Richard reappeared, surfacing from the chaos like a shark out of the waves. His knights and standard bearers followed. His surcoat was torn and bloody; and, as he wrenched off his helmet, Raphael saw his hair soaked to black curls with his own sweat, his lips cracked and trickling blood, his expression anguished.
“Norfolk,” he said. His voice was raw, broken. “My lord of Norfolk is dead.”
He gave Lovell the helmet, reeled a little way down the hillside to a spring, and put his face into the water. Hesitant, Raphael started after him; then halted when he realised Richard was not only quenching his thirst but hiding his pain.
The unthinkable was happening. They were losing.
When Richard rose again and came back to them, his eyes were black with rage. Sweat and water ran from him. “My horse,” he said.
Will Shaw, who’d been holding Fame of York, quickly brought the great stallion to him and held his bridle while Richard mounted.
“Dickon,” said Francis urgently. “This is your chance to flee. Save yourself and fight another day.”
Richard smiled. It was the darkest, coldest smile Raphael had ever seen. This was worse than his vision. A thousand times worse. “There won’t be another day, dearest friend. If I quit the field now, not a man here will ever fight for me again.”
“That’s not so.”
“I said I would live or die this day King of England,” Richard replied simply. “Do you see yonder banner with its impudent red dragon?”
Raphael stared down the slope and saw a knot of men: Henry Tudor and his bodyguard. They stood apart, on a small rise that kept them clear of the boggy ground, observing the battle from a safe distance.
“The so-called Earl of Richmond has so far not set foot on the battlefield. If he won’t grace us with his courage, let us take the battle to him.”
“Dick, for God’s sake– “
The king’s voice rose, hoarse and passionate. “We have a clear path to him. We’ll go now, before the way closes again.”
“You’ll have to ride in front of William Stanley!”
“It’s our only chance to end this. Either Tudor dies, or I do.”
Raphael was now breathing so hard his lungs were sand. He held Red Briar steady with one hand and positioned his lance. A pennon flew on the bright tip above his head. He was going with the king.
“I see Raphael is ready,” Richard said dryly. “Francis, hold our position here. The rest of my household…”
Not a single man hesitated. Their unquestioning devotion moved Raphael. He glanced around at their resolute figures and saw Will Shaw mounting a horse that he must have begged off someone or caught running loose. Raphael shook his head, but Will shrugged. What use, to argue Will out of his bravery?
Richard began the charge and sent Fame of York leaping over the rutted ground, the horse blowing and arching his neck, drops of foam flying from his mouth, great hooves eating the ground… and then a coil of horrible knowledge unwound inside Raphael. This was the moment. His vision had proved true after all. This was the decision that would undo Richard. One bold, brave, desperate mistake.
And it was too late. In an earthquake of hooves and a flight of bright standards, they were charging into the field. Red Briar was pulling hard, almost overtaking the king, leaping rocks and tussocks. Raphael’s arms ached and his armour chafed the vulnerable angles of his armpits and groin. The sun dazzled through his visor, turning each drop of sweat into a blinding diamond.
He saw the impudent dragon swelling, billowing. A wall of steel men stood between Richard and his prey. Nightmare and reality meshed. Raphael could no more turn back, nor change fate, than he could have arrested himself in mid-fall from a cliff.
He stood up in his stirrups and roared.
“King Richard! York! England!”
###
Katherine took Robin to a safe hill to watch the battle, but he soon ran from her, craning his neck to see more. Suddenly he was out of sight among the other witnesses. By the time she wove her way through them, there was no sign of him.
Panic slammed the breath from her. She was convinced he’d given her the slip on purpose and gone to join the fighting.
“Robin,” she called, sharp and loud. No answer. The day was hot, simmering “Robin!”
A shape moved, yards ahead of her, hidden by bushes. Gathering up her skirts, she ran towards it. The shape vanished. Wildly she looked about her, saw greenwoods and meadows on one side, and on the other the chaos of battle. Nothing. Kate paused, then ran on again. “Robin!”
She reached another knot of spectators, standing on a little rise with a copse of trees behind them. A loose group of priests and clergy, some mounted, others on foot. She didn’t recognise them. They had the gaunt hard look of travellers, and she realised they were from Tudor’s contingent.
“Have you seen,” she gasped, not caring who they were. “Have you seen a boy, fifteen, dark hair?”
The men turned, looking down at her from the great height of their mounts. One of them, she saw in dismay, was Bishop Morton. He gave her a dismissive glance and looked away without interest. She doubted he remembered ever seeing her before. Another said, “No, my lady.” All turned away from her, except one.
She knew the carved face with its pale, piercing eyes. Dr Fautherer. He went on staring, as if beckoning her.
“No, my lady, we have seen no boy. Who is he?”
His eyes judged her, stripping her raw.
“My – I’m charged with looking after him.”
“This is a rash place to bring a youth.”
“I haven’t time to disagree,” she said. “Let me pass.”
On foot, he came closer, blocking her way. She had the unpleasant sensation that his mind was crawling into hers. “Allow me to help you find him.”
Katherine drew back, shaking her head. The last thing she needed was Fautherer to find Robin. Then Tudor would know that Richard had a son. She could only think to stall him, while Robin ran ever further away.
“Sir, there’s no need. He’ll turn up.”
“Youthful high spirits,” Dr Fautherer said, nodding in sympathy. “Still, I’ll go along with you.”
Miserably, she picked her way over tangled grass with the gaunt priest at her side. She went slowly, hoping she wouldn’t see Robin after all.
“The battle goes ill for Richard,” Fautherer remarked.
“Does it?” she whispered. She could hardly bear to watch the melee seething across the battlefield.
“See how Norfolk’s line sags and wavers? There are many who hate Richard so passionately they’d rather see an ape crowned than endure his reign any longer.”
“You mean your friends, the Stanleys?” she said furiously. “They’re fools. They don’t know him. All they care about is their own gain!”
Fautherer smiled. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is who wins.”
The world darkened; the battle became soundless, a pageant behind glass. All the times she had entered the hidden world, Katherine had never encountered anything she would describe as evil; but in Dr Fautherer’s presence she felt it. Pure evil.
“There is a new order coming,” he said. “Your time is over. You’ve lingered for centuries longer than you should have done. Creator, it’s as if the Druids still walked these islands! What you see upon that field is justice being done. The victory of light over dark. That is what my patrons believe, at least.”
“And you don’t?”
“I have no opinion. I am only here to upset the order.”
Kate stopped. She stared at him. She saw through Fautherer, as he seemed to see through her. What she saw made her recoil.
“What are you?” she whispered.
###
Richard and his retinue smashed into the armoured wall and it broke, like thin ice, plunging them deep into the current. Raphael flung himself into the thick of battle. Tudor’s renegades seethed around them, roaring with pain as they went down under
the huge hooves of the chargers. The king’s men were struck furiously on every side. Raphael felt someone trying to drag him from the saddle. He swung his sword at the foot-soldier in outrage and thrust it through the open face of the man’s sallet, straight into his skull, as if skewering the flesh within a clam. Blood hosed over him. Frenzied and fearless, he dragged the blade out and looked for the next adversary.
Fame of York was terrifying: huge, blood-soaked, blowing hard, a demon-horse. Men were falling out of the charger’s path, blood spilling from throats or limbs. Richard hacked through them as if through straw. He seemed more than human, possessed. Raphael saw amazed terror on the faces of his opponents, desperation. They hadn’t been ready for a king so ferocious, deadly, devoid of fear. Mud flew. The choke of blood, sweat and metal filled the air.
Richard reached Henry’s standard bearer and cut him down with a single heavy blow. The dragon standard billowed down like a fallen sail, entangling men beneath it.
Then Raphael caught a glimpse of Henry Tudor. He looked small even in armour, and was struggling to control the brown horse that leapt about beneath him. The raised visor revealed a pale, nondescript face with eyes like a startled hare. He was staring at Richard, who battled closer and closer to him, as if transfixed.
Tudor’s bodyguard closed around him. The giant, Sir John Cheyney, came riding forward on the mightiest horse Raphael had ever seen. He towered over everyone in shining grey steel like some plated monster. Richard looked tiny before him, yet he charged to engage as if Sir John were no more than another scrawny mercenary.
He has no fear at all, Raphael thought. Gathering the reins, he urged Red Briar forward, hacking his way through to the king’s aid.
Will Shaw had got ahead of the king and was fighting furiously, striking down foot-soldiers on every side. His sally took him into John Cheyney’s path. It happened in a moment, even as Raphael reached Will’s side. Cheyney swung a massive axe and struck Will from his horse as if swatting a wasp. Raphael cried out. Will fell, blood spouting from his neck. He hit the ground with a grunt. The giant knight’s axe swooped towards Raphael and he ducked by reflex, feeling the hiss of air an inch away, tensed for the return blow that would dispatch him after his friend.
Then Richard was there, silver and fierce as the sun. His own axe bit into the giant’s breastplate like a meat-cleaver into bone. Cheyney doubled over and rolled heavily out of the saddle. His horse, startled, barged into Richard’s, and Fame of York stumbled backwards, put his back hooves into the marsh, and fell.
Raphael’s heart thundered as if it would explode. He threw himself off Red Briar and stumbled to Richard’s side. As he did so, he looked up and saw his nightmare brought to life, the path ending in the abyss, as the kindly gods had tried to warn him – William Stanley’s soldiers were pouring towards them, to overwhelm Richard’s force and make an end.
Richard’s beloved knights defended desperately – falling, dying. Raphael was attacked before he could reach the king. Foot soldiers were all around him, striking at him. The last thing he saw was their pinched, pocked faces. He went down under agonising blows, choking, drowning, down into darkness…
He was floating in another place. Everything was mist-grey and indistinct. He saw the faint outlines of a church or cloister around him. Great tombs, a sense of sepulchral age. The muse was there. He saw first her veil of brown hair and then her sad, thoughtful face as she turned her head to look at him.
“He is the sacrifice,” she said. “It can’t change.”
He saw the taut pain in her eyes, her falling tears. Yet she gave a sad smile. Someone else was present, a bony ghost of a man with a haunted, suspicious face. He looked twenty years older, but Raphael recognized him as Henry Tudor.
“Here is your consolation,” said the muse.
Raphael tried to speak. No sound came out, but she answered his silent question anyway.
“No one will ever love him. Henry will die unmourned. Richard will live forever.”
With a horrible jolt he recovered consciousness. His attackers must have thought him dead, and left him. Mud and water oozed around him. A roar of sound scoured his ears. Every inch of him felt bruised. He was still in the marsh with Fame of York struggling beside him. The charger’s mouth was open, nostrils working like bellows.
Beyond rational thought, Raphael staggered to his feet, seized the grey’s bridle and began urging him to his feet. Fame of York struggled, like a fly mired in honey. Then, with a sucking rush that nearly dragged Raphael over, he fought free.
Richard was ten feet away, fighting back to back with Robert Percy, as Raphael brought his charger to him.
Richard slew his opponent, said, “Bless you, good friend,” and swung back up into the saddle. The words were brief, rough with exhaustion, but they held a depthless well of feeling.
Of Red Briar, there was no sign. Raphael stood, his feet apart, on the destroyed grass, dwarfed by the mounted king. He clutched his lead-heavy sword two-handed and looked around for the next attack.
A crimson-coated foot-soldier suddenly crashed past him in flight, yelling “Northumberland!”
The air shuddered with yells and the sound of furious fighting nearby. Panting, Raphael looked up and saw streams of men pouring down the slopes from the direction of Ambion Hill onto the plain of battle. Northumberland had thrown his rearguard into the maelstrom at last. His forces crashed at an angle into William Stanley’s men.
Raphael beheld his vision subverted, fate shattered, like lightning forking along an unpredicted path. Half of Stanley’s traitorous force turned to defend itself; the other half fled, men flinging down weapons as they went. Richard’s cavalry, held in reserve, now entered the fray, bearing down upon Henry Tudor’s beleaguered position. As they rammed home, the last stand of Oxford and William Stanley roiled into a cauldron of screaming horses, dying men.
“He listened,” Raphael said under his breath. “Northumberland listened to me!”
Only now did he realise that Richard hadn’t positioned his cavalry as he had in the vision. Instead he’d placed them where they could better help him, with a clear route to come to his aid.
Henry Tudor was alone, his bodyguard pared to nothing. Raphael saw him carried back and forth as he fought to keep his horse from bolting. He looked paralysed, a small figure shrinking in armour too big for him. Raphael saw his watery eyes, his face melting with sweat. He almost pitied him, even thought he’d brought this upon himself.
Then Tudor saw Richard coming, an armoured seraph rayed with silver fire. The last of his defenders hit the ground in streams of gore. Henry visibly quailed and shrank. Breaking, he gathered himself for flight, so that he was turning flank-on as Richard reached him. Henry hauled on the reins, panicking madly as he struggled to defend himself. For a few seconds his eyes were full of a jaundiced light; more terror than hatred. One wild sword-blow aimed at Richard missed entirely, throwing the pretender off balance. Fame of York collided with the brown horse, shoulder to shoulder. Richard’s axe hacked through Tudor’s breastplate.
Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, hit the ground with a surprised grunt.
The fighting washed away like a wave upon sand. Tudor’s supporters knew the day was lost. Most were in flight, leaving nothing but their discarded, bloody surcoats. No one wanted to be caught in the pretender’s livery. Once news spread of Tudor’s fall, there was nothing to fight for.
Richard slid down from his exhausted mount and leaned on his sword. He stood like a statue, dented and bloody. When he pulled off his helm he was drenched underneath, as if he’d emerged from a waterfall.
His knights and servants flocked to him and he embraced them each in turn. Now they would begin the account, Raphael thought, of who lived and who had died. The standard bearer came with the king’s leopards and lilies billowing high. Peace descended but it was uneasy, the atmosphere rent by echoes of violence. Corpses lay everywhere.
Richard said quietly, “Creator bless and acquit the fri
ends who died for me this day. Who have we lost?”
“I’m still here.” It was Francis Lovell, who’d come down with the cavalry. He walked unsteadily towards the king, leading his horse. “Ratcliffe is slain, Catesby wounded but alive. Will Shaw’s slain, Geoffrey and Marmaduke Constable alive. Of the others, I can’t say.”
“And here’s Raphael, thank God,” said Richard. His eyes were bruised, the whites bloodshot, but his were irises as clear as water.
“I couldn’t save Will,” said Raphael. He felt a chasm open in his chest. Will Shaw had always been there. He couldn’t begin to imagine his absence, let alone feel it. He was drained. There were knives in his joints, and the sun’s heat slowly broiled him in his own juices; but he felt a wondrous calm. All his nightmares were purged. It was over. He suddenly thought of Kate, with regret and new hope.
Richard acknowledged the loss with a nod. “Let the corpses be gathered and borne to Leicester with all the honour due to them.”
“Even that?” said Lovell, looking over at the twisted heap that had been the pretender, Richmond.
“Even Henry Tudor. If only for his nerve.” Richard gave a faint smile. “What of the Stanleys?”
His standard bearer answered. “William was killed. Thomas is captured.”
“Good. Good.” He fell quiet, then said softly, “This is England’s victory, not mine.”
“Amen,” said Francis.
“Well, my lords, there’s much to do. I’ll need a messenger to post to Nottingham with news…”
“I’ll go,” said Raphael, without pause.
“No, you won’t.” Richard looked piercingly at him. “Raphael, you’ve done enough. More than enough.”
“I’m not tired,” he said. “I could ride a thousand miles for you.”
Richard shook his head, smiling. “Is there no stopping you?”
“No, sire.”
Richard came to him and held him with both gauntlets resting on Raphael’s shoulders. “Raphael, I listened to you. That’s what saved the day. You don’t have to go to Nottingham.”
The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Page 48
