The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III by Freda Warrington Page A

upon its head. Everywhere he saw the heraldry of Yorkists, not Lancastrians. And the white rose of York. Not the red rose, but the white.
    The boy stood, calling out, “Ho! I’ve found a child, half-dead! Bring him some ale, quick!”
    One of the esquires dismounted and hurried to obey, smiling. “Your Grace.”
    Raphael stared at the cavalcade on the road, burning white and gold. His heart caught the rhythm of panic.
    “Is the king going to kill me?” he gasped.
    The dark eyebrows lifted. “You must have had a very bad dream. Of course he isn’t.”
    “How do you know?”
    “He’s my brother. I think he would have told me.”
    Raphael coughed. “If you’re the king’s brother, I’m still dreaming.”
    “You’re not, and I am. He’s just made me the Duke of Gloucester,” the boy said proudly. “Ask him yourself, if you like. I’m Richard. What’s your name?”
    The procession flowed past at a rolling walk; a great array of lords, knights, esquires, followers. Children rang alongside, waving and shouting. A menagerie flaunted against the sky; swan and griffin, graylix and silver pard and bear, each sewn upon its own bright pennant. Heraldry dazzled him.
    Leading the procession was a great banner, a joyful sunburst of gold. Among the leading riders was a splendid, tall man, his bronze hair ablaze like a halo. Raphael’s mouth fell open. Light burned his eyes. The Sun in Splendour. This was no grim ride to battle, but a victory progress.
    Had he walked out of winter into full summer in one night?
    The young duke knelt beside him, one arm round his shoulders, holding a flask of honeyed ale to his lips. Raphael took a swallow, gagging on its richness. Richard watched him seriously. Behind him, his esquires were murmuring and shaking their heads in good humour.
    “What… what king?” Raphael asked stupidly.
    “King Edward, of course. How can you not know that?”
    “I – I don’t know,” he said miserably.
    “I knew you were an angel who’s tumbled out of heaven,” said the child, smiling. “This proves it.”
    In the edge of Raphael’s vision, the procession halted. He realised they had stopped for him – or, rather, to wait for the young duke. He was awash in memories, torn scraps of nightmare. Running, crawling. Brambles slithering beneath his palms, snagging painfully. Dead leaves pressing their patterns onto his cheek. An old woman, spooning milk into his mouth…
    A man and woman in a solid round cottage. The man thatched and mended and built for a living; the woman was a weaver, her skin and clothes oily with lanolin. Half a dozen rosy-faced children, always yelling and bouncing around him. They called him lackwit, idiot, moon-gazer. A strange boy who couldn’t speak, but woke every night screaming.
    So that was how he’d survived. In the abyss of winter he had walked from one settlement to the next. The impartial kindness of strangers had sustained him. He had sleep-walked through two seasons, not speaking, not thinking. Now the fog began to lift and the memories scalded like frostbite.
    All that had brought him back to life was the face of this strange, graceful, dark-haired boy. His eyes, the grey-blue-violet of rain, held Raphael enthralled.
    “Can you remember your name?” Richard seemed so fascinated by Raphael that he’d forgotten all else. “Try.”
    “Raphael,” he managed. “I’m Raphael Hart.”
    Richard continued his intense scrutiny. “My father had a knight called Hart.”
    A taller fair-haired boy swaggered up behind, grandly dressed, all of ten years old and full of himself. He must be sweating hard under all that purple velvet and cloth-of-gold, Raphael thought. So warm, the day, and everything green. The last I remember was hard winter. I’ve lost my wits.
    “Lamb’s blood, Dickon, get back on your horse,” said the older boy. “Only you could stop a royal procession to pick up a beggar out of a ditch.”
    “He’s not a beggar, George. He’s ill.”
    The