Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Page 2
‘Tell me what is troubling you, Dickon,’ he commanded. ‘What weighs so heavily on your soul that you will not allow yourself to find the heavenly repose you laboured so long and hard to achieve?’
Richard flinched at the monk’s use of that almost forgotten diminutive of his name; he struggled to push away the vivid recollections of his past life that it conjured up in his mind. Resting his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head. His eyes absently traced the grain of the ancient wooden floor beneath his feet whilst he tried to marshal his thoughts and find the words to explain himself. Finally, drawing in a deep breath, he spoke in a bleak voice.
‘That’s just the point, Gilbert … I do not feel ready to leave here … So much remains unresolved in my mind … I am not fit ...’ Richard’s voice trailed off. He raised his eyes and the monk was taken aback by the depth of pain that he saw there.
His bushy silver brows drew together ‘Sweet Jesu!’ he swore silently in self-recrimination.
How had he missed this?
Feelings of compassion and guilt warred with each other inside the monk. Somehow, he had let the young king down. Father Gilbert began to question himself ... Had he become complacent because Richard had undertaken every task and trial he was set with fortitude and courage? And yet ... having mentored and guided countless transitory souls as they travelled along their personal road to redemption here in Purgatory, never once had he known one hesitate in this way, questioning the final judgement of heaven and resisting reunification with the Creator.
The monk pushed aside the low table on which the chess set lay and leant forward.
‘Explain this foolishness that has taken root in that agile brain of yours,’ he demanded gruffly.
Richard gave a hollow laugh, and with a grim twist to his mouth he began to speak.
‘My name is synonymous with evil. In the mortal world I am the hunchback killer king. The most heinous crimes have been laid at my door.’ In a flat, strained voice, he continued. ‘After Tewkesbury I murdered Henry VI and his son Edward of Lancaster. I executed my brother Clarence – drowning him in a butt of Malmsey. I usurped England’s throne to which I had no right. I killed my nephews. I poisoned my wife in order to incestuously marry my niece. My place in history is amongst the most reviled and evil villains that ever existed. How can someone whose reputation is so mired in infamy find peace in heaven?’
Sensing the deep anguish that lay behind them, the monk listened to Richard’s words with growing concern. His state of mind was far worse than Gilbert had at first envisaged. A surge of anger flowed through him. Why had Richard not come to him with his fears and doubts instead of tormenting himself for so long?
The monk rose swiftly to his feet. Towering over Richard he began to speak, but then his mouth snapped shut to hold back a threatening stream of reproachful words. Mutely shaking his head, not trusting himself to speak, he moved across the room to stand in front of the massive stone fireplace. For long silent moments he scowled down into the leaping flames, then began to prowl back and forth, his rapid strides causing the skirt of his rough woollen robe to swing dangerously close to the burning logs.
He stopped abruptly and, in a voice, made harsh with unease and worry for his friend, he snapped, ‘This …’ He swallowed, then demanded sternly, ‘This self-castigation must stop immediately!’ From beneath brooding brows he scrutinized Richard’s unhappy face. ‘Think carefully before you answer, Richard. Which are you in danger of accepting? Heaven’s affirmation of your soul’s purity, or the vile image of you created by Henry VII’s propagandists and the Tudor chroniclers who curried favour with the paranoid, murderous dynasty he founded? Which should take precedence in your mind?’
Richard drew in a shaky breath, his mouth tightening a fraction at the censure and thread of anger he heard in his mentor’s voice, but he raised his chin and looked the monk straight in the eye.
‘The truth of a man’s reputation matters, Gilbert. In the eyes of all of humankind I am a soul beyond redemption.’
The monk snorted impatiently. ‘It matters not how you are regarded in the mortal world if heaven judges you fit to enjoy eternal life with God.’
Richard’s shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘Cease lecturing me, Gilbert. I know you have the right of it ... but it still torments me to know that throughout all eternity, I am fated to be the monster king.’
Instinctively the monk reached a comforting hand towards him, but then he hesitated and drew back. The realization dawned on him that throughout their long association, he and Richard had concentrated so hard on working to free his soul from all taint of sin, that in the process his emotional psyche had been neglected. In this unquiet state of mind, he most certainly could not leave Eden; there would be no peace for him in heaven.
The monk found himself in a situation that he had not foreseen, that he had no real experience of dealing with. He slowly paced the length of the room, vainly searching his mind for a way forward – a way to his ease his young friend’s anguish.
A heavy, drawn-out silence descended upon the room, as each man wrestled with his unhappy thoughts.
Richard shifted restlessly in his seat, his troubled gaze falling upon the abandoned chess game. He saw that he had exposed his queen, placed her in danger. Leaning forward, he picked up the tiny, intricately carved chess piece and stroked it with a tender forefinger. She reminded him of his own delicate Anne ... the dainty, playful sprite of his childhood ... who was married against her will to that arrogant pup Edward of Lancaster, when her father, the Earl of Warwick, turned traitor. Whom he’d ransacked the stews of London for, after his brother Clarence had hidden her from him – putting her to work as a scullion maid in a cook shop, so that he could keep his greedy clutches on her inheritance ... His precious love, whose frail, grief-stricken body had not the strength to fight when sickness struck after the death of their beloved son ...
A touch on his shoulder brought Richard back to the present. He looked up to find the monk gazing remorsefully down at him.
‘I have let you down, Dickon,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I should have recognized your feeling of unworthiness and not allowed it to fester and grow as it has done. I feel somewhat at a loss – not equipped to deal with the dilemma we now find ourselves in. You are questioning divine judgement and resisting the natural progress of your soul. I must seek advice from the Guardians – in the eons of their existence they must surely have come across a situation such as this before.’ He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘The mentor now himself needs mentoring.’
The monk’s fingers briefly tightened in a gesture of comfort, and he turned and strode across the room. But, struck by a sudden thought, he paused in the doorway.
Richard had received heaven’s blessing and absolution, but this rare and complex soul had yet to forgive himself!
Resting his hand on the wide wooden frame, he turned back to look at his friend.
‘To some degree we are all the masters of our own fate, Richard. Whilst I am gone, perhaps you should re-examine the events that took place during the last years of your earthly life and ask yourself why you still consider yourself not fit for heaven. Why does the Tudors’ invention of the demonic King Richard hold so much power over your mind?’
Hearing these softly spoken words, Richard’s eyes widened. He searched the monk’s face for a hidden meaning, but could not penetrate its bland inscrutability.
Could he bear to re-live that time in his life when his whole world had turned to ashes and crumbled away, when in the space of two years he had lost everyone he most loved – his brother, his son and his wife? When, in the depths of his grief, he had underestimated, until it was too late, Margaret Stanley’s dangerous obsession to place her son on the throne and his own vulnerability to the poisonous web of rumour, treachery and betrayal that she and her allies spun around him.
With a sigh Richard rested his head against the high back of his chair. As uncomfortable as it was, Gilbert’s advice was sound. The Guard
ians would not allow him to linger in this sanctuary forever. It was time to unlock the door to his painful memories.
The soft thud of the library door as it closed behind the monk’s retreating figure and the spit and crackle of apple logs burning in the hearth were the only sounds that broke the intense silence that descended upon the room.
About the author
Marla Skidmore grew up in a small medieval city in northern England where she met and married her soldier husband. She lived a typical military life in various postings around Europe and the UK before returning home to study, emerging with a dual honours degree in English and history and a Master’s in literature, with which she went on to become a college lecturer.
Having dabbled in writing since university, Marla began to write seriously during a prolonged career break. Her first novel – a romantic murder mystery set during the Napoleonic wars – was put aside when Richard III’s grave was rediscovered. At lunch with university friends during the ensuing controversy about his reburial place, she speculated about what he would have made of all the fuss and was challenged to write a story: ‘Do one about Richard in blue jeans.’ The idea took root and the result was Renaissance: The Fall and Rise of a King. Her Richard is not in blue jeans, but she did bring him into the twenty-first century – in her own way. She has been diverted from her earlier novel once again: she is now writing a sequel. Renegade is about that most loyal of Richard’s friends, Francis, Viscount Lovell.
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Long Live the King
Narrelle M. Harris
Elizabeth leaves white roses at the statue’s feet. A sharp little spur of sorrow takes her every time.
Workers dug up his mortal feet, all unknowing, before anyone learned the rest of him was buried here. Distal and proximal phalanxes. Metatarsals and cuneiforms and taluses. The foot bone connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone connected to the shin bone. The small king with the bent back connected to the hard earth.
Once, this little hole into which he’d been thrown had been the floor of a priory. Then it was car park. Elizabeth supposes it’s a miracle he only lost his feet, poor Richard.
Shakespeare transmuted him into a grand old villain, charming and treacherous. These days new battle lines are drawn: good king or bad? Child-killer or slandered Christian?
Elizabeth thinks he’s both; she thinks he’s neither. She thinks that method, motive and opportunity were collectively very murky 530-odd years ago and a lot of questions remain unanswered.
She thinks maybe he didn’t deserve to be hacked at after his death, the post-mortem blows so hard they cut grooves in his bones. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be dumped with his hands still tied, his head bent up against one end of the hole, before they piled on the dirt (in his grave and on his reputation) and tiled him in. Tarmacked him in.
Elizabeth’s sister Celia thinks she’s foolish, with this tendresse Elizabeth has for a long-dead king. What does it matter if he killed his nephews or not (and he probably did)? What possible difference does it make now?
Because it’s so unfair, Elizabeth wants to say.
She can’t honestly say why this king’s pitiable end moves her so much she brings him flowers every month. She read a story once, perhaps, where all the truths are questioned, or where all the truths were repented. A story where he was a fully textured human and not a cautionary tale about tyranny.
Richard was brave, in his time. The scoliosis that twisted his spine didn’t keep him from honours on the battlefield. A good administrator, by all accounts. Perhaps he did one truly terrible thing. Perhaps he was only blamed for it. Henry had more motive, some say. Cui bono? Who benefits? Henry certainly would never have gained the throne had the boys lived.
Elizabeth lays the York roses at Richard III’s metal feet. Behind her is the story of his life in one tourist attraction. Opposite, his bones (minus his feet) lie in the cathedral, stained glass streaming coloured light on to the limestone tomb when the time of year is right.
‘In another world,’ Elizabeth tells his statue, ‘someone loved you for exactly who you are, and you loved them back in just the same way. In some other when and where, you’re the best version of yourself. And you’re happy.’
*
In some other when and where, a short man with a bent spine pauses by a statue. He’s slight and his eyes are kind. A little boy grips his father’s fingers with one hand. In the other is a posy of daisies.
Richard lifts his son up in his arms and holds him while the boy places the daisies at the statue’s feet. They look up at her face, the sun shining behind her like a halo.
‘I don’t think Queen Bess killed her sister,’ says the boy.
‘Nor do I, Neddy,’ says his father. ‘Some say so, but she was so wise in other ways. Perhaps she made a terrible mistake. Perhaps she was only blamed for a terrible thing.’
Neddy climbs up and stands on the plinth by the posy. He wraps his skinny arms around the statue’s hips. He closes his eyes.
‘What are you wishing?’ asks Richard, smiling indulgently at his son.
‘I wish for her to be happy in some world somewhere,’ says Neddy. His cheek rests on the metal hip of the queen. ‘Jack says it’s silly, that I like Queen Bess.’
Richard leans against the long metal skirts of their favourite monarch.
‘It’s not silly to be kind, or to try to see both sides,’ says Richard. ‘It’s a good-hearted thing, to want to be fair. But do you know what else is important?’
Neddy nods. ‘To be your best self every day.’
‘The attempt is as worthy as the achievement,’ says Richard. ‘And forgiveness is a kindness when we can’t quite manage our best. We can always try again tomorrow. And what is our motto?’
‘Loyalty binds me!’ laughs the boy, and he trustingly topples from the base of the statue into his father’s arms.
Neddy is almost too big for this game, but not yet. Richard catches his son and swings him around, puts him on the path again.
‘Be loyal to your promise,’ says Richard. ‘Be your best self.’
‘Every day,’ agrees Neddy.
Half-way home to Anne and the girls, his sisters, Neddy wants to feel what it will be to walk like his father. He stands upon his father’s feet, his upraised hands held in his father’s strong grip, and Richard takes strides just long enough to make his little son feel big.
About the author
Narrelle M. Harris writes crime, horror, fantasy, romance and erotica. Her 30+ novels and short stories have been published in Australia, the USA and the UK. Award nominations include Fly by Night (nominated for a Ned Kelly Award), Witch Honour and Witch Faith (both short-listed for the George Turner Prize), and Walking Shadows (Chronos Awards; Davitt Awards). Her ghost/crime story Jane won the Athenaeum Library’s ‘Body in the Library’ prize at the 2017 Scarlet Stiletto Awards.
Narrelle’s work includes vampire novels, erotic spy adventures, het and queer romance, traditional Holmesian mysteries, and Holmes/Watson romances The Adventure of the Colonial Boy (2016) and A Dream to Build a Kiss On (2018). Her queer paranormal thriller-romance, Ravenfall, was released in 2017. Upcoming books include her short story collection, Scar Tissue and Other Stories, due later in 2018, and spec-fic het romance, Grounded, to be published in March 2019 with Escape Publishing.
On Patreon, Narrelle is writing novellas in the Duo Ex Machina series of M/M romance crime novellas. The third in the series, Number One Fan, is currently being serialized for her supporters.
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Five White Stones
J. P. Reedman
The cavalcade approached the gates of York. Trumpets blew a mighty blast that reverberated off the ancient walls with their slate-capped watch-towers and stalwart Roman foundations. Banners flapped in the northerly wind, showing a bear and ragged staff – symbols of the Earls of Warwick. Other flags bore his arms and yet others his motto, Vix ea nostro voco, which meant ‘I can scarcely call these things our own.’ However, the Lord Warwick called many places in the north his own, including the castles of Middleham and Sheriff Hutton.
It was to Middleham that young Richard of Gloucester had been sent shortly after his brother Edward’s assumption of the English throne. He was to learn knightly arts under the Earl of Warwick’s tutelage as befitting a youth who was also a royal duke – and who had recently been created Governor of the North and Constable of Corfe and Gloucester castles, positions that were, of course, in name only until he reached his majority. Still, quite the birthday present for a lad of ten!
But today, Richard, riding in Warwick’s cavalcade, did not have to worry about his lessons at Middleham, the hours of practice with wooden swords that left him bruised and weary, the hours of acting as a page to Warwick, refilling his cousin’s goblet all night until he thought his eyelids would droop shut and he would fall asleep on his feet.
Today Warwick was entering York on business and he had brought a bevy of young squires and pages along in his company. Although he expected the customary services and manners from those under his care, he implied that he would not look askance if the boys viewed the delights of the city, as long as they did not make nuisances of themselves.