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Authors: Freda Warrington
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disappeared. In 1484 Richard’s own son died: the following year, his wife. His unpopularity grew, his supporters leached away. In 1485, Henry Tudor challenged him upon Bosworth Field and Richard lost his life: the last English king to die in battle.
At first, I am almost disappointed by the facts. I can’t find the glittering villain or anti-hero of Shakespeare’s creation. Instead I find a conscientious man, pious, unswervingly loyal to his brother Edward IV until Edward died. Then with the same single-mindedness he disinherited Edward’s sons and probably – possibly – murdered them.
At first he seems less interesting… then more intriguing than ever. Because the evidence is inconclusive, interpretations come in all shades and hues. I can’t stop reading.
One more recent author calls Richard a “puritan martinet” and suggests we should all be jolly grateful that Henry Tudor came along when he did. It seems a strange judgement upon a man who loved music and luxurious clothes, and who insisted on equal justice for everyone.
Other books speak of the betrayal of Richard III. The betrayal. And I read that he wasn’t an ambitious scheming malefactor after all. He was let down by those he trusted at every turn. Crucially, he did not kill his nephews, the princes. Even they were murdered by someone else with motives of their own.
Each book tells me something different. Each book tells me more about the author than it does about Richard III.
I cannot leave him alone. All the time I should be been reading for my next essay, I am drawn to him instead.
Richard, the ultimate wicked uncle.
Richard, the unjustly maligned hero.
The Tudors won, and the Tudors rewrote history to shine the best light upon themselves. Oh no, they didn’t, other historians say sternly. All the rumours and slanders against him were in place long before he died.
Lost in confusion, I emerge from the library with my arms full of books, dazed. I can’t force Richard out of my mind. He is there constantly, posing endless questions, answering none. I am obsessed; and it feels wonderful, delicious.
I walk to meet Fin at our favourite coffee shop and as I float through the lovely autumn-veiled misty cloisters of the campus, I suddenly see in my mind’s eye the gentle face of a young man. I know he is not Richard. He wears archaic clothing and snow blows hard around him. He is looking back over his shoulder, inviting me to share something no one else has ever seen. He looks desperate. There’s a woman with him, but she’s some way ahead so I see her less clearly. It’s only a flash, that first vision, but I feel the most incredible wave of excitement, of recognition.
It has begun. A story is unfolding, one not found in any book. It might hold an answer. Richard, who were you, who are you?
Chapter Three . 1468–1469: Richard
“And curst be trolls, elves, goblins and fairies upon the earth, and hypogriffs and Pegasus in the air, and all the tribes of mer-folk under the sea. Our holy rites forbid them. And cursed be all doubts, all singular dreams, all fancies. And from magic may all true folk be turned away. Amen.”
Lord Dunsany, The King of Elfland’s Daughter
Katherine’s father lived longer than any could have predicted. Sustained on the warmth of his household’s love he lingered, opening his eyes each new morning to smile at his wife and daughter.
There came a day when Katherine was fifteen and John died at last. He had endured the chill hardships of winter, only to cease on a full-throated May morning. Stillness lay on the house: wordless shock. The eyes of Thomas Copper, Martha, Nan, Tom and all the servants hung with tears. Villagers came weeping to the hall to pay their respects.
Eleanor alone was calm. She ministered to the others, her face a gentle mask, her pale hands betraying only the slightest tremor.
The tiny village church stood in a circular churchyard, upon a far more ancient site where five old tracks of power
At first, I am almost disappointed by the facts. I can’t find the glittering villain or anti-hero of Shakespeare’s creation. Instead I find a conscientious man, pious, unswervingly loyal to his brother Edward IV until Edward died. Then with the same single-mindedness he disinherited Edward’s sons and probably – possibly – murdered them.
At first he seems less interesting… then more intriguing than ever. Because the evidence is inconclusive, interpretations come in all shades and hues. I can’t stop reading.
One more recent author calls Richard a “puritan martinet” and suggests we should all be jolly grateful that Henry Tudor came along when he did. It seems a strange judgement upon a man who loved music and luxurious clothes, and who insisted on equal justice for everyone.
Other books speak of the betrayal of Richard III. The betrayal. And I read that he wasn’t an ambitious scheming malefactor after all. He was let down by those he trusted at every turn. Crucially, he did not kill his nephews, the princes. Even they were murdered by someone else with motives of their own.
Each book tells me something different. Each book tells me more about the author than it does about Richard III.
I cannot leave him alone. All the time I should be been reading for my next essay, I am drawn to him instead.
Richard, the ultimate wicked uncle.
Richard, the unjustly maligned hero.
The Tudors won, and the Tudors rewrote history to shine the best light upon themselves. Oh no, they didn’t, other historians say sternly. All the rumours and slanders against him were in place long before he died.
Lost in confusion, I emerge from the library with my arms full of books, dazed. I can’t force Richard out of my mind. He is there constantly, posing endless questions, answering none. I am obsessed; and it feels wonderful, delicious.
I walk to meet Fin at our favourite coffee shop and as I float through the lovely autumn-veiled misty cloisters of the campus, I suddenly see in my mind’s eye the gentle face of a young man. I know he is not Richard. He wears archaic clothing and snow blows hard around him. He is looking back over his shoulder, inviting me to share something no one else has ever seen. He looks desperate. There’s a woman with him, but she’s some way ahead so I see her less clearly. It’s only a flash, that first vision, but I feel the most incredible wave of excitement, of recognition.
It has begun. A story is unfolding, one not found in any book. It might hold an answer. Richard, who were you, who are you?
Chapter Three . 1468–1469: Richard
“And curst be trolls, elves, goblins and fairies upon the earth, and hypogriffs and Pegasus in the air, and all the tribes of mer-folk under the sea. Our holy rites forbid them. And cursed be all doubts, all singular dreams, all fancies. And from magic may all true folk be turned away. Amen.”
Lord Dunsany, The King of Elfland’s Daughter
Katherine’s father lived longer than any could have predicted. Sustained on the warmth of his household’s love he lingered, opening his eyes each new morning to smile at his wife and daughter.
There came a day when Katherine was fifteen and John died at last. He had endured the chill hardships of winter, only to cease on a full-throated May morning. Stillness lay on the house: wordless shock. The eyes of Thomas Copper, Martha, Nan, Tom and all the servants hung with tears. Villagers came weeping to the hall to pay their respects.
Eleanor alone was calm. She ministered to the others, her face a gentle mask, her pale hands betraying only the slightest tremor.
The tiny village church stood in a circular churchyard, upon a far more ancient site where five old tracks of power
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