“Yes, but subtler than that. He is your daemon lover, my dear. The shadow-self in your soul. Your ideal lover, your inspiration, your muse. He visits your dreams and daydreams.”
“Relentlessly!”
“You’ve projected your daemon onto a real figure, as everyone does; but he’s all yours. It’s true, the daemon doesn’t always appear in a virtuous guise; he may be dangerous, a vampire or a charismatic villain that you can’t resist. That’s essential, because he’s trying to teach you something, to challenge as well as to delight. He inhabits the mysterious land of the psyche and shines the light of wisdom into the dark corners. Don’t reject him. He’s a messenger from your soul.”
I smile, thinking she is Eleanor to my Raphael. “I don’t want him to leave me, ever.”
“He won’t,” says Fin.
Chapter Nineteen. 1485: Plantagenet
CATESBY
Rescue, my lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The King enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger.
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!
Richard III Act V scene 4
At first the armour felt deceptively comfortable. The satin lining of Raphael’s arming doublet was an echo of luxury, sliding coolly against his skin as Will Shaw began to tie his armour onto him, plate by plate. He shivered a little, but within moments he was beginning to sweat, like a crab in its shell. The king’s pavilion was full of knights arming. Lovell, Catesby and Ratcliffe, Robert Percy and Robert Ashton and all the other men of Richard’s faithful household. William Catesby looked out of place in armour. He had the aspect of a lawyer, not a soldier.
When he’d finished, Will gave a lop-sided grin and patted his arm. “Raffel, y’look like St George.”
“Appropriate, as it’s a dragon coming to fight us.”
“Nah,” sneered Will. “A hatchling horned toad, maybe.”
Raphael was calmer than he’d expected. This felt nothing like the dream. There was an atmosphere of tense urgency but each moment was real and solidly placed in time. Nothing nightmarish, just a feeling of intense tiredness, and anxiety coiled so tight in his stomach that he felt weightless.
An air of chaos lay on the camp, an ill-omen. Henry Tudor’s side had armed earlier than expected. A short round priest was panicking that the bread and wine for Mass had been stolen, and the culprit would burn in hell for his misdeed. He trembled before the king, but Richard seemed unmoved. He looked straight into the priest’s eyes, his face grave and drawn. When he spoke the priest jumped, even though the voice was gentle.
“It doesn’t matter. There will be no Mass.”
There was a clamour of protest. William Catesby said, “Sire – if you go into battle without Mass, your soul…”
“And we can’t breakfast until we’ve heard Mass, either,” Francis Lovell added.
“There isn’t time. If I win, I’ll hear Mass after. If not, there is no point in appealing to God; my fate is decided.” Richard turned, beckoning his squires. Raphael thought the priest was relieved as much as mortified. He shrank away from the king. There was something terrifying about him in the grey dawn, as if he’d entered the hidden world and emerged a spectre.
Raphael thought that was exactly what had happened to him.
He and Will left the king’s tent and went to inspect the graylix. Other men had charge of them now; it was years since he’d handled them. The thought of their huge, dusty black heads and uncompromising faces, even their stench, stirred nostalgia.
Reaching the cages, he found their keepers distraught.
“We found seven of them dead this morning, sir,” said the chief handler, a gruff with round, pouched eyes. “Three and a half couple we’ve lost. Only one and a half couple left, and they’re grievous sick. Poisoned. There were scraps of meat left…”
“By the enemy?” Raphael’s tension flared into anger.
“I hope by the enemy. No one loves them, but I’m sure there’s none of our own side would harm them.”
“And how the devil did the enemy creep up to their cages? Who was on watch?”
“Me, sir. I’m sorry.” The keeper drew away, miserable. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“Someone slept who should have been watching.”
He remembered the beasts as they’d been yesterday, hauling upon their chains as, two by two, they preceded King Richard’s army out of Leicester. A sign of royal might, heraldic creatures brought to life amidst a mass of standard bearers, trumpeters, priests bearing banners and crosses. Now, nothing but meat.
The keepers looked on aghast as he went to the nearest cage and opened it. The graylix inside snarled but was too weak to attack. He saw the bloody foam on its mouth, the yellow, accusing eyes. The stench of its laboured breath was foul. Caressing the huge skull, he felt its fever-heat and shudders of pain.
“Get me a cross-bow,” he said. A boy obeyed. Raphael shot the graylix where it lay, ending its misery. He dealt with the other two in turn and then stood numb.
This had not been part of his vision.
“I’ll tell the king of this,” Raphael said harshly, and saw the men’s faces turn haggard. His own severity shocked him. “Whoever let it happen will pay.”
Richard was ready. His armour made him as bright as a leaping salmon, and he moved as if it weighed nothing. He was smiling. In that moment he looked invincible. As Raphael walked towards him, he saw Francis settle the king’s helmet onto his head. A gold coronet, encircled it, spiked with blood-drop rubies.
At that, a flash of fear went through him. Yes, this had happened before. This was all as it had been in the dream, every step, like a choreographed dance; and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to change the outcome.
A moment later the vision evaporated. No, this was real and nothing was pre-ordained… His head span with the paradox and he envied the men around him who’d never been so afflicted. Richard’s commanders surrounded him; Norfolk and his son Surrey, Robert Brackenbury, Richard’s nephew the Earl of Lincoln.
“Dick, must you wear it?” Ratcliffe was saying. His heavy face looked rough from lack of sleep. “It’ll mark you as a target for every enemy soldier on the battlefield.”
Richard’s face was serene yet dangerous. There was no arguing with him.
“It will mark who I am, and show that I’m not afraid to be so marked. I’ll fight and die a crowned king. One thing they’ll not say of me is that I was a coward. Raphael? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t want to trouble the king, but everyone was looking at him. He spoke quickly. “Our graylix pack is dead, your Grace. They were poisoned last night.”
Richard’s reaction was minimal. “The culprit?”
“Unknown.”
“Perhaps the same who left a note for the Duke of Norfolk, warning him not to fight for me.” He exhaled. “Another ill omen. A spy from the enemy or a traitor among our own, I wonder?”
Francis began, “If any are so treacherous, they should be…” but Richard spoke across him.
“There are many who might be. A grim state of affairs, isn’t it?” he said aridly. “Where’s George Stanley?”
“Held under guard in his tent,” said Francis.
“Have him brought to the battlefield, where I can keep close watch upon him. Have word sent yet again to Lord Thomas and his brother William, reminding them that I hold their son and nephew hostage as surety of their support. They know the rest.”
“Yes, sire.”
Richard’s face changed. Warmth softened the hard lines and he looked in turn at every man within the cloth-of-gold walls. “And my dear faithful friends, who have stayed with me to the last. Today will see either the end of my reign, or the beginning.”
When Richard’s gaze fell upon him, Raphael couldn’t speak. It might be the last time, the last quiet moment
of friendship. The whirl of destiny was too great for his frame to contain. He must swallow the feeling, think only of practical matters. That he had all his weapons to hand, that his horse was properly caparisoned, that the cramping of his guts was not beyond control…
“Come then, gentlemen. To arms.”
###
A fresh sky held the promise of heat. From the summit of the hill, the king’s party held the advantage and a superb view of the landscape around them. There were villages tucked into folded fields, the spires of churches. Woodland spilled from the folds.
The hem of the hill dropped away towards a wide flat field with a marsh. Mist hung there, damp and mysterious. The marsh formed a barrier of sorts, protecting the king’s troops and limiting Tudor’s path of attack.
Richard’s horse was a grey charger called Fame of York, his favourite, a solid handsome stallion covered in smoky dapples, the mane and tail like rippled cloud. Housed in armour and heraldry, the charger appeared to be beaten from steel.
Raphael’s own mount was a liver chestnut called Red Briar, an intractable beast that pulled like an ox. Others thought him mad to take on the horse, but he’d always had an affinity for the wayward, the outcast. On a good day he could cajole the animal to go sweetly for him. Will Shaw was on foot beside him, in half-armour, looking bemused at their situation as if he couldn’t wait to get this over and find the nearest alehouse.
A large company of knights surrounded the king, steel and gold. The leopards and lilies of England flew bravely above them. The confidences Richard had shared with Raphael were gone with the dew. He was their commander, untouchable, a figure of burning silver.
The constant ebb of sound thickened the air; the clatter of armour, horses neighing and fidgeting. Below them on the forward slope of Ambion Hill stood the scarlet forest of the Duke of Norfolk’s army. Behind them was the vanguard under the Earl of Northumberland. They stood high above the enemy, but the narrowness of the hill forced Richard to place his troops in tandem, rather than spreading them in a more impressive array.
Raphael knew, at last, that nothing he’d seen in his vision mattered. Even if he’d seen every detail, it would make no difference. He could not tell Richard what to do. The matter was out of his hands. He looked up at the sky, relinquishing himself to fate.
“Any word from the Stanleys?” Richard asked. His visor was raised.
Raphael looked about, and could see two armies at a distance: their bristling lances, at least. To the north was Lord Stanley, whom Kate had so loathed. To the south, his brother William.
“They greet you well, sire,” said one of the heralds, looking uneasy, “and say that they come defensibly arrayed, as you asked, ready to do battle.”
“But on whose behalf?” Richard said grimly. Turning in the saddle, he looked back at his hostage George Stanley, Lord Strange, who stood on foot between his guards. His puppyish face was loose with fear, while Richard’s was hard, terrible. Raphael shivered, glad he was not in Lord Strange’s position.
He thought, would Thomas Stanley truly put his stepson, Tudor, before his king? Even before his own son? Is he insane?
Out across the marsh, Henry Tudor’s army approached. Raphael caught his breath. Seen through the marsh vapours where the sun hadn’t yet reached they were shapes in the mist. An army of the dead, moving through the blue and purple of the hidden world with a terrible, rustling thunder.
Richard looked upon the shooting-star banners of Tudor’s commander, the Earl of Oxford, and let out a thin breath, almost a hiss. Raphael saw other banners he knew; Sir John Cheyney the giant, Sir William Brandon, Jasper Tudor, Edward Woodville. The traitors were flaunting their badges for all to see. In the centre floated the green, white and red of Tudor’s dragon, unspeakably presumptuous.
“What makes him so arrogant,” Richard said quietly, “if not sure knowledge of treachery against me?”
Catesby cleared his throat. “I don’t see either Stanley rushing to reinforce him.”
“Well, that’s interesting. If Thomas Stanley sits on the fence any longer, it will cut him in half. Send word to him again to engage on our side on pain of his son’s death.”
“Look at them,” said Francis. “The finest ruffians Tudor could skim out of French and Norman jails. Queen Marguerite would be proud.”
The sun touched the enemy troops, turning an army of ghosts into a rabble of brigands. Even at this distance they looked rough and violent, with nothing to lose. The Earl of Oxford himself was visible in golden armour. Raphael felt icy fury to see them. As they wheeled around the fringe of the marsh and began to move face-on to Norfolk’s front line, he saw the counterpoise of a familiar struggle. Beasts shouldering forwards, handlers hauling them back.
“They have graylix!”
“So I see,” Richard answered, angry now. “And by what royal licence do they hold them?”
“Oxford’s?” Ratcliffe said gruffly.
“Long revoked, even before Barnet.”
The first cannon fire shook the ground. Raphael’s horse threw up its head and stood shivering. Sweat foamed on the dark coat. The crack of Norfolk’s guns began to fracture the air; bombards, serpentines, harquebusiers. All around him, horses were shying, knights manfully struggling for control. Sharp smoke drifted. Like a dull echo, Henry Tudor’s lines returned fire.
At such a range, little harm was done. Before the fire of slow unwieldy guns faded, the archers let fly. Arrows arced like a storm of deadly birds, wave upon rattling wave. Tudor’s retaliation formed an intersecting curve.
Raphael saw men begin to fall. His heart jumped to a higher rhythm. Now he was breathing fast. This was it, the final day, no going back. It might be his last hour. Richard’s last hour.
Screams. Graylix were charging in among Norfolk’s archers, causing havoc. He’d counted six couple while they were still on the leash. Arrows exhausted, the archers drew other weapons, swords, axes, billhooks. He could track the path of each graylix by the panicked eddies of men. He marked where each was slain when the movement ceased.
A trumpet brayed; Norfolk was sounding the advance. Lines of men began to descend upon the Earl of Oxford, but the graylix attack had weakened Norfolk’s front line and they were struggling to reform, the captains yelling themselves hoarse.
Richard had superior numbers. Surely Oxford would be crushed by the sheer weight of men pouring down the hill. In a roaring crescendo, the two waves of soldiers crashed. Yells and screams ruptured the heavens.
Rapidly it appeared they had underestimated the pretender.
Oxford’s small army stood solid under the onslaught. He aimed them like a wedge into the centre of Norfolk’s vanguard and the whole line began to sag, men falling away like beads from a broken necklace.
A number of Norfolk’s men were carried off course by their own momentum downhill, and couldn’t force a way back into the melee. Raphael saw some throwing down their weapons and slinking away. Once a few started, the impulse to flee spread like a plague.
Richard was yelling, “Send to Lord Stanley that if he does not throw his strength in with mine–”
Then they all saw the worst happening: Sir William Stanley’s men were charging, openly attacking Norfolk’s flank. His brother Thomas still held back, uncommitted; but groups of men were peeling from his lines and trotting to join Henry Tudor’s.
Behind Richard’s troops, the Earl of Northumberland’s army was ghost-silent. Glancing back, Raphael was startled to see they were still there. He wouldn’t have been surprised find they had silently quit the field. He remembered the earl’s nervous pallor in the gloom of his tent, the convulsive bobbing of his larynx.
A messenger – one of many Richard had sent to Thomas Stanley – came riding back so hard that his horse stumbled. “Your Grace,” the youth gasped, “Lord Stanley replies that he has other sons.”
There was a dreadful, deathly pause. Richard turned his horse, rode to George Stanley and loomed over him.
“Di
d you hear that, my lord?” said the king. “Other sons. Notably, a stepson he would like to see upon the throne, at any price.”
George Stanley’s eyes grew huge. He was sweating so hard that his face seemed close to melting like candlewax. Returning to his position, Richard pointed back at the hostage with a gauntleted hand and said, brisk and cold, “Kill him.”
Then the king dismounted from Fame of York and beckoned to Percy, Ashton, a couple of other knights and his standard bearer. “You five, go with me. The rest, hold our position here.”
Richard strode away, axe in hand, straight into the thick of battle. Raphael stared after him in disbelief and frustration. His instinct was to follow, but that meant disobedience…
Some of Richard’s men were looking at each other in confusion. “Does he mean us to kill Strange now?” said Ratcliffe.
“Dispatch him,” said Catesby, business-like. “It’s the king’s command.”
“My lords – please–” George Stanley’s plea was child-like, heart-rending.
“Take him off the field,” Lovell said hoarsely. “Richard spoke in anger. If he really meant it, we’ll do it later.”
“On your head be it, then,” Catesby answered, but sounded glad the decision was taken from him. Strange was led away by his escort, his legs buckling.
Down in the field, the coronet upon Richard’s head was clearly visible. Gold and ruby light flashed from it. He fought ferociously, drawing men to his standard, putting fresh resolve and energy into them. Raphael watched anxiously. The sun was mounting the sky and its beams heated his armour, roasting him.
William Stanley wore away Norfolk’s flank. The fighting laboured on. Oxford would not give ground, and still neither Thomas Stanley nor Northumberland made a move to help their king. Down in the tide of battle, Richard vanished.
Raphael gathered Red Briar’s reins, ready to charge to his own death if need be. His mouth was bone dry, bitter with the salt sweat running down his face.
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 47
