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

well win.”
    Katherine drew herself up, trembling so hard it seemed the whole house was shaking. “He has swathes of land! Why does he need ours?”
    “It’s a place of rare beauty. Why wouldn’t take every morsel?” She struck her palm with the parchment in a slow rhythm.
    “What’s in the letter?” Kate asked.
    “Our way out. He offered me a compromise. I know I said this would never happen, but…”
    “Oh, no.”
    Her mother’s shocked eyes turned ruthless. “Stanley’s son is a decent man. He would be gentle, and cherish you. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to marry him. That is Stanley’s offer. The only way to keep our demesne is for you to marry George.”
    Katherine cried, “So he makes it a wedding present to his son, with me thrown in! I was right – they were looking me over like a mare at market! I wonder he didn’t thrust his fingers in my mouth and examine my teeth.”
    A frown creased Eleanor’s forehead. She looked dangerous. “Did you find him offensive?”
    “I’d sooner marry Tom in the stables!” Tears of rage rolled down her face. “You promised you would never do this!”
    “I know, Kate. But it’s the only way. Calm yourself and think! Yes, if you marry George, Stanley’s descendants will inherit our demesne, but so will ours. Thomas Stanley will rarely be here, and George will prove malleable. We can ease him into our ways, make him a good lord. The land, then, will pass to your children.”
    “Are the Stanleys Yorkists?” Kate demanded.
    “When it suits them.”
    “Lancastrians the rest of the time? Father would never forgive you!”
    “How dare you throw your father’s name at me! I cannot lose this land. I know it’s hard, but for once in your life you will do as I say. Read it.”
    Eleanor held out the letter. Her daughter glared, recoiling. “What is it?”
    “George Stanley’s proposal. I read over his shoulder as he wrote it, and it’s surprisingly sincere and touching.”
    Kate snatched the parchment. “I will not read it! How can you consider this even for a moment? How can you give in without a fight? You’re not my mother! After all you’ve promised, all my life – we need no lord, Auset will protect us – this! I’ll not be bought and sold like a sheep, I’ll die before I marry that sweating overdressed oaf!”
    Dramatically she tore the letter in half and threw it in the grate. She pushed past her mother and fled the room, away from the imperious roar that followed.
    “Kate!”
    She’d never felt such blinding rage. She ran from fear as much as anger. Denial pushed hot heavy fingers through her. If she only fled fast enough, she could prevent the whole calamity from having happened.
    Still in her best dress, she ran to the stables and bridled Mab. Ignoring Tom’s protests, she fastened the buckles with trembling fingers, led the mare outside and vaulted on bareback, sitting astride like a boy. Tom’s face became a fading blur. Mab loved to gallop, and she flowed like silk between Kate’s thighs. They were running away.
    ###
    Deep in the countryside, Kate felt free. Her fury cooled. She dismounted and looked up at the sky of the sweetest blue. A valley cupped her, enfolded by green meadows. A narrow stream ran along the valley floor to feed the Melandra. On her left was a steep rise of woodland; on all sides stood oak, ash and birch, rustling in the warm breeze, limpidly green. Tethering Mab to a low branch, she scratched the mare’s neck affectionately and left her to graze.
    Kate sat in her favourite place, a spread of grass within a loop of the stream, with an oak tree at her back. This was her retreat, Blackthorn Griffe: her meadow, secluded by trees and bushes growing along the curves of the stream. Such enchantment dwelled here that it could well be another Hollow, a sacred way to the hidden world – one that even her mother hadn’t found. Hers.
    A bee bumped against her face and she felt its velvety body. All her