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

by Freda Warrington

Kate slipped away to York in late autumn, apprehensive and exhausted from fending off Isabel’s protests. Soon, she heard that Warwick and his son-in-law were stirring fresh troubles. She resisted Isabel’s pleading letters, but the moment Kate could go back to her – two months into the new year, 1470 – she did so.

  Kate didn’t realise what she was plunging into. Edward had gained the upper hand again. Suddenly Warwick was fleeing into exile with his wife, son-in-law, daughters and servants, this time to seek support in France. Kate found herself bundled along with them, unable to refuse because Isabel needed her. Careless that Isabel was pregnant and Anne often ill, Warwick hauled his daughters about like currency. And here was Isabel, wife of a throneless, disgruntled duke, close to dying for his ambition.

  Kate swore she would never leave Isabel’s side again. She was a dancing russet flame, Kate her shadow; they loved each other, failings and all. They had been through everything together, even the red hell of childbirth.

  Memories faded. Painful reality congealed around Kate. Isabel was quiet as Kate laboured in her place with steady determination. You will be born, child, and as Auset is my teacher, I swear that your birth shall not kill your mother!

  Katherine felt something giving, sliding, inside her. For a few moments she floated in delirium and was in another place, with the faces of Dame Eylott and her mother hovering over her. Then she snapped back to full consciousness to hear Anne crying out, urgently calling her name. “Kate! Mother, Bel… oh, Kate, quickly!”

  She was on her feet, dizzy, just in time to help the countess catch the babe that slithered into their hands. Isabel uttered a groan and lay blinking tears.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  Blue and sickly, the infant boy died within hours.

  ###

  At last they landed further along the Normandy coast, and dragged themselves in exhaustion through the steep dark streets of a harbour town. The sky arched grey and wind-blown above their bedraggled party.

  Kate’s impression of the town was of dankness, of cobbled ways twisting between teetering houses, so steep in places that she had to grasp the slimy stone of house walls to keep her balance. The stones felt mouldy, mossy, their corners rounded off by the weather. A goblin town from a fairy tale. There were petitmorts everywhere, bigger than those at home. Here they were called les vulturs anglais. They sat hunched along the rooftops waiting for fish to scavenge. Even the elementals she glimpsed seemed foreign, pale and slant-eyed in their hiding places. There were surprises, though. Tiny red flowers with whiskery tendrils growing in crannies, salamanders and little frogs like jewels.

  Here Warwick brought them to the house of a friend; a teetering, damp place with warped floorboards, rich hangings that smelled of mildew, and narrow pointed windows filled with red and green stained glass. He was busy, sending out letters and messengers, as if the nightmare voyage had not touched him. The letters were to arrange an audience with Louis XI. Warwick was begging ships, troops and money of the French king, offering him the Earth in exchange.

  The following days were dark with rain. Afterwards, Kate couldn’t remember the sky growing light at all. Her mind was shadowed with worry over Isabel’s fever, her child’s death, George’s disappointment, Anne’s silent sorrow. Even the countess had little to say. She thanked Kate for aiding her daughter and that was all. Perhaps she felt guilt that Kate had given Isabel more help than she, her mother, could.

  Kate couldn’t bear to see Anne Beauchamp powerless, the opposite of her priestess-self. She supposed the Nevilles had never seen the Auset side of her.

  Kate went into the eerie town, seeking food to tempt Isabel’s appetite, but really to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Clarence and Warwick argued continually and the women sat tense and apprehensive. If not for Isabel, Kate would happily have abandoned them.

  When she returned to their private chamber, Isabel came to greet her, rising from her chair with livid cheeks and feverish eyes. At first Kate thought she’d been weeping for the babe again. The countess was absent. Anne was at the window, looking composed but ghostly.

  “Where have you been?” Isabel demanded.

  Kate placed her bundle on a table. “Shopping, for you and Anne. Sugared pastries, cordials, wonderful herbs I’ve never seen before… What’s happened?”

  “George is furious. He was in here raving. I can’t speak to him when he’s in that humour. It isn’t my fault.” Isabel sat on the edge of a chest, her shoulders bowed, head drooping. “It’s not my fault!”

  “The child? Of course it isn’t.”

  “No, not that.”

  Kate sat beside her and Isabel moved close, slipping her hand through Kate’s arm, as always. Her body no longer felt taut with energy but limp and weak. There were brown shadows under her eyes, and her breath was stale.

  “What is it, dear? What’s upset you?”

  “Father’s plans. We suspected, but I never, ever believed he would. They say old Henry’s as peaceful as a monk in the Tower; why, why must they push him onto the throne yet again? It’s plain cruel. That bloody woman!”

  “Who?”

  “Queen Marguerite. Have you any idea how Father hates her? I shouldn’t call her queen. Henry’s wife, Marguerite of Anjou. Her armies killed my grandfather and many other people we loved. He loathes her, despises her!”

  “I saw Marguerite once,” said Kate. “She was all in gold, on a huge horse. I thought she was magnificent. I wanted to be like her.” She added quickly, seeing Isabel’s expression, “But on York’s side, of course.”

  Isabel gave an arid smile. “She’s in exile here, sheltered by King Louis.”

  “I know.”

  “Father means to go on his knees to her and forge an alliance.”

  Kate thought of the promise she’d made to King Edward. She felt slightly sick.

  “Warwick and Marguerite? Would he really do that?”

  “You wouldn’t think it was physically possible to swallow that much pride,” Isabel said bitterly. “But yes, he will truly do anything to get Edward off the throne. Even become a Lancastrian. If she and Louis support him, he promises to restore Henry the Sixth.”

  Kate saw a long, cold stare pass between Isabel and Anne.

  “Oh, Mother of God,” said Kate. “Then George won’t be king after all?”

  “What do you imagine he was ranting about?” Isabel uttered a heavy sigh. “He was trying so hard to be calm about it. Then one of us said something soothing, and he exploded.”

  “You won’t be queen, either.”

  “I don’t care about that.” She looked again at her sister. “It seems Anne will be, instead.”

  Anne stayed silent, biting her lip.

  Isabel went on, “Father plans to marry her to Marguerite’s son, Prince Edouard. He’s explaining the negotiations to my mother now. It’s outrageous, but what can we do?”

  “Anne?” said Kate. “Do you want this?”

  The younger girl exhaled and half-turned to face them. “Have you two quite finished? I told Bel, there’s no point in getting upset. We must accept what Father wants for us. You’re looking in the wrong place for happiness. It’s not about getting what we want, it’s about submitting to our Creator’s will.” Then she dropped her head. A sob broke from her. “The truth is, I’d rather have drowned in that hellish storm than marry Marguerite’s spoiled son.”

  “Oh, dearest…” Isabel began, but Anne silenced her with a look, a flash of bright, cold determination.

  “However, that said, I shall do whatever Father wants with all the good grace and humility I can muster. We are Nevilles, Isabel. Of course we should marry kings.”

  ###

  The cathedral was huge and flooded with pale gold light. Doves fluttered up through nets of sunlight. Katherine sat open-mouthed at the spectacle of the Lancastrian court in exile. Everyone wore glorious clothes patterned with red roses. French was murmured all around her; she was glad she knew enough to understand.
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  There was the Earl of Warwick in a position no one would have believed, standing alongside the Earl of Somerset and other men who’d been his bitter foes on the battlefield. His daughter Anne, ethereal and dignified, was being joined in marriage to Edouard, a big, plain youth who seemed unreasonably pleased with himself. The bishop who conducted the service, adorned with saffron silks, gold and jewels, looked like an over-decorated vase. His mitre was so high that Kate was in serious danger of being ejected from the cathedral for laughing.

  And there was Queen Marguerite. Kate couldn’t believe she was so close. She was an icon, unreal. Not as tall as Kate remembered, nor as majestic. In fact, she seemed a gaunt figure, ten years older, her glorious hair turned grey and the hard face sunken against her skull. Years of frustrated ambition sat in her expression. She still looked like a goddess to Kate, but of the worst kind – one of war and cruelty.

  There was little joy in the service. Their smiles were strained. Isabel wore a look of plain incredulity, and George of Clarence looked murderous throughout. But there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. A new beginning. Enemies became allies. Enemies would swallow their loathing and slide into bed together, if it brought the achievement of their dreams.

  The music was exquisite, almost making Kate cry if she closed her eyes to forget where she was. She made a quiet appeal to the magnificent statue of Blue Virgin Mary, the only aspect of the goddess acknowledged here. Sweet Mother, protect your daughter Anne, let her be happy. Forgive me for being here. Please don’t let this hurt either Anne, or King Edward.

  A prayer was said in French, entreating Almighty God to let this divine union herald Lancastrian victory; and the capricious divinity smiled upon them.

  Within months, Henry VI was back on the throne of England, and Edward had fled into exile.

  Chapter Six. 1471: Raphael

  “What is your favourite weapon, your Grace?” asked Ratcliffe.

  “An axe,” the Duke told him. “One so seldom has to hit twice with it.”

  Patrick Carleton, Under the Hog

  Along the slope of a hill the army waited, looking at a swirling white wall. Vapour came from Raphael’s mouth to thicken the mist, yet he was sweating. His armour felt heavy, his skin soapy under its weight.

  All night Warwick’s cannon fire had shaken the ground, overshooting King Edward’s troops but ensuring they had no sleep. Even then the mist had been gathering, wisps layering the air like summoned elementals. By dawn, the fields and woods lay submerged, a drowned valley under a lake of thick wet vapour.

  Somewhere in this sea of milk stood the enemy; the Earl of Warwick with his troops, his brother Marquis Montagu commanding the centre, their Lancastrian allies the Earl of Oxford and the Marquis of Exeter on the flanks. They were close, Raphael knew, but nothing could be seen. Both armies had taken up their positions in darkness but now the growing light gave them no help.

  He was in half-armour for ease of movement, with one gauntleted hand on the harness of two graylix, Tyrant and Teaser. He wore a breastplate shaped long over the thighs for protection, sleeves of padding and chainmail, leather breeches and boots, a surcoat with Lykenwold’s colours, or and azure. Hung about him he had his axe, sword, dagger and shield. Will Shaw was with him, and a couple of apprentice handlers, solid lads with cool nerves, each holding a couple of beasts. He envied their more basic garments, long padded jacks which, they claimed, were easier to move in and better protection against sword and arrow than armour. They were positioned just to one side of the front rank of archers, a poor place to be when arrows began flying.

  The meaty, sweaty stench of the animals was strong. The archers nearby kept a cautious distance, averting their eyes from the nearly-human, cruel and knowing faces of the graylix. In the unnatural fog, even the beasts were quiet.

  Raphael’s mouth was dry, his sallet heavy upon his head. This was his first battle. He’d been nervous earlier, but now the marching and the waiting had gone on so long he felt merely uncomfortable, tired and impatient. All around him was a murmur of sound; the clatter of armour, men clearing their throats, horses fidgeting and pawing the ground. Far away to their left, King Edward commanded the centre and Lord Hastings the far flank, but they might as well have been in another county in these cold wreaths of fog.

  Raphael roughly knew the disposition of troops on his own flank; the well-equipped archers in front; behind them the higher-ranked men-at-arms in full armour; billmen and halberdiers in livery; down to the poorest foot-soldiers who’d come in whatever padded jackets they could find, armed with cleavers or pitchforks. At present, he could see no further than the nearest three ranks of men. Their helmets gleamed dully under a coating of dew. Their longbows were a stiff winter forest. Occasionally one would cough or shift his weight, but otherwise they were silent.

  Lord Lykenwold’s men were on the right flank under Gloucester’s command. Raphael was glad, although he’d only glimpsed the duke at a distance, and knew he might die before he saw Richard again. Gloucester was inexperienced, and the blood-red Earl of Warwick was a terrifying opponent who had crushed Edward’s supporters at Edgecote Field. Raphael imagined the crushing as literal. Armour smashed like snail-shells, blood-trails silvering the grass around broken bodies.

  Edward had returned from exile and taken back the throne without resistance, while Warwick – caught unawares – had hidden in Coventry and waited for his supporters to regroup. They said poor King Henry gave up the throne graciously, even gratefully. Now Edward had intercepted Warwick at Barnet, forcing him to give battle before Marguerite arrived with reinforcements.

  There was a muffled thump of hooves. Lord Lykenwold appeared through the mist, mounted on a huge black destrier with a long rippling mane and a tail that brushed the ground. Most lords and commanders would go into battle on foot, to reassure their men that they wouldn’t turn tail and flee if things went badly; that they would fight and die beside them. Lykenwold was one of the few mounted, for the swift dispersal of commands.

  His horse danced, caparisoned in blue and gold, its nostrils flaring at the scent of graylix. Lord Lykenwold’s armour, too, was blue and gold, colours swirling like oil upon the metal plates. He was slender, bright and energetic, like a dragonfly. Beneath the raised visor his face looked small and pink.

  “Not long, lads,” he said, reining in the horse. “Courage. Remember who we’re fighting for, even with this wretched weather.” His conversational manner always reassured them. “King Edward reckons this fog is worse for the enemy than for us.” He winked.

  “How’s he make that out, your lordship?” asked Will Shaw.

  “God’s on our side, of course. Also the fact that we’ve an extra four thousand men, whom Warwick’s lost. We’ve the Duke of Gloucester to thank for that, though how he managed to persuade Clarence back to Edward’s side, I’ll never know.”

  “Well, Clarence just goes along with the last person who spoke to him, doesn’t he?” said Will Shaw, with a smirk.

  “Even Clarence isn’t that feather-headed, Will,” said Lykenwold. “He’s been made to see sense, that’s all.”

  One week ago, Lykenwold’s army had reached the town of Warwick and Raphael had seen, from a distance, the brothers meeting. The two groups met on the road, their great horses with their arched necks resembling creatures in a tapestry. Clarence had appeared a bright and profligate figure, with silver armour and a flying cloak of cream velvet resplendent with silver foxtails. Gloucester was his opposite: dark and spare, a raven.

  This was the first time Raphael had seen Richard since childhood. He hadn’t expected the sight of him to rouse such deep, powerful feelings. It was like the first glimpse of a legendary king or a saint, unbearably moving. Clarence was the flamboyant one, but Richard of Gloucester drew all Raphael’s attention, as if he were some mysterious shining icon of black stone. The brothers embraced and rode away together.

  “I wonder what they said to each other?” Raphael murmured.

&
nbsp; “An appeal to brotherly love and solidarity, at a guess,” said Lykenwold.

  “More like the rewards Clarence would get from Edward if he came back,” said Will.

  Lykenwold grinned. “Not to get his head struck off was reward enough, I’d say. They say that young Gloucester has a tongue of velvet that would charm the Devil himself into changing sides.”

  “I believe it,” said Raphael.

  “May we be as glad of that as Warwick is miserable,” said Lykenwold, shortening his reins.

  “Warwick the Kingshafter,” said Will, and Lykenwold rode away laughing. Within two strides, he was lost in the pearly wall.

  “Wonder if the other side have graylix?” said one of the apprentices, high-voiced.

  “They say not,” Raphael answered. “Nobles can only keep them under royal licence and the Lancastrians all had theirs revoked. Warwick never used them anyway.”

  “That’s summat,” said Will.

  Somewhere in the cloud, a trumpet spoke. Tyrant and Teaser rose on their haunches, growling. Raphael’s arm ached from holding them.

  “All right, lads,” he said, switching hands and rubbing the backs of their skulls to soothe them.

  There was movement in the smothering greyness. Captains were shouting orders, their voices muffled. One voice must be Richard’s, but he couldn’t tell which. Then came a louder shout, and the archers beside him released a sudden storm of arrows. The rattling, whooshing noise was startling, but when it ended, there came no answering rain. A shiver went through him. Men muttered. Tension drew bow-tight.

  Tyrant stood on muscular hindlegs, froth dropping from his un-muzzled jaws.

  Above the ranks of the soldiers the mist thinned briefly and Raphael glimpsed King Edward’s banner far away, the Sun in Splendour, swaying and moving uphill. Closer, a white boar ramped on a cobalt banner, then vanished.

  The archers dropped aside to let men-at-arms through. The trumpet sang the command Raphael had been waiting for.