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

by Freda Warrington

  They’d brought a cleric with them; a bishop in dull earth-colours rather than ceremonial silver and saffron. He had a neat little face in a round head, a neck so short and broad that his double chin rested directly on his chest. His thin dark hair was oiled to a high shine. He smiled, appraising Katherine from small brilliant eyes like a polecat’s. Although his garb was modest, there were jewels on his fingers, and the Lamb badge on his chest was made of pearl and diamond, with rubies to represent the blood.

  He had a companion, a thin stooped priest dressed in ochre. His face was cadaverous, especially when he smiled.

  “Your daughter’s virtues, my lady, are highly praised and most praiseworthy,” said the senior lord. “As are yours.”

  “It is flattering of you to say so, my lord,” Eleanor said stiffly. “Katherine, greet kindly your cousin Thomas, Lord Stanley, to whom we have the honour to be related on my father’s side.”

  As the older lord kissed her hand, she sensed his condescension. He was beautifully groomed, and smelled of an exotic, subtle perfume.

  “Our dear friend, Bishop Morton,” said Stanley, stepping aside to present her.

  As protocol required, Kate kissed the Lamb symbol. “Your Grace.”

  “His assistant, Dr Fautherer…”

  The man in ochre grasped her fingertips for a brief moment. The touch sent a shudder through her. His hands were parchment-dry, like lizard skin.

  “And allow me to present my son, George Stanley.”

  The son, like his father, was huge in his puffed and padded finery. His fingers were hot on hers as he bowed low, pressing clammy lips to the back of her hand. He smelled of sweat, as if radiating nervous heat. He regarded her with wide-eyed eagerness that, after a while, she found repellent.

  “We are honoured, your Graces,” said Kate, not knowing what else to say.

  She exchanged glances with her mother. Eleanor’s face was tight. They both knew who these men were, the danger they represented, and the presumption of their visit; but they had no choice but to present a gracious facade.

  So easy to believe that their small estate, tucked in a lush fold of the Derbyshire Peaks, was unknown beyond its boundaries. So easily was the illusion shattered.

  “Come, you must be hungry after your journey,” said Eleanor. “It’s too long since last we saw you.”

  “Indeed, I would have come to pay my respects before now,” Stanley said in a flat tone, “if news of your husband’s demise had reached me sooner.”

  Roast capon and goose were brought to the table while her mother’s musicians played; a rough country affair it must seem to the Stanleys. A drum tapped gently beneath the thin, haunting sound of reed pipes.

  At first the conversation was innocuous: what a fine small church the village had, such a splendid tomb to honour John, the excellent grazing of Eleanor’s land that produced such fine wool. They spoke of trade, land management and music.

  Only Dr Fautherer said little, but his bulbous pale eyes flicked back and forth.

  Lord Stanley and his son were personable enough, if dull. Katherine longed to ask questions. How often were they at court, and what happened there? What was King Edward like in person? Was it true all women fell in love with him on sight? Was his wife, the widow Grey, Queen Elizabeth, as beautiful as folk said? She held back the rude, ridiculous questions.

  “A fine little church,” said Bishop Morton, “but your arrangements are somewhat… old-fashioned. If you wish, I could send men to aid your priest to effect, ah, improvements.”

  Katherine saw her mother stiffen from head to foot. “I appreciate your kind offer, your Grace, but we are quite happy with our church.”

  “The pagan remains can draw negative influences,” said Morton. “Where the Devil finds a crack in the door, he’ll be in. That old stone – I won’t grace it with the term altar – really ought to go. I’ll send someone. It’s no trouble.”

  Kate thought her mother would explode.

  “Truly, your Grace, there’s no need,” she said, delicately polite. “The villagers would be extremely upset if anything were to be disturbed. The church has served us well for hundreds of years. The old altar has always been there. Removing it might stir… the very thing you fear.”

  “I understand.” Morton acquiesced, raising plump hands. “It’s your demesne, of course, my lady. I wasn’t suggesting that you are anything but devout.”

  He backed down, but the threat was made. Morton sat serene, watching Eleanor silently fuming. Kate was outraged. Her mother would not bend the truth to appease this man. In any case, their beliefs were not forbidden.

  Yet.

  The conversation pressed on. Surely the management of an estate was difficult for a woman alone, Lord Stanley suggested. Such a tragedy, to be widowed without a son and heir. Her mother deflected each insinuation, but they kept coming, all disguised as concern for her future.

  Throughout the ordeal, George Stanley’s stare never left Kate’s breasts.

  He seemed good-natured, as clumsy as a calf. His father exchanged narrow smiles with Morton, as if to say, “He’s well pleased.”

  “Gentlemen, my husband was a devoted servant to King Edward’s father,” Eleanor said coolly. “If any of these misfortunes should threaten us, the king himself would not refuse me his protection.”

  That halted them in their tracks.

  “Indeed, we’re all devoted servants of the king,” Stanley countered. “He would not deny you our protection. In these uncertain times, if anything befell to King Edward – which God forbid – you might have dire need of us.”

  Eleanor paled. Katherine chewed at the cushion of her lip. There was a fog of deceit in their honeyed words but she couldn’t tease out the meaning. Or she could, but feared to believe it. In dread she watched her mother’s face.

  “Katherine, would you leave us now?” Eleanor said.

  “What?” Taken by surprise, Kate couldn’t hold back her rude response.

  “Go up to the solar and wait for me there.”

  “But Mama––”

  “Katherine.” The word struck like an arrow-head. Kate could not be seen to defy her mother. Defeated, she feigned subservience and left with all the grace she could muster.

  In the solar, her mother’s private chamber, she watched sunlight flooding through the stained-glass windows, filling the room with a red-gold glow. She pulled off the stifling headdress and shook loose her hair. What a waste of a glorious afternoon. She resented the Stanleys for intruding.

  Perhaps their visit was sincere. Eleanor was alone and they genuinely wanted to help her.

  George Stanley’s young face glimmered in her mind, sweat beading his lip. Earnest, nervy, almost stupid with eagerness. Many would have called him handsome. She’d often wondered about love, but did not see it as nervous, moist-eyed and sweaty. Love did not wear the face of Lord Stanley’s son.

  The idea of marrying him…

  Panic seized her. Katherine sat amazed at the strength of her disgust. Am I expected to take the first man who is offered to me? she wondered. Will anyone care that I can’t love him, or even tolerate him?

  No, no, she thought. My mother would never do that to me. She promised.

  Edith’s shade moved like dust through sunbeams, saying nothing.

  After an hour or so, the door creaked open and her mother came in.

  Eleanor looked stern, her eyes bruised with anxiety. In her hand was a parchment, folded in three and sealed with a clot of wax.

  “They have left,” she said.

  Kate jumped up. “Already? Thank goodness!”

  “They will return in ten days to hear our answer.”

  “What answer, Mama?”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Eleanor’s voice was low, her eyes molten iron. “‘Might I remind you, madam,’ Lord Stanley said to me, ‘that when your father died without sons or nephews, that left me his closest male heir. That gives me a claim upon this land. I have so far chosen not to p
ursue it.’ As if I should be grateful!” Eleanor cried.

  “Mama…”

  “He wants my land. He will generously let us keep a corner of the house, while he moves in his own household, takes control of my estate, my Cauldron Hollow…”

  “The Hollow?”

  “The Church has an interest, too. Although the Motherlodge is lawful, they’re desperate to end our rights. Another sacred place destroyed would provide great satisfaction to them.”

  “They can’t! Can they?”

  Her mother’s response chilled her.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Eleanor repeated. “If Stanley chooses to fight me in court, with the Church’s backing, he could well win.”

  Katherine drew herself up, trembling so hard it seemed the whole house was shaking. “He has swathes of land! Why does he need ours?”

  “It’s a place of rare beauty. Why wouldn’t take every morsel?” She struck her palm with the parchment in a slow rhythm.

  “What’s in the letter?” Kate asked.

  “Our way out. He offered me a compromise. I know I said this would never happen, but…”

  “Oh, no.”

  Her mother’s shocked eyes turned ruthless. “Stanley’s son is a decent man. He would be gentle, and cherish you. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to marry him. That is Stanley’s offer. The only way to keep our demesne is for you to marry George.”

  Katherine cried, “So he makes it a wedding present to his son, with me thrown in! I was right – they were looking me over like a mare at market! I wonder he didn’t thrust his fingers in my mouth and examine my teeth.”

  A frown creased Eleanor’s forehead. She looked dangerous. “Did you find him offensive?”

  “I’d sooner marry Tom in the stables!” Tears of rage rolled down her face. “You promised you would never do this!”

  “I know, Kate. But it’s the only way. Calm yourself and think! Yes, if you marry George, Stanley’s descendants will inherit our demesne, but so will ours. Thomas Stanley will rarely be here, and George will prove malleable. We can ease him into our ways, make him a good lord. The land, then, will pass to your children.”

  “Are the Stanleys Yorkists?” Kate demanded.

  “When it suits them.”

  “Lancastrians the rest of the time? Father would never forgive you!”

  “How dare you throw your father’s name at me! I cannot lose this land. I know it’s hard, but for once in your life you will do as I say. Read it.”

  Eleanor held out the letter. Her daughter glared, recoiling. “What is it?”

  “George Stanley’s proposal. I read over his shoulder as he wrote it, and it’s surprisingly sincere and touching.”

  Kate snatched the parchment. “I will not read it! How can you consider this even for a moment? How can you give in without a fight? You’re not my mother! After all you’ve promised, all my life – we need no lord, Auset will protect us – this! I’ll not be bought and sold like a sheep, I’ll die before I marry that sweating overdressed oaf!”

  Dramatically she tore the letter in half and threw it in the grate. She pushed past her mother and fled the room, away from the imperious roar that followed.

  “Kate!”

  She’d never felt such blinding rage. She ran from fear as much as anger. Denial pushed hot heavy fingers through her. If she only fled fast enough, she could prevent the whole calamity from having happened.

  Still in her best dress, she ran to the stables and bridled Mab. Ignoring Tom’s protests, she fastened the buckles with trembling fingers, led the mare outside and vaulted on bareback, sitting astride like a boy. Tom’s face became a fading blur. Mab loved to gallop, and she flowed like silk between Kate’s thighs. They were running away.

  ###

  Deep in the countryside, Kate felt free. Her fury cooled. She dismounted and looked up at the sky of the sweetest blue. A valley cupped her, enfolded by green meadows. A narrow stream ran along the valley floor to feed the Melandra. On her left was a steep rise of woodland; on all sides stood oak, ash and birch, rustling in the warm breeze, limpidly green. Tethering Mab to a low branch, she scratched the mare’s neck affectionately and left her to graze.

  Kate sat in her favourite place, a spread of grass within a loop of the stream, with an oak tree at her back. This was her retreat, Blackthorn Griffe: her meadow, secluded by trees and bushes growing along the curves of the stream. Such enchantment dwelled here that it could well be another Hollow, a sacred way to the hidden world – one that even her mother hadn’t found. Hers.

  A bee bumped against her face and she felt its velvety body. All her senses were alive. The grass was thick with buttercups. A layer of shimmering air peeled from the bank and tumbled into the water, full of rippling laughter. Kate glimpsed naiads, transparent and laced with rainbows, like bubbles. She felt the intense shimmer of the hidden world. The veil between her and the faerie realm became cobweb-thin.

  She could simply stay here, never go home again. And then?

  Kate didn’t want to run away. She wanted life to stay as it always had been. Perhaps if she’d grown up in an ordinary household, taught to bow to the will of men, she would accept her fate. But she had not, and felt utterly betrayed. How has Mama become so worn down by struggle that she’d go against all our principles and barter her only daughter?

  Kate half-thought of killing herself. No – she was too full of life to become a martyr. Too angry. Something wild and desperate boiled inside her, impelling her to take drastic action; but not suicide, and certainly not a nunnery, Auset help her.

  She closed her eyes. Her lips moved in a plea to the great Serpent Mother.

  “Sweet Auset, Mother of All, please aid me. If not an answer, give me a sign, a clue, anything. Whatever path you show me when I open my eyes, I’ll take it.”

  Beyond the redness of her eyelids the world grew loud with the sound of trees, insects and birdsong blending into a single roar.

  Her eyes snapped open. Nothing had changed. The meadow was as before: glorious, serene, revealing nothing.

  Kate sighed. She should know better than to expect easy answers from the goddess. She leaned back against the warm trunk, sunning her face. She would go home eventually, but not yet.

  A noise startled her. Animals running through the trees… then a steadier noise. Hoofbeats on dry earth.

  She sat up, infuriated. Had someone come looking for her?

  Along the narrow path on the far bank of the stream came a man on horseback. His horse was magnificent, a glossy bay with an arched neck and a high-stepping gait. A stranger. If she sat still, he might go straight past and not see her.

  Then Mab raised her head, and whickered.

  The man turned and looked straight at Kate.

  She cursed. No one ever came here! Why today? The last thing she wanted was another encounter with a stranger, gentle or threatening. His intrusion echoed the Stanleys’ visit, a reminder of her powerlessness in the outer world.

  Then something extraordinary happened. A furious growling broke out in a copse that lay behind and to her right. Feline squalls tangled with darker snarls. Kate leapt up and ran to quiet Mab who was dancing from side to side in alarm.

  She saw, striped by tree shadow, two astonishing beasts. Both had stepped out of heraldry: one a small lithe leopard, pure white with blue eyes. Silver dapples ruffled its coat and there was an aura around its head, a mane bristling with aggression like a crown of spiked silver. The leopard growled, swishing its tail.

  Its adversary was a heavy, charcoal beast, all bunched muscles. It had a black mane like a lion’s, and an ugly, furious face, all fangs. The beast wasn’t much bigger than the pard but three times its weight. A graylix.

  Kate had never seen one loose before. She felt sick with terror. They could bite a small child in half, or bring down a fleeing horse. Nothing frightened them, and they attacked anything that moved.

  The two beasts stood face-to-face, roaring threats. She saw
the brave leopard crouch, ready to spring. It stood no chance. With a flurry of snarls both creatures leapt and clashed.

  There was a whirr, a dull thud. The graylix twisted in mid-air and fell, squealing like a boar, with an arrow in its ribs. Kate glanced round and saw the man riding towards the fight, jumping the stream as he went. Reaching the trees, he leapt off his horse and continued on foot. He threw aside his bow as he went, and drew a broadsword.

  Kate lifted her heavy skirts and ran after him. Twigs cracked under her embroidered slippers. As she entered the copse, she saw him pierce the graylix through the heart. The terrible noise ceased. The creature lay still, its smooth dark-grey coat turning black with blood. Kate stood there, panting, watching the man clean and sheath his sword. He was slim and raven-haired, no older than her. He turned and looked at her. Neither spoke.

  Then another extraordinary thing happened, convincing her she must have crossed into the hidden world, or at least be on its very border.

  The snowy pard came to her, just as her mother’s cats did. Although pards were dangerous hunters, she felt no fear. The pard reared, placed its big paws on her shoulders and touched its tongue to the tip of her nose. The tongue was edged with purple-black, like an orchid. It held her gaze for a moment with eyes as blue as her own. Then it jumped softly down, slipped away through the trees, and vanished.

  “A silver pard,” the young man said softly. “I’ve never seen one before. Not even in the royal menagerie.”

  “Nor have I,” said Kate.

  “I thought they existed only in myths, like the unicorn.”

  “There’s something strange about the unicorn,” she said. “My mother has the horn of one, but she says it came out of the sea, far up in the northern lands. They’re shaped like horses, but live in the sea; how is that possible?” She hesitated, feeling she was talking nonsense. “Still, if they can exist, so can the silver pard.”

  He was staring at her. He was astonishingly handsome: not in a flamboyant, arrogant way but with an unassuming, down to earth, gentle quality. Lean and graceful, he was only a few inches taller than Kate. His clothes were midnight blue and mulberry, beautifully sewn. The doublet was cut into long, curved points over slim velvet trousers. He had high boots of umber leather, well-worn but fine, and the sheath that contained his sword was sombre black, inlaid with gold.