The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (37 page)

“Which will only grow worse as they grown older.”

“I could certainly wish them not to exist.” Richard stared into the fire. “But since they do, there’s nothing to do but keep them close and powerless.”

“Nothing?”

Harry leaned forward and placed his hand on Richard’s knee. Richard gazed back. Dark understanding passed between them.

“I cannot arrange their murder, if that’s what you mean. They are children.”

Harry sneered. “They’re almost men. If Edward considers himself old enough to be crowned, then he’s old enough to swallow the fate of all deposed kings.”

“Choose your words carefully, my friend.” Perhaps Richard’s smile was meant to soften his words, but only made him look more menacing. “You seem to be suggesting that I deposed him, rather than being offered the throne by right.”

“No, no.” Buckingham sat back, flustered. “My words were badly chosen. I am thinking of your security, your well-being.”

“I’m not sure their deaths would aid my security. I must think of something to do with them that will not have their supporters forever rallying armies against me and soaking the land with blood for another thirty years.”

In a quick movement Harry knelt in front of the king, hands clasping his arm, pleading. “Kill them. It’s the only way. If we are to go on ruling…”

His breath dried his throat. Richard sat so still under his hands that he might have been dead. Eventually he tilted his head to look down at Buckingham. His eyes glittered under the lashes. His lips parted.

“Take your hands from me.”

Harry jerked back as if struck by lightning. The king’s face and demeanour were granite. Buckingham slumped on his knees, unable to shape a single clear thought.

“We? Did you say we?”

“A slip of the tongue.”

“Really? Do not tell me what to do, Harry. I have no feelings for them. My nephews are only a reminder of the harm my brother’s lust for a Lancastrian widow wrought upon this family – but I cannot kill them.”

“Alive, they’re too dangerous.”

“And dead, they’re a source of opprobrium, fuel to the fire of any chancer – such as that posturing Tudor son of Margaret Beaufort – who thinks he has some tenuous claim to the throne. But the throne is fully tenanted.”

“I know.” Buckingham hung his head. His eloquence and composure deserted him. He burned with confusion and Richard had done this to him, Richard alone.

“For God’s sake, get up. Are you drunk?” the king said mildly. He obeyed. Richard uttered a soul-deep sigh. “Harry, both boys are ill. I dare let no one see them. They’re kept in the finest apartments, with the best doctor in London to attend them; but I don’t know what will happen. Half of me wishes they would die, but the better half of me dreads it. If they do, I’ll never sleep a quiet night again.”

“Oh, God,” whispered Buckingham. Richard looked so haggard that he felt sick. “But my dear lord; they would be better gone.”

“And so, my lord, would you. Never speak to me of this again.”

Buckingham’s confusion resolved into clarity. Love and hate were a breath apart. The image of Richard shifted in a heartbeat; a dear friend, a figure of power, an object of desire. Object of envy. Obstacle. This was the closest Buckingham would ever going to come to him. He could not love him physically, nor cling so close they became one fused being, a god-king. Richard was always going to be there, but separate, standing between him and fulfilment: a wall.

That was all Richard was now. A maddening, untouchable basalt wall. Buckingham wished he truly were an archangel, with eyes of flame to burn the king he’d created to ash.

Perhaps this was how Warwick had felt, when he turned against Edward.

Richard was oblivious. For that, Harry hated him more. The king tapped his fingers to his lips, hands in the prayer position. When he looked up, his face was calm, his eyes bleak and formal.

“Harry, we must still work together. This was an unfortunate misunderstanding. We’ll forget this conversation ever took place, and no more shall be said.”

“As you wish.” Buckingham bowed, equally formal. “If I spoke out of turn, pardon me.”

“Don’t let me keep you from your lodgings. I’m tired. I’ll write to you at Breccon.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Don’t forget the sword.”

“Of course.” Buckingham swallowed. Receiving the beautiful weapon was bitter-sweet, but he took it anyway. Their hands brushed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let us be at odds,” Richard added gently. “I have need of you.”

If only you did, Buckingham thought, as he slipped away to be alone with his misery. If only you did.

###

Each time Katherine visited her mother, the landscape of Lytton Dale still amazed her. Limestone escarpments swept up to the sky, their crags softened by dappled light. She saw the familiar peak of Bride Cloud, the sheep meadows and woodlands of home. Vapour rose from the waterfall at Old Mag Heads. All was poignantly familiar and yet strange, for she hadn’t been home for so long.

Trapped in London until Anne was ready to leave, Kate had longed to join the king’s procession. She envied Raphael, always in the thick of affairs.

The reception that the king and queen received amazed her. It grew more ecstatic the farther north they went. Kate found it hard to reconcile the swirling treachery of London with this respect for Richard.

As they travelled towards York, Kate felt an itch of obligation and longing. She asked leave of Anne to visit her mother and had ridden here with Ursula and Nan and a handful of men in royal livery, to startle Eleanor with their finery. The tireless Spanish mare, Querida, Richard’s gift, had carried her all the way. The whole village had turned out to see them arrive.

“Such a shock,” Eleanor said later, when they were alone in the solar. “Richard of Gloucester taking the throne! Such a great change.”

Katherine knew her mother had a certain fondness for King Edward. His death had deeply upset her.

“For the better?”

“I don’t know, dear. I know he’s well-loved in the north. I won’t forget the way he protected us on the day of our ceremony in York. And I am heartily glad it’s not his brother George.”

“It’s as if everything was leading to this,” Kate said thoughtfully,

“Will he come here on his royal progress?” asked Eleanor; tongue in cheek.

Kate laughed. “He can’t call at every tiny manor! You’re talking of the king.”

“I’ve dealt with kings before,” Eleanor retorted.

“Yes, I know, but he and Anne – sorry, I mean Queen Anne – can’t wait to reach Middleham to see their son.”

Eleanor looked steadily at her, and Kate realised her question had been serious after all.

“That’s why I wondered if he might come here. Not to honour me.”

Kate said nothing. She pressed her lips together. Her throat hurt.

“You still haven’t told him?” asked her mother.

“No. I decided I never would. You know that.”

“Not even now?”

“Now would be the worst time of all! It would look as if I expect money, compensation, or advantage. I can’t. The humiliation of being paid off would insult to my dignity.”

Eleanor nodded, with the hint of a solemn smile. “A determined woman with a cool head.”

“In some ways, I am your daughter. In others, I’m a rag-bag of confusion.”

A floorboard creaked. A boy stood in the doorway, awkwardly twisting a cap between his hands; a slim lad in rough linens, a battered leather jerkin and long boots. The smell of horses rose from him. Kate started. Her mouth dropped in amazement at how tall he’d grown.

“My ladies,” he said, bowing to Eleanor and Kate in turn. “You sent for me?”

He was soft-spoken, with a long, pale, gentle face and thick dark hair to his shoulders. Thirteen years old now. He was the image of his father; no one who saw them both would have a moment’s doubt. Every time Katherine saw him – too rarely – the resemblance took her breath away.

“Yes, Robin,” said Eleanor. “Lady Katherine is here. Come, sit and talk with us.”

Hesitant, the boy perched on a footstool. Katherine never knew what to say to him. It had been easy, when he was a small child, to dandle him on her knee for a few minutes, then hand him back to the woman he called mama; when he was older, to play games, to read with him or talk of animals, fishing, hunting. Now, though, he was too old to be treated as a child, too young to be called a man.

Despite his age, there was no surliness in him. He regarded her, as he had from the beginning, with cheerful, intelligent eyes. He loved horses, but he also loved books. He’d received all the good care and affection that Eleanor had lavished on a dozen natural children, and had grown up good-natured and bright; a son of Auset. Eleanor was training him to assist her steward, one day to take over the management of her estate. Despite his scruffy clothes, he was a young gentleman. And Katherine felt her usual guilt and sorrow, more strongly than ever this time.

“How are you?” she managed at last.

“Very well, my lady,” he answered, cheeks flushing. He loved seeing her; that was always heart-breakingly obvious.

On an impulse, she took his hands and folded them between her palms. “What have you been doing?”

“I’ve got a hawk,” he said excitedly. “My own firehawk. I call her Kit.”

Oh, Goddess, don’t let me cry, Kate thought. She’d never allowed herself to grow too close to him. The wave passed and she said, “Will you show me?”

“With pleasure, Lady Katherine!” he said, jumping up and taking her hand, like a nobleman taking his lady to a royal banquet. Eleanor watched them go; Kate glanced back to see her smiling ruefully.

Outside, the day was beautiful, the sun a gold haze through floating pollen. The red house basked in utter peace. She heard the familiar sounds of home; hens clucking, the occasional snort of a horse, the voices of men and women working the fields, the constant bleating of sheep. She smelt the scent of baked grass. She thought of her adored mare, Mab; long dead, but Kate felt if she looked over the stable door, Mab would be there.

“You’re always away for such a long time, my lady,” said the lad as they walked the length of the house towards the stables. “I hardly know you when you come back.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Robin. You know why, don’t you? I’m lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Gloucester, who is now the queen.”

“And you can’t leave such an important person,” he said seriously.

“Not often, no,” she said. “I’m glad you understand. But I come as often as I can.”

“Kate,” he said, turning to her and shielding his eyes from the sun. She liked him to address her informally, but he always took a while to do so. “May I ask you a question?”

“You may, Robin.”

“Are you my mother?”

She stopped in her tracks. The question was so blunt, so casually asked. Her answer came out like a reflex to being struck. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” His eyes and nose were screwed up against the bright light.

“Who told you?”

“No one. I knew, that’s all. Why would you pay so much attention to me, but not to the other boys around the place? And I worked out that Jenny wasn’t.”

Jenny was the young woman Eleanor had brought from York, to pretend the babe was hers.

“How?” Kate, stunned, could only utter monosyllables.

He shrugged. “I just knew. Not when I was little, but by the time I was seven. She’s so different to me. So I asked her one day if she was my mother. She went red and hesitated a lot but in the end she said no, she was my adopted mother because my real mama had to go away. She wouldn’t admit you were my mother, but she didn’t deny it either. I thought about it for a long time, but it was obvious, really.”

“Well, aren’t you clever!” Katherine growled, laughing at the same time.

He grinned: not hurt, but pleased with himself.

“Then it occurred to me I ought to make sure. I didn’t think you would lie to me. I’m glad you’ve told me the truth.”

They stood looking at each other. Again her mouth ached with tears.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “Why do women cry so much? I’m quite glad to have you as my mother, actually.”

“Well, thank you, kind sir. And I’m glad to call you my dear son.”

Kate saw no need to tell him she was sorry. Among the nobility it was common for sons to be cared for by nurses and taken from home early, while the mother was a distant figure owed respect. It was also usual for a woman who had a child out of wedlock to hide the fact and leave the infant with others. Robin knew that. Eleanor hadn’t shielded him from real life; only from one crucial fact.

His real name was Richard, but he’d been nicknamed Robin for his round, perky charm as a baby.

“I wish someone had told me before,” he said. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wasn’t married to your father. I was in disgrace.”

“Oh. Are you married to him now?”

“No, dear.”

“Are you still in disgrace?”

She laughed. “I might be, but only in the outer world. In the hidden world, it doesn’t matter. I know Eleanor has taught you that. Unfortunately, the outer world is the one that holds sway.”