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

  ‘See, I know where I am with a school party,’ he said, only half to Anne, as he slipped through the thick walls, across the sanctuary and around to the back of the group. As one of the cathedral volunteers gave an introduction to the site, and told them about Richard’s discovery and reburial, he picked his victim, a small, quiet child at back of the group. As the volunteer reached the end of her talk, she smiled at the children and asked if they had any questions.

  ‘Go on, ask if there’s a ghost,’ Richard whispered.

  The small boy he had selected spun around, eyes wide, but he would see nothing.

  Richard chuckled to himself, then glanced at Anne to see whether she had decided to join him. She had not, but was smiling at him, gently shaking her head.

  He continued around the group. For his next victim, he chose something different. A small girl, loitering at the back of the group, her pigtails were just too much to resist, especially as there was nobody behind her she could blame. After emitting a small squeak, and being subsequently scolded, she hurried to the front of the column, staying as close to her teacher as possible.

  After distracting a couple of the volunteers and adults, he returned to Anne, now sitting in St George’s chapel, looking up at the carvings and stained glass windows.

  ‘It’s good to get it out of your system now and then,’ he said, joining her.

  ‘On to the visitor centre, then?’ she replied.

  Richard nodded. This was going to be interesting.

  *

  He knew the layout from his previous visit, but that time, he hadn’t felt up to going as far as seeing his original grave-site, or what they had done around the place, in terms of exhibition and presentation. This time, with Anne at his side, he knew he had to do it. But he would do it properly, follow the route, see how things had been done, enjoy – if that was the right word – the build-up to the site itself.

  Ignoring the doors and crowds waiting patiently to pay their entry fees, Richard and Anne made their way into the exhibition, stopping to watch the video which was just about to restart on a wall-sized screen, behind a mocked-up medieval throne.

  ‘I don’t want a running commentary of what you’re not happy about, do you understand?’ said Anne, instantly distracted by a representation of herself, walking on to the screen and giving her name to the watching group. ‘Well – well, I never. That’s meant to be me! I didn’t think I would feature.’

  ‘Ah, but of course you feature; you should be the star of the show,’ teased Richard, nudging her with his shoulder.

  She shushed him, and they made their way into the exhibition proper.

  *

  To Anne’s surprise, Richard kept his own counsel throughout most of the exhibition. The history, after all, had been discussed and disputed for years; there was little point a ghost arguing with what was written now – what could he do about it anyway? It was the science that was fascinating. Yes, the story of how the dig had come about, and the physical side of actually finding his skeleton was interesting, but all those analyses? The fact that they could determine (with some accuracy, they both had to confess) what his diet had comprised, how tall he had been, and what sort of world he had inhabited, that was close to witchcraft in Anne’s and Richard’s eyes.

  ‘All this can be told from our bones,’ said Richard, staring at the mock-up of his own skeleton, on display in the centre of the room.

  ‘And that’s just for now,’ Anne replied, hoping he wouldn’t be distracted by the signs about fatal injuries and weapons of the day. ‘I mean, we would never have imagined them doing this in our day, but look how much has changed just in the last century.’

  Finally, making their way downstairs, they approached the small, chapel-like area that enclosed his original grave, in the now famous carpark.

  Richard paused, still uncertain, only to find himself being urged on by Anne.

  ‘You can do this, husband,’ she whispered, before smiling encouragement.

  ‘Whether I can or I can’t, I have to,’ he replied.

  They waited at the entrance, waiting for a small group to leave; this was no place for a haunting. Seeing nobody about to follow them, Richard took Anne’s hand, and stepped through the doorway.

  The calm struck him first. Yes, it looked like a chapel, built over the small site, but somehow it felt like one too. With pale stone walls, low benches and high windows, it felt a positive space. Then he saw the glass. Rising up from the floor, right to the ceiling – the grave was encased entirely.

  Slowly, avoiding looking at the guide sitting to one side, Richard stepped forward, steadying himself.

  He could do this. Of course he could.

  The last time he had looked down on this grave, it had been surrounded by the buildings of Greyfriars, not yet topped with any monument, but covered in, prayers still being said for his soul. He hadn’t stayed long after his burial, hadn’t seen the point. London was where things were happening, London was where decisions were being made, so London was where he had gone – once he was used to his ghostly form.

  The Tower of London had become home so quickly, he’d hardly travelled since, beyond the odd foray; being so far away, and with Anne by his side, he felt a strength he had occasionally found lacking lately.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Anne’s voice broke into his train of thought. She moved up to the glass, then half a heartbeat later, jumped back in shock, staring at Richard.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, moving forward to join her. Then he saw it.

  A projector, hidden in the top of the glass, created an image within the grave – one that was too perfect a depiction of Richard’s skeleton for either of them to be comfortable with it.

  ‘That’s how he left you?’ asked Anne, in a whisper.

  ‘Yep. But we, well, I, would have done the same. It was never just about the battle, was it? What you did next was always just as important.’

  ‘But – when you compare what we had – in terms of our graves ... I’m sorry.’ She reached for his hand.

  ‘It’s amended now, that’s all that matters. I’ve got my grave, pride of place, right in the heart of the cathedral, my name and motto given their dues.’

  Richard watched the projection fade in and out a few more times before speaking again.

  ‘I’m glad we came back, but I think this is it now. Onwards and upwards.’

  ‘Not your white light? You wouldn’t leave us all?’ There was the hint of a shake to Anne’s voice.

  ‘Leave? Who mentioned leaving? Well, leaving here, yes, but that’s it. No, I don’t intend to go anywhere anytime soon; things are just starting to get fun, after all. Being here, it was important, but this is the past for me now. They’ve found me, reburied me, and my reputation is turning around quite nicely.’ He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Me and you – how about we head back to London, to our respective homes, but on the way, we make ourselves a plan? Think of all the places we can visit, the fun we can have; it’ll be like the last five hundred odd years never even happened. How about it?’

  Anne pulled away from Richard, and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Go travelling?’

  ‘A royal progress. I hear the Scots queen went on one. Very successful it was too, by all accounts.’

  Anne smiled. ‘A royal progress. Yes, I like that idea. All right, I’m in.’

  Richard clapped his hands together and grinned.

  ‘An excellent decision, I assure you. So, back to the Tower? It’s time we were planning.’

  With a final glance at the projected image of his skeleton in his cramped, undignified grave, Richard and Anne made their way out of the exhibition, nodded to two of the cathedral’s ghosts, loitering at the great wooden door, and made their way towards the station.

  About the author

  Jennifer C. Wilson is a marine biologist by training, who developed an equal passion for history whilst stalking Mary, Queen of Scots on childhood holidays (she has since moved on to R
ichard III). She completed her BSc and MSc at the University of Hull, and has worked as a marine environmental consultant since graduating. Enrolling on an adult education workshop on her return to the north-east of England reignited her pastime of creative writing, and she has been filling notebooks ever since.

  In 2014, Jennifer won the Story Tyne short story competition, and has been working on a number of projects since, including co-hosting the North Tyneside Writers’ Circle. Her Kindred Spirits novels are published by Crooked Cat Books and her timeslip novella The Last Plantagenet? by Ocelot Press.

  Website:​​https://jennifercwilsonwriter.wordpress.com/

  Amazon:​https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jennifer-Wilson/e/B018UBP1ZO/

  Facebook:​https://www.facebook.com/jennifercwilsonwriter/

  Twitter:​​https://twitter.com/inkjunkie1984

  Instagram:​https://www.instagram.com/jennifercwilsonwriter/

  Beyond the Rood

  Wendy Johnson

  They brought him here as the usurper rode out. Naked, dirty, bloodstained, trussed in a sling formed of a grubby bedsheet. Like a slaughtered beast: while none remained to weep for him, but me.

  Enemies everywhere. Soldiers fresh from the field, renegade nobility, those who have betrayed my master and cleave instead to the victor: the unknown. Whether they will use this man as a puppet, or affect some feigned, belated sense of allegiance, they will find no greater king than he who now lies beyond the rood.

  A friary church, a hole hastily dug by fearful monks. No hearse, no pall, no requiem; no waxen image offered up, to melt away as his soul flies to God. No tomb chest, no obit, no chantry prayers. No coffin, no shroud, no sweet herbs. A crude grave under the feet of the friars, laudations for the new king echoing above.

  Vespers is ended; the last candle snuffed out. Sandaled feet have slapped the night stairs. A residue of prayer hovers like incense.

  In the silence there is only my master and me. It is time. I lay down my sword, steel scraping stone, and shrink inside my hood. By the dim, sanguine glow of the sanctuary lamp, I inch forward, towards the quire.

  Unaccompanied, unseen. I kneel before the grave.

  Fealty. Loyalty. Ricardus Rex.

  Call for contributions

  Would you like the chance to have a story included in a future anthology of Ricardian tales? Have you already written one, or perhaps have an idea and have yet to put it down on paper (or on screen)? Is poetry more your thing?

  Alex Marchant is planning a further anthology of fiction and perhaps poetry inspired by King Richard III towards the end of 2019. If you would like to have a piece considered for inclusion, please follow and check Alex’s blog (https://alexmarchantblog.wordpress.com) or Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/AlexMarchantAuthor/) for announcements over the next few months.