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Authors: Freda Warrington
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terrier, Raphael thought, bright-natured, eager to please, smug.
“Here is Lord Lykenwold of Glastonbury,” said Edward. “William, here is a good Yorkist boy who’s fallen on unfortunate times. He is orphaned. He’ll make you a good pageboy, and in time a fine knight. A small token of my thanks for your steadfast service. What do you say?”
“I’d be honoured,” Lykenwold answered. He gave a deep bow. “I ask no reward from you, my liege, but I give you my most heartfelt thanks. The boy shall make a splendid ward.”
The deed was done.
Raphael found himself lifted onto a horse and carried off in the train of William Lykenwold. He caught one last glimpse of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, swept away into the river of the royal progress. Never to be seen again, except in the far distance.
Richard of Gloucester glanced back once, haloed by reflected glory. He was like a figure of jet against flowing gold cloth. Raphael stared, helpless.
After today, Richard had his heart forever. All Raphael wanted was to stay at Richard’s side, to serve him as loyally as his father had served the Duke of York. And he’d thought, for a few moments, that it would happen.
From the procession an exuberant, deafening roar peeled into the air. “God save King Edward!”
Inset : Bare Bones
As I lie in that strange, seductive half-state between waking and sleeping, Richard seems to whisper, “You think you know me, but you don’t. No one ever can. Would you even dare to try?”
He’s so close to me – I can feel the softness of his hair, the velvet of his cloak, his warmth on my neck – but untouchable. If I try to encompass him with my mind he slips away and became a distant figure seen through layers of frosted glass. And yet he comes to me at night, dark and irresistible, urging me to pass through those layers and see him clearly. It is a challenge.
I get up and pass from velvety dreams to stark facts.
Here is the campus, spread out in formal squares with beautiful old buildings covered in red vines, trees everywhere in their autumn colours. An enchanted place, out of time. And here I am; one ordinary, wispy young woman, long mouse-brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses (fashionable for once), a bit shy and serious and slightly out of my depth. And now, with poor timing, under a spell.
I am in the library, wreathed in the mustiness of old books; supposedly studying the twelfth century. Books of the fifteenth stray into my hands instead.
Just as Fin’s friend said, Shakespeare played fast and loose with the truth; or rather, his sources had. Henry Tudor arrived to depose Richard on the most tenuous grounds, and it was a heinous matter, to overthrow an anointed king. The act must be justified. So the Tudor historians did so, by heaping every physical and mental deformity they could imagine upon Richard. In doing so, they made him immortal.
So, the bare bones. King Richard III, king for only two years, and yet up there among the most famous, certainly the most infamous, of all monarchs. Born in 1452 at Fotheringhay Castle, Northamptonshire, youngest son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, and Cecily Neville. The Duke’s claim to the throne, arguably stronger than that of the monarch, Henry VI, led to conflict. The wars between the rival houses of York and Lancaster – later known as the Wars of the Roses, but called at the time the Cousins’ War – shaped Richard’s life. He faithfully served his brother, Edward IV, helping him to win the throne. He became Duke of Gloucester and lord of the north of England. When his older brother, George, Duke of Clarence, was executed for treachery, this only emphasised Richard’s impeccable loyalty. Then, in 1483, Edward died prematurely. Richard struggled against the queen’s family, the Woodvilles, for control of his young nephew, Edward V. Within weeks, he had Edward V and his younger brother declared bastards and confined in the Tower.
Then he took the throne himself. The boys
“Here is Lord Lykenwold of Glastonbury,” said Edward. “William, here is a good Yorkist boy who’s fallen on unfortunate times. He is orphaned. He’ll make you a good pageboy, and in time a fine knight. A small token of my thanks for your steadfast service. What do you say?”
“I’d be honoured,” Lykenwold answered. He gave a deep bow. “I ask no reward from you, my liege, but I give you my most heartfelt thanks. The boy shall make a splendid ward.”
The deed was done.
Raphael found himself lifted onto a horse and carried off in the train of William Lykenwold. He caught one last glimpse of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, swept away into the river of the royal progress. Never to be seen again, except in the far distance.
Richard of Gloucester glanced back once, haloed by reflected glory. He was like a figure of jet against flowing gold cloth. Raphael stared, helpless.
After today, Richard had his heart forever. All Raphael wanted was to stay at Richard’s side, to serve him as loyally as his father had served the Duke of York. And he’d thought, for a few moments, that it would happen.
From the procession an exuberant, deafening roar peeled into the air. “God save King Edward!”
Inset : Bare Bones
As I lie in that strange, seductive half-state between waking and sleeping, Richard seems to whisper, “You think you know me, but you don’t. No one ever can. Would you even dare to try?”
He’s so close to me – I can feel the softness of his hair, the velvet of his cloak, his warmth on my neck – but untouchable. If I try to encompass him with my mind he slips away and became a distant figure seen through layers of frosted glass. And yet he comes to me at night, dark and irresistible, urging me to pass through those layers and see him clearly. It is a challenge.
I get up and pass from velvety dreams to stark facts.
Here is the campus, spread out in formal squares with beautiful old buildings covered in red vines, trees everywhere in their autumn colours. An enchanted place, out of time. And here I am; one ordinary, wispy young woman, long mouse-brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses (fashionable for once), a bit shy and serious and slightly out of my depth. And now, with poor timing, under a spell.
I am in the library, wreathed in the mustiness of old books; supposedly studying the twelfth century. Books of the fifteenth stray into my hands instead.
Just as Fin’s friend said, Shakespeare played fast and loose with the truth; or rather, his sources had. Henry Tudor arrived to depose Richard on the most tenuous grounds, and it was a heinous matter, to overthrow an anointed king. The act must be justified. So the Tudor historians did so, by heaping every physical and mental deformity they could imagine upon Richard. In doing so, they made him immortal.
So, the bare bones. King Richard III, king for only two years, and yet up there among the most famous, certainly the most infamous, of all monarchs. Born in 1452 at Fotheringhay Castle, Northamptonshire, youngest son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, and Cecily Neville. The Duke’s claim to the throne, arguably stronger than that of the monarch, Henry VI, led to conflict. The wars between the rival houses of York and Lancaster – later known as the Wars of the Roses, but called at the time the Cousins’ War – shaped Richard’s life. He faithfully served his brother, Edward IV, helping him to win the throne. He became Duke of Gloucester and lord of the north of England. When his older brother, George, Duke of Clarence, was executed for treachery, this only emphasised Richard’s impeccable loyalty. Then, in 1483, Edward died prematurely. Richard struggled against the queen’s family, the Woodvilles, for control of his young nephew, Edward V. Within weeks, he had Edward V and his younger brother declared bastards and confined in the Tower.
Then he took the throne himself. The boys
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