.

“Well, my lords, there’s much to do. I’ll need a messenger to post to Nottingham with news…”

“I’ll go,” said Raphael, without pause.

“No, you won’t.” Richard looked piercingly at him. “Raphael, you’ve done enough. More than enough.”

“I’m not tired,” he said. “I could ride a thousand miles for you.”

Richard shook his head, smiling. “Is there no stopping you?”

“No, sire.”

Richard came to him and held him with both gauntlets resting on Raphael’s shoulders. “Raphael, I listened to you. That’s what saved the day. You don’t have to go to Nottingham.”

“But I want to be the one to tell them. Give me a fresh horse. I’ll rest when I get there.”

“Christ. If you insist, I could wish for no better messenger; but not without food and a change of clothes.” Richard moved away from him, addressing the others. “Gentlemen, the day is done. Let us return to Leicester. We must mourn our friends, and decide how best to deal with those traitors who live. Pray with me.”

As they lowered their heads in prayer, Raphael saw, although no one else seemed to notice, a silver pard stalking the battlefield, its head rayed with silver like the sun. It reared with its paws upon Richard’s shoulders, touched its tongue to his forehead, and vanished.

The cry went up, one or two voices at first, then a swelling roar, spiralling out across the battlefield. “God save King Richard! King Richard!”

###

“What are you?” asked Kate. She looked straight into Dr Fautherer’s eyes and saw nothing there. It was like looking into a skull. Heat shimmered too bright, blinding her. “What are you?”

“Fire spreads best with the aid of wind,” he answered. “Silt stirs from the river-bed in the presence of a current. How can poison circle the body without a beating heart to drive it?”

Her eyesight was turning dark. The sounds of battle washed over her, but she couldn’t bear to watch. If Richard fell, life would end.

“You came to destroy him. You, the spreader of malicious rumours…”

“No,” replied the whispering voice. “I am the result, not the cause. And I grow ever in strength.”

He was a luminous figure, floating in a sooty penumbra. Kate felt all her certainty about the world being swept away. She stared at Dr Fautherer and knew that he was not human. Not human. She stood in the face of a being utterly unknown, something insidiously passive and yet so malevolent that her soul shrivelled from it in revulsion.

“Mama?”

A boy’s voice was calling, a few yards away.

“Mama!”

She felt a light touch on her elbow. At that moment, Dr Fautherer vanished.

He was simply gone. Kate blinked. The summer world reformed around her and was all birdsong and vibrant greens again. Wild roses and woodbine twined in the undergrowth.

“Look!” cried Robin. “Did you see? They’ve raised the king’s banner over Tudor’s rotten corpse!”

Kate turned slowly as if waking from sleep. She forced herself to look. The fighting had stopped. Soldiers were milling about or quitting the field as swiftly as they could. The figures were tiny, but she saw the gold circle of Richard’s crown, his standards vaunting against the hill, streams of men in silver and bronze centring upon him.

“Oh, love.” She caught Robin’s arm.

“He won, he’s alive.”

“Oh, thank the Mother of All, thank the Creator. Now let’s hear them bleat about who had God on his side!”

“You never doubted him, did you?” Robin sounded indignant.

“Well, we can never be absolutely sure.”

“I knew he would win.” She smiled to see the fierce light in her son’s eyes. For his sake, more than her own, she could have wept with gratitude for his happiness. They embraced, crying together. Even in that moment, her son seemed more than ever a stranger; nothing to do with her any more.

Richard was not, to his cost, a political animal. His penchant for direct action in place of patient diplomacy brought him to die in a battle that should never have taken place.

Anthony Cheetham, The Life and Times of Richard III

The spire of Leicester cathedral impaled the sky. Around the skirts of the guildhall crowds thronged; onlookers and gossips, nuns and friars, merchants with bright robes swaying around their broad forms. Katherine forced her way between them. Robin had run ahead of her in his excitement, met some of Richard’s men, and was long gone; already with the king, she surmised. She couldn’t blame him. He’d grown up independent of her, and had no reason to cling to her now.

There were horses everywhere; she stepped carefully to avoid piles of ripe-smelling dung. Soldiers in the liveries of the winning side strutted about. Whether they’d fought bravely, wept in terror or stood idle on the battlefield, they were now all alike in triumph, swigging ale offered by the townspeople; boasting, heads thrown back in laughter.

A few yards from the door of the guildhall she came face to face with George Stanley, Lord Thomas’s son: the man whose proposal of marriage had made her flee onto a wayward path. It seemed an age ago. He stood with other prisoners, awaiting Richard’s judgement. He looked old, his hair thinning; but still had the look of a frightened puppy as he caught her gaze.

“Lord Strange?” she murmured.

“Lady Katherine,” he said, and stammered for several seconds. “Would – would you do me one kindness, my lady?” She gave a wary nod. He pushed a sealed letter into her hand. “See that my dear wife gets this. My last loving wishes to her. It’s her I fear for, not myself.”

He looked desperate. She pushed the letter into her sleeve and he said, “Thank you. Fare you well, Lady Katherine.”

Shaken, she gathered her skirts and went on. No sign of Raphael. Her anxiety pressed towards panic. She squeezed her way to the door, and was stopped. Then Francis Lovell saw her, and let her through. He looked wrecked with fatigue, but was smiling.

“Is Raphael here?” she asked.

“No.” Seeing her alarm, he added hurriedly, “He’s alive, my lady. He’s gone to Nottingham with dispatches from the king.”

“Oh.” Her terror leapt and fell away in the same breath. “The king sent him to Nottingham, after such a battle?”

“No. Raphael insisted. I don’t know what more he has to prove, but there was no stopping him.”

“Idiot!” she said. “And my… my son, Robin?”

At that, Lovell regarded her with dry amusement, not unkindly, but for just a little too long. Perhaps he didn’t mean to, but plainly couldn’t stop himself. Colouring, she said, “I suppose the world knows.”

“The king has seen him, and sent him with a number of his personal esquires to dine in the town.”

“And will Richard… will the king want to see me?”

“Of course,” he said. “If you don’t mind waiting, my lady, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Thanks, Francis. Bless you.”

The guildhall was a cool dim refuge from the street. There were knots of men standing about, talking earnestly as they waited for the doors to the inner chamber to open. Within, the city fathers had created a makeshift throne room for the triumphant king.

He is behind those doors, Katherine thought. A thread of extreme emotion pulled at her, painful and thrilling. She looked at the closed doors and at the dozens of petitioners waiting for audience, and her heart sank. It would take him the rest of the day and half the night to see them all; he never turned anyone away.

They were looking at her, the men, some with slit-eyed interest, others with disapproval. She felt uncomfortable. How long must she wait? Where was Robin?

The doors were thrown open and out came Thomas Stanley, chained fast between half a dozen of Richard’s officers. Their demeanour was grim. Lord Stanley’s face was the colour of a ripe plum, his eyes straining from their sockets. He strode along between his captors, practically dragging them with him like a graylix hauling at the chain.

“Eager for the axe, this one,” said one of the officers. Over his shoulder he called, “Make haste to the market place if you want to see traitors’ heads rolling!”

The antechamber crowd fell back. A hush dropped upon them. An esquire said softly, “Lady Katherine Lytton?” and she was ushered into the hall, the others shut out and indignant.

Kate stopped, with a brief weird feeling that the king within would not be Richard but a stranger, Henry Tudor, and all of it a dream. The floor, tiled with lozenges of black and gold, was a lake lying before her. At the far side, Richard was seated on a narrow dark throne. Velvet robes of plum and black trimmed with ermine fell about him. His crimson cloak, lined with white damask pooled on the oak of the dais. Above was a cloth-of-gold canopy hung with royal heraldry. His face was as impartial; long and radiant, with narrow dark flames for eyes. He fingered a ring with a huge ruby on his middle finger.

He had just sent Lord Stanley to his execution. Others too, no doubt. Across the chasm of the floor, he looked at her with an empty, brooding expression. Her mouth was arid; she had no idea what to say. Just curtsey, she told herself, congratulate him on his noble victory, apologize for Robin coming ahead of me – and leave.

His lieutenants were around him; William Catesby, Rob Percy and Marmaduke Constable, the lords Surrey, Lincoln, Northumberland and all the others who’d been loyal. She noted who was missing. Ratcliffe, among others. She would miss his steadfast presence.

Their attention was heavy on her. She felt excruciatingly self-conscious; but only one person among them mattered.

Katherine began to walk towards King Richard. The closer she drew the higher above her he seemed on the stepped dais; a position contrived to impress his authority upon friend and enemy alike.

The walk was dream-like but over in seconds; and two steps from him, her composure deserted her. Instead of curtseying she fell her knees on the steps and took his outstretched hand. She meant only to drop a dry kiss on his fingers but found herself pressing her mouth to his hand then holding his palm to her cheek. She leaned on his thigh, her eyes leaking brine to soak his hand and velvet-encased leg. She couldn’t stop crying. He was alive.

Through the blur, she wished his attendants would vanish. Hateful, to have them witnessing her collapse. At any moment, someone would lift her gently away and take her out, conveying his Grace’s thanks; and it would be over.

Richard sat startled for a moment. Then he leaned forward. “Kate,” he said softly. His hair brushed her cheek. She felt the weight of his head resting on hers, his hands moving over her arms and shoulders.

She felt his lips against her temple, his hands around her arms. He rose, drawing her to her feet with him, not pushing her away but embracing her. Her arms found their way beneath his cloak until she could hold him. He’d bathed, she could tell from his sleek damp hair and the scent of herbs on his skins, but the taint of battle still lingered, a hint of earth and horse-sweat. She was certain she smelled far worse… as if that mattered. His embrace was so hard she could barely breathe.

She became aware at last of muttering and subtle throat-clearing from the onlookers. Perhaps it would pass into legend, that the King Richard had passionately embraced an obscure noblewoman in public. Goddess knew what rumours would start. She didn’t care and nor, clearly, did Richard.

“Kate,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Will you wait for me? I have a thousand people to see. I don’t expect you to stand about through this tedious business, but if you go with Geoffrey, he’ll take you to the inn where we’re lodged, the White Boar. You can rest there. I must speak to you.”

She stepped back, out of his arms. They stood hot and discomforted, trying to retrieve their dignity. “My son came to you without me. I apologise for him but he’s young, excitable…”

“Nothing to apologise for. He’s in good hands with my squires, no doubt being regaled with tales of battle.”

“He’d better not speak of it to me,” Kate said with feeling. “To hell with all battles!”

“Amen,” said Richard. He dabbed her eyes with the lining of his cloak. “They’ll look after him. Will you wait?”

“If you’ll do one thing for me.”

“Name it.”

“Spare George Stanley’s life. Let him go.”

“It’s done.”

“Then yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll wait.”

###

Richard’s chamber at the White Boar was plain, but well furnished. There was a great bed draped with blue and crimson fabric, figured with fleur-de-lys. A fire in a huge grate warmed the dark oak walls. There was even a separate privy with a seat of polished walnut, and, set behind a screen, bowls of water fragrant with floating rose petals. Kate washed as best she could, then sat in a chair by the fire, sipping claret and feeling mortally embarrassed as Geoffrey and a couple of young pages came and went, making the room perfect for the king.

Despite the impeccable deference of his attendants, she knew what they must be thinking. It didn’t matter if she and Richard only talked all night; in their eyes, the very situation made her his mistress.

She threw George Stanley’s letter on the fire. Thank heaven, there was no need to send it now. He would convey loving greetings to his wife in person.

Kate started up, hearing voices and footsteps in the corridor outside. Richard came in, still attended by half a dozen nobles. Suddenly the room was full of bustle.

She moved discreetly to the window and stood with her back to them. She heard Percy’s cheerful voice, and Lovell’s, and thought they would never leave. When Richard began hurrying them, she could only imagine their smiles as they finally left the room.

“Kate,” he said, shutting the door.

She turned, and they were alone. His cloak and royal robes discarded, he was in shirt sleeves. They met halfway between the bed and the hearth. His body felt burning hot through the cloth of the shirt.

“You waited for me,” he breathed. He kissed her throat; she arched her back, gasping in surprise and pleasure. Then they kissed, opening starved mouths to each other’s heat. The sensation was like fire on oil, searing away her belief that he’d been indifferent to her all these years. Her hands went into his hair, clasping handfuls of silk in an ecstasy of relief that she could touch him at last.

He paused, his arms loosening, his mouth resting near her ear. She could feel his heart pounding.

“Oh gods, sweet Kate,” he said. “This day has gone on forever. I’m so tired. I don’t think there’s any inch of me that doesn’t ache.”

“And you’re here. You won,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t ache if you were dead.”

“True.” His lips touched her cheekbone. “Not all pain is unpleasant. You should know that your son, our son, is still happily in the care of my trusted friends.”

“On his way to becoming a knight and forgetting his mother.” She sighed. “I don’t mind. I’m glad.”

“And I’m glad you brought him to me. Thank you. Beyond that, I’ve no idea what I wanted to say to you. Forgive me.”

“I didn’t think we were here to talk.”

His lips parted hers, and the sweet fire flowed again. She felt him shaking. He drew back and his eyes, close to hers, were grey lakes in a dark forest.

“Are you sure, Kate?”

She was touched that he asked first, even though there was no need. She pressed hard against him, wanting to discard all the frustrating layers of clothing between them, to feel his flesh against hers.

“Our reputations are in tatters anyway. Don’t stop.”

“You will see some terrible bruises.”

“Show me. I’ll soothe them with my lips.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “I can’t dissuade you, then. Thank God.” He plucked at the fastenings of her gown, awkward in his haste. She gasped, laughing.

Often he had been so distant, as if no more made of flesh than a carved saint. The change overwhelmed her. She traced the curvature of his spine, the endearing flaw that now seemed to embody a deeper symbol: the serpent of wisdom itself. Richard was a great shadowy wing covering her, pulling her under. The current rushed and pounded in her ears.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Forget everything else. Celebrate life.”

###

He rose from bed and went to stir the fire, feeding logs into its slumbering heart. Kate propped herself on one elbow to watch him. The lean body, hard with muscle and discoloured with battle-blows, flowed with firelight. He no longer seemed a king; only her lover. She was pleased he did this chore himself without a thought, rather than call for the page. He loved luxury, but was no spoiled prince. He’d always been a soldier. When he came back to her, he brought a glass of claret. They both drank from it, sitting close and naked beneath the sheets.

“All this time I thought you didn’t like me,” Richard said, smiling.

“Indeed?” She gave a small sigh. “Hm. The trouble wasn’t that I liked you too little, but rather too much.”

“I never guessed. Sometimes you thawed… but then I’d always think I was mistaken. And if you knew how I’ve longed for this, Kate… Gods. Burned for years, ever since that first time…”