The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III (42 page)

The other women also slept now, exhausted. Kate was wide awake. She looked up at the salt-white walls rising all around her, ran her gaze along the battlements to the high, square tower on the north-west corner. A pang of anxiety went through her. She remembered how he had always haunted the battlements at Middleham.

Approaching the tower, she saw a couple of Richard’s esquires just inside the door: Geoffrey and Marmaduke. They looked grim. Behind them, light glimmered through the half-open door of the guard chamber.

“Have you seen the king?” she asked.

One of the men tilted his head at the stone staircase. “I wouldn’t, my lady.”

Ignoring his warning, Kate lifted the hem of her skirt and began to climb. She’d taken three steps when the man followed, pushing a bundle of fabric at her.

“At least take this to him,” he said.

It was a cloak of black wool, fine and warm with a blue satin lining.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” she said.

When she emerged onto the top of the tower, there was no one there. The area was a well of darkness within the battlement walls; the sky beyond darkest blue. She heard the perpetual soft roar of the waterwheels.

The wind was very cold. She put her hand to her mouth. For one stabbing moment she was sure he had thrown himself off the tower.

As she stood dissolving in panic, she began to make out a dark shape. It was hardly visible, black on black: a figure slumped against the wall, back curved and legs bent carelessly under him, forehead resting against the stone blocks. He was motionless, as if he’d been there for hours, or died there.

“Richard?” she said very softly. She went closer. “Richard?”

She leaned down to touch his shoulder. He jumped violently.

“I’m sorry…”

The face he turned to her was dreadful in the gloom. Bloodless, lined, devoid of a soul.

“Leave,” he said.

She knew then why the guards were afraid to come near him. The voice was hoarse, like rusted steel. He looked possessed. What could anyone do in the face of such bereavement, but flee?

Kate knelt beside him and began to put the cloak around his shoulders. He raised a hand to stop her and his skin was ice.

“Leave me!” he said again.

“No,” she answered. “Have you been here all night?”

“I want no one to see me.”

“I’m not just anyone,” she said brusquely. She went on arranging the cloak and he let her, sitting up so she could wrap it around him properly. Then he leaned back against the wall, and rested limp arms on his knees. Every movement was stiff with pain.

“How is Anne?” he asked tonelessly.

“Asleep, at last.”

He exhaled. “We can’t endure each other at present.”

“I understand.”

“It seems your mother was right.”

“Eleanor? What…?”

“When I was a frightened child, lost in the hidden world, she told me my future was all darkness, and she was right.”

“No. She was only saying that we have a choice of paths…” Kate stopped, knowing she’d said the wrong thing, not wanting to make it worse.

“Apparently I’ve chosen badly. I tried to take the path of light but I am always pulled back into the darkness. How vain are the hopes of kings. I can see that I need to be taught this lesson, but why my son? Why Anne? How have they offended the Almighty?”

He began to shiver. Kate put her arms around him. Richard didn’t push her away but turned towards her, one hand grasping her upper arm so hard it hurt. With his head in the crook of her shoulder, he wept. She stroked his tangled hair. She pulled the corner of the cloak around herself and they sat under it together, sobbing.

“Everything I fought for is ash,” he said, a long time later. “Without him, there’s no future, no meaning to any of this.”

“That’s not true.” There was a lot she longed to say, but it stayed inside her. Nothing could comfort him today. To utter platitudes, to say, “You will have other children,” would be an insult worse than poison.

She said, “He had the happiest life. Was any child ever better loved than your son? You gave him a happier life than you ever had yourself, I think.”

Richard drew back and looked at her. In the growing dawn his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed, but he seemed calmer. “That’s true enough. God, yes, Kate, that is true.”

“Won’t you come down to the guardhouse now and get warm?”

He looked up at the sky. “Another morning. No morning will ever have my son in it again. Still, I must go down, wash my face, and present a dignified front to the world.”

“They won’t expect you to do anything today, surely.”

“Unfortunately, I’m still the king. Affairs won’t wait, not even for this.”

They got to their feet. He was unsteady, and she had to help him. In silence they went downstairs and entered the guard chamber. The esquires, now sitting bleary-eyed in front of the fire, leaped to attention, looking startled.

“Is there anything to drink?” said Kate.

“Only ale, my lady. It’s Burton ale, though, the best.”

“Is there something in which to heat it on the fire? His grace is cold. It will help to restore him. No fuss, just leave him in peace for a few minutes.”

Behind the king’s back, his esquire Geoffrey raised wondering eyebrows at her, as if to suggest she had worked a miracle.

The men hurried to do her bidding. Soon she and Richard were seated alone at the solid table, with leather flagons warming their hands. Firelight flickered over the beige stone of the walls. The door stood ajar and she could hear the men’s voices outside.

He sat with his head in his hands. She didn’t know what to say.

“Do you wish me to leave now?” she asked.

“No.” He raised his head to look at her. “Stay awhile, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m glad to.”

“Even after I spoke so harshly to you, you are still so kind.”

“You weren’t harsh, and I’m not being kind.”

Their eyes caught for a moment. A glint of sad amusement, then Richard looked down again. “I couldn’t weep in front of Anne.” He watched steam curling from the ale. “I don’t think she could, either. The sound she made was like a
bain sidhe
howling, and she tore at her hair… I couldn’t bear to witness it. We were like two animals beating ourselves against the bars of cages, with nothing to say to each other. She will never get over this. Neither of us will. How can we look each other in the eye? What is there to say? We can’t comfort each other.”

“You will, when the pain is less raw.”

“I can’t imagine such a day. Kate, there will be no more children. She was hardly strong enough to bear Edward.”

“And she’s wretched about it. That’s the worst thing. Not only his death, but that he was the only one. She feels she’s let you down.”

He was shaking his head. “I never wanted her to think that! It’s not her fault. But I can’t stop her tormenting herself.”

“Because she knows how much it matters to you. And you can’t convince her otherwise, even if you deny it to your last breath. However much she calls it God’s will.”

“It’s hard to accept God’s will, when he is this cruel,” Richard said thinly. “He has seen fit to take away my heir. I could almost hate him.” His gaze slid to the door. “I wonder what they are saying about me out there?”

“Nothing but kindness and sympathy! There isn’t a soul in the castle who hasn’t wept for you.”

“Ah, it’s a wretched state of affairs when I mistrust even my own servants. I spoke unfairly; blame it on tiredness. But there are those who will be rejoicing to hear that my son is dead. They think I deserve it.”

“No,” Kate said, frowning.

“Believe me. My position would be worse if I laboured under any illusion. There are many in this kingdom with no love to spare for me, who’ll be ecstatic to see the end of my dynasty. A ship heading for the rocks: that pleases them.”

“Richard.” Not caring if her touch was improper, or unwelcome, she reached out and laid her hand along his cheek, turning his face towards her. “You are more loved than you’ll ever know.”

He put his hand over hers, keeping it there. There was no trace of a smile in his expression. His grey irises were all splinters of glass. But there was a glimmer of gratitude, enough to warm her.

“Is the king here?”

The voice from outside was Francis Lovell’s.

Kate jumped guiltily and put her hands in her lap. Richard sat away from her without haste as Lovell came in, with Raphael close behind.

“Thank God, Dickon!” Lovell exclaimed, opening his hands wide. “We almost turned the castle upside down looking for you.”

They looked surprised to see Kate there, but said nothing. Her presence must look strange, but she didn’t care. The circumstances were exceptional. She had no reason to justify herself.

“Thanks for your concern, but you shouldn’t have troubled.” Richard’s voice was rough with tiredness.

“Are you… Is there anything we can do, anything you need?”

“The one thing I need, even God can’t deliver back to me.”

Both men dropped their gazes and crossed themselves.

“Yes,” said Lovell. “I am so sorry. Will you breakfast with us? You must eat, or at least try.”

“I’ll come, gentlemen,” said Richard, standing up. Francis and Raphael looked relieved, if taken aback. “There’s a great deal to do this morning. Wait for me outside, will you?”

They did as he asked. Kate rose decorously, trying to restore the usual polite distance between them. “I’ll return to the queen, sire.”

“Thank you. If she’s awake, tell her I’ll come to her within the hour; if not, I’ll be there when she wakes.” His storm-washed eyes were gentle upon her. He kissed her hand; his fingers on hers still felt cold. “This is the end of everything,” he said bleakly.

“No.” She shook her head in denial of what was plain; his greyness, his deathly stumbling emptiness, a light in his soul extinguished forever.

“It is, yet by some ghastly miracle I’m still on my feet. And there’s hope that Anne and I may speak to each other again. Thank you, Kate. I won’t forget this.”

This only son of his, in whom all the hopes of the royal succession, fortified with so many oaths, were centred, was seized with an illness of but short duration and died at Middleham Castle in the year of our Lord, 1484… You might have seen his father and mother in a state almost bordering upon madness, by reason of their sudden grief.

Croyland Chronicle

“His son is dead. All his hopes for the future lost. No son, no heir; how tragic.”

Henry Tudor’s face was gaunt, intense. He murmured the words without emotion, but the altar light burnished his skin with a joyful glow. He raised narrow eyes to Bishop Morton. He looked, Dr Fautherer observed, cautiously hopeful, resolute, and afraid. Hope always alarmed Henry; it meant he would have to act. A terrible thing, ambition without courage.

“How tragic,” Morton echoed. “How weakening to his spirit.”

The chapel was small and high, with stained-glass windows reaching up into the vault. The harlequin light seeping through the glass did not reach the body of the chapel, which remained a well of dim candlelight and darkness. Bishop Morton stood with his hands folded over his belly, his broad face content and bearing the hint of a smile. Richmond was on his knees, as usual. So like his mother.

“I shall pray for his soul,” said Henry.

Fautherer stood to one side in respectful silence, He felt quietly pleased with the service he’d done them, the fulfilment of his role: message bearer between England and Henry’s court-in-waiting in Brittany, spy, weaver of webs.

“How vain are the thoughts of a man who desires to establish his interests without the aid of God,” said Morton.

“It is a sign from the Almighty,” Henry Tudor agreed sombrely. “Even Richard must realise it, writhing in the small hell he’s created for himself. He knows now that his days are numbered.”

Tudor placed his long bony hands together and raised his eyes to the lofty windows. His hair hung like dry straw over his shoulders. He looked, though Fautherer, like a starved saint about to be transubstantiated. There was light around him, a yellowish halo.

“He’s almost completely isolated now,” said Morton. “He was too lenient with the rebels he should have punished, too cruel to those he should have courted. He shows too much favour to his northern friends, planting them in the south to the great disgruntlement of the people there. Sire, there are a great many discontented gentlemen of the south ready to rise and follow your red dragon banner. Furthermore, all the nobles and knights who swore fealty to Richard’s son are left with no clear path. Old Dick’s wife will produce no more children. His dynasty has failed. They will be wondering at the wisdom of supporting such blighted stock, when they could turn to a fresh young sapling, Henry of Richmond…”

“New hope. A new beginning,” said Henry. “I pray that I shall be the one favoured by God to provide that.”

“It was only by a mixture of sheer luck and devilry that the Hog prevailed against Buckingham,” Morton went on. “The tides were against us then, but they are turning in our favour. The next time we land…”

Tudor looked sideways at the Bishop, a white circle flaring around his irises. Dread. Fautherer doubted that Henry realised how clearly his inner feelings showed.

“The next time we land,” said Morton, placing a hand on Henry’s shoulder, “we shall prevail. It’s our Creator’s clear will.”

The Bishop always knew how to steady Tudor. A reminder of his divine destiny usually stiffened his spine.

“Then they’ll all cry forgiveness for mocking my sound Lancastrian birthright.”

“Nothing now stands in your way.” Morton looked aside and met Dr Fautherer’s gaze.

“And the poison,” said Fautherer, “the poison of rumour does old Dick more harm even than the deaths of the princes themselves.”

Morton crossed himself; Tudor and Fautherer quickly did the same.

“Appalling loss,” said Morton, “but what’s done is done. Thank God you are here to fill the breach. The tragedy that lays the way clear for you is the very tragedy that will destroy the usurper.”

Fautherer turned away so they would not see his grin. Their self-conscious hypocrisy was delicious. If Edward IV’s sons had lived, Henry Tudor could not, in a thousand years, have hoped to come near the throne.

Tudor finished his prayer and rose, stiff from kneeling so long. “Dr Fautherer, how is my mother?” he asked.

The doctor thought of Margaret Beaufort’s tight, pleased little face as she had whispered the news of King Edward’s sons: an obstacle removed. Richard’s own boy was less important; his death was more a moral victory than a political one. Tudor would have destroyed him anyway, once he took power. He could not afford to let any male of the house of York live. To Lady Beaufort, Richard’s grief was only one less problem for her own son.

“Your mother is well, and as industrious as ever on your behalf.”

The warmth in Tudor’s eyes was the closest he ever came to smiling. “She is a wonder.”

“As I said, old Dick was too lenient with the conspirators,” said Morton. “Giving her over to the care of her husband, Lord Stanley, as if that would contain her!”

“And Lord Stanley? Still loyal to the usurper?”

“To all appearances,” said Morton. “He can’t afford to appear otherwise – yet. But your mother works upon him in secret. He plays a close game and cannot show his hand until the very last moment; but he will support you.”

“He will, or bear the consequences,” said Henry. He revealed, suddenly, a high, cold authority, seeming to look down upon them from beneath heavy lids. The demeanour of a king, thought Fautherer. He will need it.

Henry spoke again, his voice snapping with anger. “I am a patient man, but God knows, the waiting is hard.”

If only you had a tenth of the patience of your mother, Fautherer thought, you’d know what waiting is.

“All will come to pass in God’s good time,” Morton said complacently. Henry began to pace in front of the small altar.

“I pray so, for I hear tales… Did I not swear a holy vow to marry Elizabeth of York?”

“You did, and you shall marry her.”

“Yet I hear it said that Richard has developed an incestuous passion for the lady, and means to marry her himself. His own niece! Blood of Iesu!”

Morton cleared his throat. “Indeed, the story reached my ears also. There’s an obstacle to his ambition; his wife still lives.”

Henry made an impatient noise. He was trembling.

“When has he ever let the lives of others stand in his way?”

“Quite so,” Morton said soothingly. “So let us turn the rumour to our own advantage. It’s well-known Anne is ill. Doubtless he wishes her dead; it’s only one step on to presume that he might wish to hasten her upon her way. Dr Fautherer shall go about his business, and soon the whole kingdom shall know that he has poisoned his wife in order to marry his niece. Two more brands of guilt upon him. Child-murder, wife-murder, incest. It has a certain beauty, does it not?”

A shuddering breath came from Henry’s mouth. “As long as we’re not too late. If he marries her, or even touches her… How can I marry a woman soiled by him?”

Morton was shaking his head. “Think of it this way, sire: if he wishes to ruin her for you, it proves one thing.”

“Which is?”

“That he fears you.”

“Yes,” Richmond murmured. “I would surely like him to fear me.”

“He will not marry her. Fautherer will see to it. It will be one more weapon in our armoury against him, that’s all.”

Fautherer studied the distracted glow of Henry’s eyes and saw envy, impatience, ambition and discontent there. Fautherer felt coolly grateful that he’d never been prey to such mundane emotions. He moved in the darkness without partiality. He
was
the darkness.

A messenger appeared in the chapel doorway, a priest. Fautherer responded to his urgent signal and went to hear his words, then went back to Morton’s side.

“What is it?” snapped Tudor.

“We must make haste, sire,” said Fautherer. “We are betrayed. Brittany’s quarrel with England is ended. Richard has agreed to aid Brittany against France, in return for Duke Francis handing you over to him. And the duke has agreed.”

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.