The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III Read Online Free Page A

woman, armoured beneath a golden cloak. Her face was all hard planes, pale and keen, with eyes of colourless ice. Hair as straight and pale as straw fell from beneath her crowned helm.
    “Queen Marguerite of Anjou,” whispered Eleanor. The whisper ran through the crowd around them. Queen Marguerite. Henry sits like a monk in a cell while his wife fights his battles for him! She’s a monster. Slew a boy of seventeen. Poor Edmund! From some throats came a hiss that she must have heard. Others bent a reluctant knee as she passed.
    The queen pulled up her horse hardly two yards from Kate and her mother, and looked back at Micklegate Bar. Her chestnut mount danced on the spot, half-rearing. Its thick neck was bent, foam dripping from its open mouth.
    “Regard!” Marguerite cried, pointing upwards, her arm straight as a spear. “York looks out over York.” Her voice was harsh, sharply accented. “He strove to be king; so let him be crowned indeed. With straw!”
    And all her knights and supporters roared with laughter.
    The image of the queen, silver and gold and terrible, struck Katherine to the heart with excitement. She hated her on sight. Yet she was magnificent.
    “Mama,” she whispered, “Is she one of ours?”
    “No,” Eleanor said quickly. “Shush, child!” Then, “No, my chick. Hush. You’ll learn how to tell, in time.”
    The royal party surged onwards in all their victorious arrogance. They passed along the curve of the street, and were swallowed by the city.
    When the queen had gone, the crowd loosened and moved off in her wake. Eleanor set Katherine down and they walked hand-in-hand back to the house of Dame Eylott, Nan scurrying beside them and Thomas Copper following.
    The courtyard garden lay iced and silent, its whiteness churned up by the children’s games. The falling sun flushed the tops of snow-laden bushes with gold, but the rest was coldly blue. The women re-gathered there, shivering, the hems of their cloaks and skirts wet and heavy. An air of shock hung over them; no one seemed glad that King Henry had won. Three of the women came to greet Eleanor. One was Dame Eylott, a sweet-faced old woman with a pointed chin and silver hair. The second, small and wrapped in a green velvet cloak, was Edith, Lady Hart. Much younger than the Dame, she still appeared ancient to Kate, with an air of frailty and worry.
    The third was a statuesque woman in a close-fitting gown of midnight blue. Her height was made more imposing by a hennin of the same blue, sewn with tiny pearls. Within the enclave, their identities were discreetly shed. But Kate knew that this was Anne Beauchamp, the Countess of Warwick.
    The four talked softly, heads bent together. Eleanor and the countess looked pale and serious. Lady Hart was crying.
    Kate remembered that the boy by the gate was Edith Hart’s son. She looked around and saw him kneeling in the drift where she’d made her snow figures. He was a sapling, very slender and dressed in brown; fine garments, faded with wear. His head was bowed, chestnut hair hiding his face. He was weeping, or praying.
    Katherine went to him, light-footed and hesitant.
    “Are you crying?” she asked.
    He started, jumped to his feet and stared. His eyes were dry but red-edged; burning, shocked eyes in a blank face. He wasn’t much older than her. Seven at most.
    “Did you see the heads?” she asked, cradling her snow-bitten hands under her armpits. “I did. Is that why you’re upset?”
    “My father died.” The words fell out of him, rough and bitter. “He was in the battle. A man came and told my mother he was killed, trying to protect Edmund of Rutland.”
    Kate looked at him, not knowing what to say. “Is his head on the gate?” she asked at last.
    “No. He wasn’t a high enough lord for that.” The boy wiped his red eyes and sniffed. “I don’t think I’d know his face, anyway. He was always away fighting. He was a brave, noble lord and loyal to Richard of York. The