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

highly praised and most praiseworthy,” said the senior lord. “As are yours.”
    “It is flattering of you to say so, my lord,” Eleanor said stiffly. “Katherine, greet kindly your cousin Thomas, Lord Stanley, to whom we have the honour to be related on my father’s side.”
    As the older lord kissed her hand, she sensed his condescension. He was beautifully groomed, and smelled of an exotic, subtle perfume.
    “Our dear friend, Bishop Morton,” said Stanley, stepping aside to present her.
    As protocol required, Kate kissed the Lamb symbol. “Your Grace.”
    “His assistant, Dr Fautherer…”
    The man in ochre grasped her fingertips for a brief moment. The touch sent a shudder through her. His hands were parchment-dry, like lizard skin.
    “And allow me to present my son, George Stanley.”
    The son, like his father, was huge in his puffed and padded finery. His fingers were hot on hers as he bowed low, pressing clammy lips to the back of her hand. He smelled of sweat, as if radiating nervous heat. He regarded her with wide-eyed eagerness that, after a while, she found repellent.
    “We are honoured, your Graces,” said Kate, not knowing what else to say.
    She exchanged glances with her mother. Eleanor’s face was tight. They both knew who these men were, the danger they represented, and the presumption of their visit; but they had no choice but to present a gracious facade.
    So easy to believe that their small estate, tucked in a lush fold of the Derbyshire Peaks, was unknown beyond its boundaries. So easily was the illusion shattered.
    “Come, you must be hungry after your journey,” said Eleanor. “It’s too long since last we saw you.”
    “Indeed, I would have come to pay my respects before now,” Stanley said in a flat tone, “if news of your husband’s demise had reached me sooner.”
    Roast capon and goose were brought to the table while her mother’s musicians played; a rough country affair it must seem to the Stanleys. A drum tapped gently beneath the thin, haunting sound of reed pipes.
    At first the conversation was innocuous: what a fine small church the village had, such a splendid tomb to honour John, the excellent grazing of Eleanor’s land that produced such fine wool. They spoke of trade, land management and music.
    Only Dr Fautherer said little, but his bulbous pale eyes flicked back and forth.
    Lord Stanley and his son were personable enough, if dull. Katherine longed to ask questions. How often were they at court, and what happened there? What was King Edward like in person? Was it true all women fell in love with him on sight? Was his wife, the widow Grey, Queen Elizabeth, as beautiful as folk said? She held back the rude, ridiculous questions.
    “A fine little church,” said Bishop Morton, “but your arrangements are somewhat… old-fashioned. If you wish, I could send men to aid your priest to effect, ah, improvements.”
    Katherine saw her mother stiffen from head to foot. “I appreciate your kind offer, your Grace, but we are quite happy with our church.”
    “The pagan remains can draw negative influences,” said Morton. “Where the Devil finds a crack in the door, he’ll be in. That old stone – I won’t grace it with the term altar – really ought to go. I’ll send someone. It’s no trouble.”
    Kate thought her mother would explode.
    “Truly, your Grace, there’s no need,” she said, delicately polite. “The villagers would be extremely upset if anything were to be disturbed. The church has served us well for hundreds of years. The old altar has always been there. Removing it might stir… the very thing you fear.”
    “I understand.” Morton acquiesced, raising plump hands. “It’s your demesne, of course, my lady. I wasn’t suggesting that you are anything but devout.”
    He backed down, but the threat was made. Morton sat serene, watching Eleanor silently fuming. Kate was outraged. Her mother would not bend the truth to appease this man. In any case,