Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Read online

  ‘God be with you, Richard.’

  The king turned his horse to assume his position at the head of this army that he hoped would help him to begin the reclaiming of his throne.

  ‘And may He speed you to your rightful victory, sire.’

  Watching his brother disappearing into the lingering fog to his left, Richard placed a hand upon the pommel of his sword, swallowed hard and asked God to deliver him safely from this field.

  It seemed an age that the wall of men and metal stood unmoving upon the hill. The only sound was the stamping of the hooves of excited horses as they sensed the mounting tension. Somewhere ahead in the mist could be heard the ghostly clinking and thudding that signified the enemy’s assembly not too far in front.

  Richard looked down from his mount on to the field where this battle would take place at any moment. He could not see even the grass as the fog thickened but sank low. Perhaps it lingered to see the outcome of this day. The horse fidgeted beneath him, puffing great plumes of hot breath that mingled with the surrounding cloak of mist and were gone. Whatever was to happen on this field today, Richard reflected that God must not want to see it. That worried him. Fear began to rise from his stomach and he felt it lodging in his throat as if it tried to escape and shout to the world that Richard of Gloucester was afraid for his life. He closed his lips tightly to prevent this release, looking around him at his retinue. He wondered what they all felt now. He also wondered whether they knew how he felt, whether his face betrayed the fears of his mind. Now, he felt physically sick as silence descended for a brief moment on both sides of the field.

  ‘Charge!’

  The voice of King Edward IV broke through the fog like a rolling thunder through a quiet night sky. The sound of a thousand men running down the hill, noisily drawing swords, rang in Richard’s ears as he momentarily forgot himself before digging his heels sharply into the sides of his mount. As the horse gathered speed to a gallop down the gentle slope of the hillside, the mêlée that awaited became unavoidable. The horse would carry him to the very thick of it, and Richard found that this notion calmed the acid in his throat a little. He drew his sword and spurred the horse on faster to meet the enemy.

  Suddenly, everything around the young man seemed to slow down, like some strange theatre piece. The clamour about him was drowned out by the pounding of his own heart like a beating drum and the sound of blood rushing in a raging torrent through his head. Then, in a blink of his wind-filled eyes, the din returned, enhanced by the now clearly approaching Lancastrian line.

  Richard squinted into the thinning mist as wraith-like warriors began to emerge, ethereal, as if floating towards him. Raising his sword to shoulder height, the rider allowed a smile to trace itself across his lips at the thought of all those shadows that had provided the only test of his swordsmanship to date. As these shadows began to form solid shapes Richard gritted his teeth hard and swung his sword downwards. The two lines met like a mighty wave crashing into the immovable cliffs of Dover and Richard’s arm jarred painfully. Looking down, he saw an armoured figure falling backwards, livery and a chainmail vest cleaved open from naval to chest and framed in bright red blood which reached out and licked at his forearm. Finally, Richard was tasting the nervous excitement of battle. And it felt good.

  Raising his sword again, he spied his next target and again his weapon deftly met its mark with a reassuring thud and another jar that reached his shoulder. Either side of him, Richard heard the sound of steel upon steel and the howls of those who failed to avoid an oncoming weapon.

  Unbeknownst to either commander, the mist had caused the opposing lines to form up off centre. While the Yorkist right found scant resistance, the left flank was routed. The battle pivoted uneasily around the clatter and clamour of the fierce mêlée at its centre. As the Lancastrian right regrouped, aiming to wheel left to engage the Yorkist centre, the fog all but blinded their charge until they were upon their target. Only then did they spy the livery of those they raised their swords against – and saw it matched their own.

  For a moment an eerie silence reigned as this front line of the Lancastrian right realized who stood before them – the Lancastrian centre being charged by its own right flank. The second line of men, unable to see, failed to halt their charge. They pushed through their own line with a blood-curdling scream, designed to inspire fear within the enemy. Instead it caused an immediate cry of treason from the Lancastrian ranks.

  Richard, meanwhile, had ploughed a furrow through the Lancastrian lines, leaving behind him a dozen bloodied corpses. His retinue were struggling to keep up and several had fallen. Hearing the cries of betrayal from his left, Richard halted and swung his horse around, unsure what he should do. Uncertain even if the cries of treason came from within the Yorkist ranks or those of the enemy, he was suddenly lost, his confidence evaporating with the mist and deserting him.

  The Lancastrian army loyal to King Henry began to peel away from the engagement from right to left and the Yorkist lines gave chase for a short while, with a few straggling Lancastrians being picked off as the retreat became complete. Richard sat astride his mount in the midst of the corpses and those struggling noisily to cling on to their lives, his sword gripped so tightly in his right hand that his knuckles were whitened and he could no longer feel his fingers. He gazed, mesmerized, at the sight of what had just occurred, as a passer-by may stumble upon the scene of a roadside ambush and stare at the murdered corpses with sorrow for their suffering and disgust for those who would perpetrate such a dire act. He felt strangely detached from what surrounded him in spite of his own involvement in the scene.

  Looking down, he could see the faces of those his own hand had slain. Previously they had been featureless targets, but now he could see their vacant eyes peering into the clouding skies as if for a last glimpse of the spirit that had already vacated their mortal bodies. Closing his eyes, Richard tried to force down the guilt that he already felt rising in his stomach. Surely, this was not how a soldier was supposed to feel upon the field of victory. His brother must not feel this weakness, so neither would he. With his eyes shut tightly he drew upon the excitement that he had felt in the raw, searing heat of the battle and resolved to keep that as a cork to contain all the other feelings. Opening his eyes, Richard turned his horse and began to canter back along the distance that he had charged towards the encampment. He never once looked down again as he retreated to the moral sanctuary of his tent.

  Pushing aside the canvas at the entrance, the young duke released the breath that pounded in his chest and, without willing his hand to do so, he released the grip that he had maintained on his red, stained weapon. It clattered as it hit the ground. Immediately, he plunged his hands into the bowl of icy water that stood beside the entrance, not noticing the cold biting his fingers. He stood motionless and watched, with a frown playing across his forehead, as thin tendrils of deep scarlet spread from his hands across the surface of the water as though taking it over. It made him feel sick. Quickly, before all the clear water was lost, he cupped his hands and threw handfuls of the water into his face to remove the grime of battle, and perhaps the guilt he was feeling too. He shivered at the cold. A strange trembling gripped at his limbs. As he moved to the large oak chair to the left of the tent, he stripped away the armour that was flecked with an awful mixture of mud and blood, along with the clothes beneath it which bore splatters of both too, and collapsed into the seat, instinctively reaching to the nearby table for the leather-bound prayer book that was his almost constant companion. In spite of his will to feel no need for it, he opened the book and read for more than two hours, alone.

  When he emerged, Richard squinted as he pushed the heavy fabric of his tent door. The midday sun was warm on his cheeks as he strolled through the lush green grass to the king’s opulent red and blue marquee. Stepping inside, the smell of roasting meat confronted him like another curtain to be pushed through. The air was thick and hung heavy in his nostrils and his mouth began
to water as he tasted the sweet scent drawn over his taste buds. The noise died down as those gathered around the king realized that the duke had entered. Richard was becoming aware of a strange sensation in his legs as he stood still, when his brother called from the table with a natural authority that Richard had always felt truly befitted a king.

  ‘Ah, brother!’ Richard looked at the king and an uneasy smile passed fleetingly across his lips. ‘We began to fear that you had disappeared in the mist of this morning.’

  Richard winced as the flattering, raucous laughs of the gathered lords at the king’s table bellowed around the tent. About a dozen men, all of whom had now forgone their armour in favour of the lavish finery of court clothing, sat at a long table erected in the king’s tent and were devouring several roasted boars.

  ‘Come and sit at my side, Richard.’ Edward gestured grandiosely to the empty place setting at his right side. The young man shifted uncomfortably on his soles, brushed his damp palms down his thighs and strode around the table to the seat set by for him. The honour of the position saved for him was in no way lost on the duke, but he did not share his brother’s taste for the more tangible trappings of power. Fawning old men and overconfident young lords irritated Richard. They served no real purpose other than to inflate the ego of whosoever could provide them with the warmest shelter today. At the first sign of a chill, they immediately sought warmer climates. Always sure not to leave the old shelter before the new was secured and proven safe.

  ‘The hounds offer you better loyalty than these men,’ Richard thought as he sat down, glancing at his brother’s three large hunting hounds. ‘And they have better table manners too.’ A smile brushed his lips as he eyed the carnage along the table and the surrounding floor.

  Richard suddenly became aware that his brother was staring at him, and almost jumped, as though the king might have read his thoughts and disapproved. He shifted under his brother’s heavy gaze. Even sitting, Edward dwarfed Richard’s lithe young frame. Richard’s abiding childhood memory of his brother had always been of his size and strength. He was convinced that Edward’s stature alone was demonstration of his credentials as ruler of England. Disappointed to have more resembled their father, Richard knew he would never lose his respect for and dread fear of his brother and king.

  ‘Sire?’ he questioned his brother’s intense stare softly. As much respect as he had for his king, his brother had never made him feel anything other than a beloved younger sibling. Perhaps, Richard always considered, the ten-year gap between them increased the protective, nurturing feeling that he hoped his brother felt for him.

  ‘I was getting worried about you, Richard.’ Edward spoke in a soft tone that mirrored his brother’s, but which also prevented the others around the table from hearing. ‘Where did you get to?’ he queried, his voice full of concern. Edward was fully aware that this had been Richard’s first taste of battle and he well remembered the floods of opposing emotions that the experience could release.

  ‘I needed a little time alone, Your Grace.’ Richard tried not to sound feeble, but his head sank as he spoke, aware that his admission could easily be construed as weakness. There was a prolonged pause. Even in the clamour of the feasting, it felt to Richard like a hollow silence.

  ‘You must be feeling raw.’ Edward’s tone had not changed. The concern was a surprise to Richard. A pleasant one, though.

  Edward saw the frown fold itself into his brother’s brow. He studied the fresh, young face before him. At eighteen, Richard was his most trusted subject, beyond even Lord Hastings at his other side. This brother was one of the few men whose loyalty he had never yet had cause to question. They had shared two long, harsh periods of exile and Richard had never shown any sign of wanting to be anywhere but at Edward’s side. He had, by virtue of his birth, ascended to high office before the rebellion they now sought to quell, but this had been his first real chance to prove himself as a man. Edward had found Richard something of an enigma. Difficult to get close to, yet fiercely loyal to his family. When their cousin the Earl of Warwick had risen in rebellion the previous year, it was Richard who the king had most keenly awaited to declare his hand, and when Richard had not hesitated to support him, Edward had felt a deep guilt for doubting his brother. He comforted himself that blind faith was not a luxury that he could afford. Warwick had, after all, recruited their other brother, George, Duke of Clarence to his cause. Richard, however, had not hesitated to board the ship with Edward at King’s Lynn on that wet 2nd October last year. The date of their enforced flight had not been lost on Edward. As King of England, he had hoped to reward his brother with a far more enjoyable day to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. Richard had never even mentioned it.

  ‘Battle,’ Edward leaned deliberately into his brother, ‘affects all men in different ways. I have seen men who boast of their prowess piss themselves as a charging enemy approaches.’

  Edward leaned forward and raised his tankard to a broad, middle-aged man further along the table who Richard vaguely recognized. The man ceased his rolling laughter to raise his own goblet in the king’s direction with a nod. Edward turned back to Richard with a cheeky smirk on his face. Clearly, that was one of the men he spoke of. Richard smiled too.

  ‘I have also seen the very opposite,’ Edward continued, suddenly serious, ‘and I saw it in you today, Richard.’ Edward smiled broadly again. ‘The quietest, most reserved man may become a wild animal on the battlefield. War can turn a man inside out and he may even surprise himself.’

  Richard nodded, unsure how else to respond. Edward sat back into his chair and raised his voice now to address all around.

  ‘Today, we rise again, brother.’ The king beamed and all around were instantly silenced, focused upon him.

  ‘Today is Easter Sunday, sire.’ Richard still spoke softly and only to his brother.

  ‘True.’ Edward’s voice boomed through the silence of the tent now. He rose from his chair to his full height. A magnificent sight that had served Edward well. He clumsily grabbed a goblet of wine from the table. ‘To God, and His England!’ he called and his salute was echoed by all of the gathered lords.

  Richard mouthed the words with a silent reverence and looked up to see the towering figure of the king looking directly into his eyes.

  ‘To our risen Saviour,’ Edward toasted more soberly.

  The toast was again echoed, also somewhat soberly.

  Richard smiled at his brother, knowing that this toast had been made for his benefit. He noted, though, that the religious sentiment raised less passion amongst those gathered than the self-praising of patriotism. Richard already had a reputation as a pious man, which he wanted to be proud of, but he knew that to feel so would be considered a sin. He knew from recent history, though, that the temporal world required more from a man of his position than just pious devotion. That alone was what had led his own family to imprison King Henry within the Tower. Richard fully appreciated that a more rounded worldview was necessary to retain power. Today, he had taken his first step towards this position.

  A further hour passed with little eating and much drinking before many of the lords departed with varying degrees of drunken swaying, and only a few remained snoring loudly where they had slumped at the table.

  ‘Richard.’ Edward spoke softly again as he noticed his brother rise from his chair. Although he had consumed as much as everyone else, the king’s capacity was legendary, put down by most to the size of his frame, and by a few to long practice. Either way, his head was still clear. ‘Please, sit a moment longer.’

  Richard sat without hesitation, though he was unsure what his brother might want with him.

  ‘There is something that I need to tell you,’ Edward said slowly.

  ‘Sire?’ Richard held the king’s powerful gaze without flinching.

  ‘Amongst the slain today was the Earl of Warwick.’ Edward spoke deliberately, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Then the largest thorn is removed from you
r side, Your Grace.’ Richard did not hesitate or blink.

  ‘Richard, I know you were close. I would not blame you …’

  ‘Sire,’ Richard interrupted. Too defensive? he instantly wondered. He continued, though, without missing a beat. ‘Warwick was like a father to me. This much is no secret. Much of what I am today I owe to him.’

  Richard now felt Edward’s gaze weighing more heavily upon him. Searching. Questioning. Silent.

  ‘That,’ Richard continued, ‘is why his betrayal cut so deeply, as did that of George. Yet in that instant, when he declared against you, he declared against your family. He declared against me, and severed all of those bonds.’

  A sudden blaze of anger burned within the young duke’s stomach. What must I do? he wondered. How many times must I convince him?

  As quickly as it had come, the blaze was quashed. Richard was well aware that Edward had been betrayed by those he held closest before and needed to remain suspicious. Richard, though, still had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut, as though the embers still smouldered there.

  There was a long, heavy silence.

  Edward’s eyes searched Richard’s face for a sign. He wasn’t sure what it would be. Shock? Grief? Sadness? Elation? No, not elation. Not even Edward could feel that. Richard had spent the majority of his formative years in Warwick’s household, treated as one of his own family. That was the main reason that Edward had been unsure which side Richard would take when things began to go so badly, and why he had been moved when Clarence had joined Warwick. The politician in him remained suspicious, though. Was Richard planted at his side to spy on him? Did he still harbour some loyalty to Edward’s most powerful adversary? Edward the brother berated his political caution. Edward the politician challenged his own fraternal desire to trust. Edward the king realized that he must satisfy his political misgivings in order to retain his crown. The question, therefore, had to be asked: How far could he really trust Richard?