Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Page 3

  Richard was both excited and apprehensive. He had never visited York before, but had heard tales of its mighty Minster and grand streets – but it was known for its Lancastrian leanings. His father’s head had once decked the gate-tower of Micklegate after the battle of Wakefield – alongside that of Richard’s brother Edmund, aged only seventeen. They were long gone, of course; Edward had ordered the heads removed after his victory at Towton and placed with their bodies at the Dominican priory at Pontefract, but still the memory remained, even if the horror was no longer visible.

  As it was, Richard would not have to witness the site of his dead father’s humiliation. Warwick’s route into the city was through another of its many ‘Bars’ – Bootham Bar.

  ‘You look serious.’

  Robert Percy, one of Richard’s friends from Middleham, glanced towards the youthful rider at his side. He was almost seven years older than Richard and seemed, in Richard’s eyes, almost a man. While Richard was still, in his tender years, a page, Rob was a squire to Warwick and helped look after his armour and his horses when he was in residence. For the rest of the time, it was his job to prepare the pages for their future positions as squires – when they were not with the grammar master or being taught chess or dancing.

  Richard sighed.

  ‘I was just thinking … about York …’

  Rob immediately knew what the boy meant and would not say.

  ‘Don’t think,’ he admonished with a grin. ‘You think too much, Richard. We are going to have a splendid time, as long as his lordship the earl lets us out of his sight!’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  Rob winked; he had bright blue eyes beneath a thatch of gleaming dark hair.

  ‘Oh, going on past times, I think so. Warwick believes a youth should see the world and not be overly sheltered. Christ’s teeth, you should know he doesn’t believe in coddling – he lets us swim in the Black Dub behind the castle, doesn’t he, and go off to explore the Old Castle of Red Alan … all places where you might well be snatched away by a wandering Scot.’

  Richard made a face at Rob. ‘There are no Scots in Yorkshire.’

  ‘No?’ Rob’s brows rose. ‘Well, there were once. They even made it to York. Tried to capture Queen Isabella who was in town …’ He fell silent. The queen he spoke of was reputed to have been the lover of Roger Mortimer, one of Richard’s own ancestors. Roger had virtually ruled England in the minority of Edward III, Richard’s royal ancestor in two lines, but had been hung as a common criminal on Tyburn Tree … ‘It was a long time ago,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘I know,’ said Richard. He had heard the story, but it hardly concerned him. A family of high standing always had so many deaths; Mortimer’s was too long ago for emotion. Even his grandfather, Richard of Conisbrough, was from a time before his birth. Only his father’s death at Wakefield remained raw, but he endeavoured to hide it well …

  The party entered beneath the frowning barbican of Bootham Bar, riding sedately under the spiked portcullis. Once inside, the red-clad worthies of the town emerged to greet the Lord Warwick, who rode at the head of the company on a grey destrier, his crimson cloak blowing behind him in the wind.

  ‘I hope all the niceties don’t go on too long,’ murmured Rob, as the mayor, Thomas Scawby, and the local sheriff made welcome speeches to the Earl of Warwick.

  His attention was suddenly drawn by a movement in one of the cobbled lanes that snaked off the main street. ‘Richard, look! They are going to have a pageant for the earl.’

  Richard craned his head around to stare. Out from the lane danced a troupe of mummers. The foremost, wearing feathered bird-masks, played flutes and banged tabors. Behind them strode an antlered man with a crumhorn, his cat-headed companion squealing on bagpipes. At their heels wandered a bear, furry and shambling – not a real bear from the bearpits, but a man in a shaggy skin wearing a wooden head filled with serrated iron teeth. Two other mummers poked and prodded at the bear; both were dressed as knights from a bygone age, one in a blood-red tabard and the other in black, with great feathered plumes waving upon their helmets.

  The black knight swaggered forward, taking in the crowd.

  Arthgallus, am I, knight of the Round Table,

  I defend my liege lord whenever I am able!

  My name means ‘the Bear’ like that of my lord –

  I’ll smite all other Bears with my trusty sword!

  Drawing a pretend wooden sword from the sheath at his belt, he made a dash at his fellow in the bear costume, pretending to whack the creature soundly on the nose.

  Richard and the rest of the company burst into laughter, especially the younger members.

  While the Bear cowered behind the musicians, Arthgallus stepped forward once more, twirling his long moustaches – a bristle made of horsehair.

  Warwick I am, first earl of that name,

  Courteous to knave, knight and dame.

  I come to welcome he who now bears Warwick’s mighty staff …

  A series of ribald titters broke out, and even Warwick, arms folded, was grinning with mirth.

  And at the same time, make you laugh!

  With a flourish and a deep bow, Arthgallus slunk into the background, behind the still-playing musicians.

  Another actor took his place – the knight wearing the red tabard, which was exactly the same shade as Lord Warwick’s own livery.

  ‘I am Morvidus, ancestor of all the Lords of Warwick!’ he cried in a booming voice.

  Arthgallus was my doughty son,

  but I was first to make the Great Bear run!

  I will make you afraid, I will make you laugh.

  I will beat the fearsome Bear with the Ragged Staff’

  The black knight reappeared and threw him a large, knobbly oak staff decorated with garlands of flowers. The Bear uttered a ferocious growl and pounced upon him, knocking off his helmet. Entwined, the two actors rolled on the ground, while the crowd laughed and catcalled. Then the knight took the staff and proceeded to buffet his opponent. The Bear, clutching its sore head, made a mewling noise like a little kitten and darted behind the musicians to hide as the children in the crowd pelted it with pebbles and twigs.

  ‘Well done, well done all,’ said the Earl of Warwick as the pageant finished, the musicians dancing in circles around the Bear, which began to dance too, waving its clumsy arms in the air. ‘But now I must attend to business at the Guildhall.’

  Warwick remounted his horse and his cavalcade proceeded on its way. Richard glanced back over his shoulder. The crowds around the mummers were dispersing, and he saw the smallest of the musicians remove the mask from her face. Below was a pretty maid about Richard’s own age ... but not only was she pretty, she was striking and unusual. There was no colour in her. She was like a girl wrought of the snow that fell on the high moors in winter. Her hair, braided with tiny blue flowers, was white, and no redness dappled her cheeks. She glanced up, perhaps sensing that someone was looking in her direction, and Richard saw that her eyes were the palest shade of blue, the hue of a winter’s sky after a thin rain.

  She smiled shyly at him and then pushed in amidst the older actors in the troupe.

  Rob Percy had seen everything. Surreptitiously he nudged Richard with his elbow.

  ‘Yes, she was fair, Dickon … but aren’t you a little young yet? Too young to be following your brother’s example.’

  Richard went red to his ears. ‘My … my brother is the king!’ he spluttered.

  Rob flushed and fell silent. It was easy to forget exactly the importance of this thin, smallish young boy, with his set, earnest face. A Plantagenet … with a brother who had won his crown through fire and blood at Mortimer’s Cross and Towton.

  ‘Richard, I should not have said it. I have a stupid loose tongue sometimes. You know I meant no ill.’

  ‘I know,’ said Richard, his flare of anger dying. ‘It is just … I … I … We can still be friends, can we not?’

  ‘Of course, as ad
mitted, I spoke out of turn. I will allow you to pummel me in sword practice for my punishment!’

  Richard grinned. Rob was relieved to see that grin. The young Gloucester was sometimes too serious. For his age, the child had been through much. And now his brother was king and the world opening up for him.

  The entourage continued to the Guildhall, where Lord Warwick conducted his business and the young pages and squires did his bidding while he was closeted with the mayor. After it was over, Warwick gestured the youths to him.

  ‘You have served me well today. I promised you all some freedom in this town, which many of you have never seen. Go now, but stay close – pitfalls can happen in even the friendliest of places.’

  He turned to Rob, beckoned him closer with a finger.

  ‘You – Percy. Look after Gloucester, without fail. Keep his name secret in the street.’

  ‘He need not call me by my title, my lord!’ butted in Richard, earnest and afraid, as if he thought Warwick might keep him bound to his side and make him miss any boyish revelry. ‘I always let him call me Dickon!’

  Warwick placed his hands on his hips.

  ‘Well, if I can trust you to mind yourself and obey Percy, Cousin Dickon, you may go.’

  ‘I shall!’ cried Richard. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then I let you go with your protector.’ Warwick nodded seriously to Rob. ‘Do not fail me.’

  *

  The two boys, along with others in the party, quickly headed down the winding alleys known as Snickleways to find some adventure. They ended up in the Shambles, where the fleshers hung meat out on hooks that overhung the gutter, then proceeded to gape in awe at the massive bastions of the Minster, gold lit in the late afternoon sun. Eventually, growing very thirsty, they entered a busy tavern within sight of the Minster and another church called St Michael le Belfrey. Rob brought two mugs of small beer, one for himself and one for Richard; Richard’s face crumpled up as he drank, for the beer tasted much fouler than that he had drunk in Middleham.

  As twilight descended, covering the sky with a purple pall, the tavern was full to brimming. Rob was a little tipsy and Richard felt uncomfortable, crushed into a corner while men deep in their cups stumbled around, roaring with mirth. One tripped and almost fell on top of him, spilling rank beer over his doublet.

  Richard leapt to his feet.

  ‘Rob, I am going back to the Guildhall to meet Lord Warwick.’

  Rob’s back was to him; he was chatting up a buxom girl with a rosy, eager face.

  ‘Rob!’ Richard called again, more stridently.

  Robert was not listening. Richard tried to catch his eye, but the older youth was thoroughly engrossed. Annoyed, Richard slipped out of the crowded tavern and sat on the edge of the gutter, the cobblestones jutting into the back of his thighs. It was beginning to rain, a dull drizzle that turned his hair into embarrassing ringlets. He scowled into the gloom.

  Suddenly a nearby lane disgorged a whole host of revellers, dancing, singing, laughing, some of them clearly tipsy. They held bright torches to light their way in the new-fallen night; the light splashed across the damp cobbles and illuminated the boy sitting miserably by the gutter.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ A man staggered over, holding up his torch. He was tall, with, to Richard, an outlandish accent. His cloak and hat were covered in silver suns and moons. He had a long beard plaited with blue ribbons.

  ‘A lost poppet by the look of things!’ A woman with black hair hanging indecently loose over her shoulders joined the bearded man. She smelt of spices and exotic scents. ‘Where did you come from, boy?’

  He did not want to answer these strangers and crossed his arms defensively. At that moment, a voice piped up, ‘He was with the Earl of Warwick’s company. I saw him when we performed!’

  A small figure pushed through the knot of bodies. Richard stared; it was the little white-haired girl he’d first seen with the mummers when he’d arrived in York! She was cloaked against the cold now, but her hood was back despite the rain, and long, moon-pale tendrils of hair hung free, flying like banners on the breeze.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘I noticed you …You were special. Different.’

  The mummers, for that was who the revellers were, crowded around Richard.

  ‘Special, special,’ whispered the older woman. ‘If our little Eirlys, our little Snowdrop, thinks you are special, then you are! She knows things, she does.’

  The mummers had now formed a circle. Richard could only see the lane behind, shining dully in the torchlight, through gaps between their legs. It was as if he was surrounded … deliberately.

  A pang of unease gripped him. Where were the beadles and the night-watch in this great town? And where was Rob Percy? No doubt still trying to impress the tavern wench …

  ‘You look afraid,’ said the dark-haired woman, teeth gleaming white in the descending dusk. ‘We won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ said Richard fiercely. Being afraid was about the worst insult someone could give him.

  The mummers burst into laughter. Richard’s cheeks burned.

  ‘Then you won’t be afraid to come with us,’ said the woman. ‘Will you?’

  The actors were moving off now, and he was caught in the middle of the group, pushed along by swinging cloaks and jostling hands. Some of the mummers began to play on their instruments, drowning the sound of his voice as he yelled at the dark woman and the man with the be-ribboned beard: ‘I can’t go with you. I have to return to the Lord Warwick! If I don’t return … he … he will come searching with armed men, I swear it!’

  ‘Hush.’ A little shape brushed against his shoulder. Glancing over, he saw the white girl, Eirlys. ‘They won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Then tell them to let me go!’

  She stared down; fine rain jewelled on her pale eyelashes.

  ‘This is all my fault. I told them you were special. They believe it is lucky to have you here. Just like a talisman.’

  ‘What are you – a witch?’ Richard snapped. He immediately felt guilty at his unkindness; the young girl’s head drooped and she looked mortified.

  ‘Of … of course not. But I have always had the ability to … see things. My mama, God assoil her, said it was a gift, not a curse. That Almighty God blessed me with the Sight.’

  ‘Do you see me going home?’ said Richard. ‘Back to Lord Warwick? Don’t you understand? I cannot stay out here … even if I wanted to. Which I do not. Warwick will send his men, and it will not go well for your people. I was not lying.’

  ‘Are you so important, then?’ she whispered. Suddenly her eyes were glittering. ‘I knew you were. I saw it!’

  ‘Be silent, no one is to know. Eirlys, please, get me away from this acting troupe, I beg you.’

  She now seemed to realize the urgency of the situation.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she called out to the two leaders, dancing on ahead while the pipes skirled and the hurdy-gurdy wheezed.

  ‘Over the hills and far away,’ said the bearded man with a laugh. He was swigging from an earthenware flagon.

  ‘Over hill and over dale,’ the black-tressed woman joined in. ‘And Luck shall come with us!’

  ‘Eirlys … please …’ Richard dragged on the girl’s sleeve. ‘I mustn’t stay longer. I have to go back!’

  Eirlys bit on her lip. ‘It is my fault this has happened. I will try my best …’

  The older mummers were crossing a bridge that spanned the Ouse, a dark hump of stone with the water rushing below. Richard’s heart hammered. Soon one of the gates would become visible. Was it curfew yet, or would his erstwhile abductors dance straight on out into the night? Would yelling and shouting bring help or would the guard see him merely as some ill-mannered guttersnipe?

  Eirlys tugged on his hand. They were now several paces behind the others, who were still whirling about and tipsily dancing, caught in the light of the feeble, half-dead torches that lit the top of the bridge. ‘Jum
p, Richard, jump while they aren’t looking!’

  Over the parapet both children scrambled, landing on a muddy ledge below the river. Eirlys grabbed Richard’s hand and dragged him under the struts of the bridge and out along the riverbank.

  As they both ran, cloaked in darkness, Richard glanced at his strange companion.

  ‘Hadn’t you best go back?’

  Eirlys shook her head. ‘They can wait. They’ll beat me, remember, for letting you go. They’ll soon all fall down drunk and sleep it off. I’d rather deal with them when they’re sober. Then they’ll see how foolish they’ve been.’

  The children continued on in the darkness as the rain pattered down. There was no pursuit, though in the distance they could hear music and drunken shouting. All around, shapes moved; once, by a wall, they saw two cowled shapes huddled by a meagre fire.

  ‘Where is this place?’ said Richard, thoroughly disorientated. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘The poor and homeless live on the river’s edge. They won’t harm …’ She suddenly stared at his garments, rich though somewhat bedraggled from the damp. Taking off her cloak, she handed it to him. ‘Put that on.’

  ‘But you … you will be cold. And you’re a girl,’ said Richard.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Do as I say, for your own sake.’

  Richard decided it was best not to argue and pulled on the cloak. He had scarcely fastened the clasp when an old woman leaning on a stick came stumbling down the path. She wore a ragged shawl, and one of her eyes looked almost luminous in the darkness – there was a white film over it. She halted, seeming to sense someone ahead. Her free hand came out.

  ‘Alms, alms!’

  ‘We’re children, we don’t have money,’ said Eirlys boldly.

  ‘Nothing at all? Not even a penny for an old woman? We cannot even get fish from the rivers to eat no more; the damned monks build fishgarths in ’em. Fishgarths. What do you say to that, young madam, young sir?’