Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Page 5

  And Dickon, united at the end as we were in the beginning. Fortune’s Wheel, I told him: it never stops turning. He offered to pray with me too, but I told him Mother had ruined my knees, tried to make him smile, couldn’t bear the depths of his sorrow. The ship, I told him, remember the ship across the Narrow Seas, one stormy night in the middle of winter? Told him we shall both wash up together, in another harbour, one day.

  Weak February light is fading across Tower yard. The scrape of steel, as the watch is changed, the low, brusque voices of the guards. And the smell of the chamber creeping in as the night settles; old stone, cold stone, like the stone of Tewkesbury vault. I shall know it well, soon enough.

  A chink of keys, the rolling of bolts, the glare of a lighted torch. They offer me a goblet; sweet Malmsey, to ease and to calm. Rich and red, its sanguine depths reflect my rippling face: a mirror into eternity.

  I drink deeply; feel the trail of wine, from gullet to belly, trickling, scorching, while the gaoler averts his gaze.

  Edward’s parting gift: a poisoned chalice.

  In realisation, I close my eyes, seek Mother’s faithful beads:

  Pater in manus tuas … Father into thy hands …

  The chamber is lengthening, stretching away. I rise; unsteady, lurching, my numbed limbs following the widening arc. Beneath my feet, stone gives way to earth, to soil … to grass … to green grass … soft and fresh and drenched with dew.

  In the passing of a moment, I am free…

  About the author

  Wendy Johnson has a passion for medieval history and has been fascinated by the fifteenth century, and Richard III in particular, since childhood. She is a keen amateur writer and was a finalist in the Woman and Home Short Story Competition in 2008 with a story set in fourteenth-century York.

  Along with her husband, Dr David Johnson, Wendy was a founding member of Philippa Langley’s Looking for Richard Project, which successfully located the lost grave of King Richard in August 2012, and is a co-author of Finding Richard III: The Official Account. Wendy’s other historical interests include the Angevin kings of England and the English Civil Wars of the seventeenth century. She is currently researching and writing a historical novel, set during the Wars of the Roses, which is intended to form part of a trilogy. Wendy lives in York, Richard III’s favourite city.

  Website: ​http://revealingrichardiii.com/index.html

  Amazon: ​https://www.amazon.co.uk/Finding-Richard-III-Official-Account/dp/0957684029

  Ave Atque Vale

  Frances Quinn

  On a splendidly draped ornate bed in a gloomy room of the palace, Henry VII lay struggling to breathe. Surrounded by whispering ministers and chanting clergy he fought against the quinsy and consumption, and lost. He closed his eyes, and died . . .

  . . . He opened his eyes again on to a leaden overcast sky, and realized he was lying prone on coarse grass. Struggling to stand up, a sudden weight dragged him forward and he stared at the heavy chains that shackled his wrists. Raising his hands to study the fetters, he saw they were made of solid gold, set thickly with gems. They were very, very heavy.

  Baffled, Henry turned his gaze to his surroundings.

  All around him stretched a dreary moorland, reed-grasses hissing in the wind under a grey sky. Here and there huge rounded stones dotted the landscape and in the distance there was a dark smudge that might have been mountains. There was no sign of life in the desolate landscape, not human, animal or bird.

  Close by stood a group of the huge stones, with the glint of water between them. He went to make his way towards them and discovered that golden chains bound his feet as well.

  Stumbling and cursing, he dragged himself over to the stones and sat down heavily. There was a small pool of peaty-brown water between the stones, rippling in the breeze, reflecting the monotonous sky.

  Where was he?

  He remembered the deathbed, and the darkness . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats, and he stood up, peering around him for the source.

  Across the sere grasses, a figure on horseback was approaching. As it came closer it resolved itself into a man on a white horse, both in full battle-armour, caparisoned in red and blue and gold.

  The rider reined in before Henry, who saw the man lacked a helmet, although in full harness otherwise.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, the knight smiled and said,

  ‘Well, Tydder, this is a strange place to meet!’

  Henry looked up into the face of Richard Plantagenet, third king of that name, and crossed himself – or tried to: the chains pulled his hand down.

  ‘Saints preserve me! So I am in Hell!’

  ‘Nay, not Hell, but Purgatory. This is where we wait until . . .’

  ‘Until we are cleansed of sin. Aye,’ Henry snapped, ‘I know my catechism as well as you do, Gloucester. No doubt that is why I am wearing these.’

  He held up his shackled hands.

  ‘And what is your penance, then? Eternal saddle-sores on that nag? Or is it one of your cronies transformed for his sins?’ He chuckled nastily. ‘Lovell, mayhap?’

  The destrier stretched its head forward, ears back and eyes rolling. Henry flinched back.

  Richard reined in the stallion.

  ‘Peace, Master Surrey,’ he said, patting the beast’s neck. ‘No, this is White Surrey himself. I think the poor creature felt guilty about unseating me, so he followed me here. Lovell escaped your hounds, Henry. You would be amazed at who slipped through your grasping fingers. No, I am fated to ride through this land till I find the path out. I have faith that I will – one day.’

  ‘Hah!’ Henry snorted. ‘It may be a long while before you leave this place, Gloucester. There are a scant few folk left to pray for you!’

  ‘Not so.’ Richard dropped his gaze to Surrey’s mane, one hand playing with the coarse white hair. ‘There are still some faithful souls who hold to the truth, despite all the lies you have spread, Tydder.’

  ‘Very few, and growing fewer, I think!’

  ‘Aye, well, your habit of murdering anyone who dared to speak well of me has reduced their numbers, certainly.’

  ‘Traitors all!’ Henry snapped. ‘They threatened my throne, the succession!’

  ‘Children and old women? Your throne?’ Richard glared at him, then sighed. ‘There's naught I can do about that now. You and I must complete our penance, Tydder, and trust in God's mercy.’

  ‘Amen to that!’ Henry sat back on his stony seat. ‘But,’ he said, smiling thinly as a thought struck him, ‘I may not be here to keep you company for very long, Gloucester.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I have left instructions in my will for thousands of masses to be said for me, prayers in perpetuity, and each one will hasten me out of this place. I will say farewell to you now, and let you continue your endless quest. I will not see you again, I trust.’

  ‘Ah, Henry, Henry.’ Richard shook his head. ‘I fear you will bear me company a while yet. All your chantries and churches and abbeys are gone, along with your masses and prayers.’

  ‘What?’ Henry said, aghast. ‘You lie, Gloucester! Ever the false, usurping –’

  ‘Usurping? You would know more of that than I! But I do not lie. Look into the waters beside you, and see I speak the truth.’

  Henry did as he was bidden.

  The dark waters rippled, showing only the dull sky. Then he saw shapes – becoming clearer, so it was like looking through a window.

  He saw roofless churches, abbeys demolished, the stone carted away to build manors and walls.

  Sacred vessels melted down, statues broken, paintings destroyed.

  Stained glass windows smashed and scattered.

  Priests and nuns made homeless, wandering the roads. An elderly abbot cruelly executed.

  The poor and sick left helpless, no hospitals or charity left to them.

  ‘In God's holy name! What has happened? Has there been an uprising? A war?’ />
  Henry turned to Richard, who crossed his hands on the saddle-bow and shrugged.

  ‘Time here runs on a separate path to that in the world we left. While you have been here, your mother has died and your son has done this. Your son, Henry. Your second-born son, who has caused it all because he cannot think with what is between his ears. He has condemned you – and his grand-dame – to a longer time here. Almost I could feel sorry for you.’

  Henry looked back to the pool where images continued to flicker across the surface.

  ‘My mother?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, she is here, too,’ Richard said, gesturing at the empty land. Then he ducked his head as a large black and white bird swooped at him out of nowhere and flapped across to perch on Henry's shoulder.

  The magpie croaked and fluttered its wings.

  ‘And a pleasure to see you again, Dame Beaufort,’ Richard said acidly, ‘and looking better than I have seen you in many a year!’

  Henry flinched as the bird settled its grip on his shoulder.

  ‘Mother?’ he said, weakly.

  ‘You cannot tell, Henry? Surely her countenance has not changed that much?’ Richard looked very close to laughter. ‘But now, I must say my farewells. Much as I would like to stay and talk of old times, I have my own way to find. Ave atque vale, Henry!’

  Bowing in the saddle, Richard turned Surrey's head and set off across the wide moors.

  Henry Tydder sighed.

  He turned to the magpie, which had hopped on to the stone beside him.

  Now that he looked at the bird, it did remind him of his mother – especially around the eyes.

  He looked back at the retreating figure of Richard Plantagenet, and saw the clouds above the rider suddenly part. A ray of bright sunlight enveloped the man and horse, flaring off the armour. As abruptly as it had opened, the cloud cover rolled back, returning the gloomy sky to a dead grey – and showing an empty landscape.

  Coming to a decision, Henry began to dig in the soft earth beside the pool, pulling up loose, fist-sized stones and stacking them into a neat pile.

  Perhaps it would be a long wait, but he was determined to give his stupid son a right royal welcome . . .

  About the author

  Frances Quinn lives in Dublin, Ireland in a house filled with books, antlers and art supplies. A self-taught artist who occasionally dabbles in writing, her interest in Richard III dates back to the early 1980s when she read Josephine Tey's The Daughter of Time.

  Examples of Frances’ art can be found on the Internet at DeviantArt.com and on her Facebook page.

  Website:​​https://www.deviantart.com/echdhu

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

  Buckingham’s End

  Richard Unwin

  An excerpt from A Wilderness of Sea

  Laurence, the king’s armourer, and a few friends are contemplating the effects of the Duke of Buckingham’s rebellion against King Richard and the ambition of one Henry Tudor, titling himself Earl of Richmond.

  The denizens of the Bell Inn were noisier than usual, Laurence thought, as he sat in a favoured place by the fire with David Morgan and John Fisher. John’s wife, Gurden, was engaged in bawdy repartee with some of her customers, her blithe spirit one of the reasons the inn was highly popular in Gloucester; the other was the quality of the wine and viands. Laurence and David had taken lodging at the inn after resting a mere day at Laurence’s forge. He thought on the forge where John Fisher kept the smiths and armourers busy with the orders he continued to send from his contacts at court. The king alone had ordered a huge quantity of arrowheads, halberd blades and spearheads which was enough to keep the forge busy for some weeks. John acted at the forge as Laurence’s steward while Gurden ran the inn most efficiently and thus the couple were becoming, if not rich, then comfortably off. Laurence too was quite a wealthy man, especially when he added payment for his work on the king’s armour and that of other nobles, with profits lodged in a London banking house.

  Sir James Tyrell arrived, as he always seemed to just when Laurence was most contented, bent on destroying his fond reverie. David and John had been discussing the recent rebellion and wondering at the whereabouts of the perfidious Duke of Buckingham when he strode into the inn. David Morgan, of course, was one of his men, so it was obvious he would have left word where he could be found.

  ‘We have him, the traitor Buckingham,’ Tyrell declared triumphantly. ‘Hidden away at Wem and given up by a snivelling servant, the man he thought was protecting him. Most fitting for a traitor.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said David, jumping to his feet.

  ‘Safe in the gaol here, for now. The sheriff of Shrewsbury has him in charge. Tomorrow we proceed to Salisbury.’

  ‘He will be taken to the king, I suppose?’ said Laurence.

  ‘He will not,’ snapped Tyrell. ‘His Grace will not grant him audience. The traitor Henry Stafford will be given trial at Salisbury, presided over by Sir Ralph Assheton who is appointed by the king, then executed. I have sent advance word to begin constructing the scaffold.’ Tyrell, Laurence noted, had corrected his earlier mistake of using the title Buckingham and now reverted to the familial name of Henry Stafford. ‘We are to attend upon the king who is on his way to Salisbury. Be ready to leave at first light.’

  *

  ‘The wretch is most abject, Your Grace, and begs an audience most humbly,’ said Catesby.

  King Richard stood firmly, his legs placed for balance as if about to launch himself at a deadly foe. This was partly so that Laurence could check the fit of his armour, and partly in hate for the traitorous duke, his erstwhile friend and chief supporter.

  ‘Tell him he shall have a priest to confess to,’ he barked. ‘That is all the audience he will be granted from us; his next interview will be with the Devil in the foul pit.’

  ‘Might I ask Your Grace to place himself so?’ asked Laurence, striking a martial pose.

  King Richard glared at him angrily for a moment, then grumped and copied his armourer’s stance. Laurence pulled and pressed around the joints and pleats of the harness, marking with a chalk one or two points he thought might require some work. Though he was concentrating on what was, at this time, a delicate task around the body of the king, yet he took his time the longer to remain in the presence.

  ‘Traitor though he is, he wishes to impart something to Your Grace,’ continued Catesby doggedly. ‘A secret, the knowledge of which will serve Your Grace.’

  ‘I have no curiosity whatever for anything he has to say to me. You are a lawyer, Catesby, and thus a hoarder of secrets, which are your stock-in-trade, but I have no such interest. I know all I need to of Henry Stafford; he is already dead to me.’

  ‘But there still may be . . .’

  ‘Enough! I shall hear no more.’

  ‘Very good, Your Grace,’ said Catesby with a graceful bow. He had pushed the matter of the Duke of Buckingham’s plea for an audience with the king as far as he dare. Laurence wondered why he had been so persistent. Perhaps it was, as the king said, the consuming desire of a lawyer to probe secrets. Catesby, however, was not the kind Laurence would trust with any of his secrets. He remembered too well how the disclosure of a certain secret marriage contract, harboured by the lawyer for years, had brought Lord William Hastings to his doom and deprived a boy king of his crown.

  ‘Your squires have maintained the harness in good order, my lord king,’ said Laurence. ‘There are one or two rivets that might be closed up, but otherwise, unless Your Grace can inform me further, it is fit for battle.’

  ‘That is good. If, as my good Sir William here fears, there are more traitors out there, I shall deal with them with harness on my back, not whisper at them to go away.’

  ‘I only meant . . .’ stammered Catesby.

  ‘Well, Catesby, you meant well I know, but I have had enough of treason. It has dogged my footsteps ever since my brother Edward died.’

  King Richard sat hi
mself wearily on a stool by the window of his chamber and looked down into the courtyard. They were in the finest room of Salisbury’s best inn and the courtyard below was crammed with men-at-arms and others. Some noticed the king at his window and immediately stopped to make obeisance. He gave an impatient wave of his hand to get them to return to their duties. One of the serving men in the chamber brought a goblet of wine from which the king sipped sparingly, in deep thought.

  ‘I remember at the latter wars in Scotland,’ he said at length to nobody in particular, ‘I was on board ship with Jockey Norfolk.’ Laurence smiled at the king’s use of the nickname the Duke of Norfolk, John Howard, was fondly known by. ‘There was a black storm and we put out to sea, away from the coast for safety. We were surrounded by great waves as far as we could see – a wilderness of sea that, at any moment, might have washed us away. God, in his mercy, delivered us, but I feel now as I did then, surrounded by hostile elements all of which would drown us.’

  ‘Except, Your Grace, on land you can wear good armour to protect you,’ said Laurence. ‘At sea, the same would drag you down.’

  The king turned his head and smiled at him benignly.

  ‘Our thoughts exactly,’ he said quietly. ‘We would not put out on to a sea of lies and treachery to be dragged down. We shall fight treason dry shod, well armed and with a good conscience.’

  ‘Well said, Your Grace,’ responded Laurence.

  The king’s attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion in the courtyard below. He stood up and peered down.

  ‘Sir James Tyrell has arrived and seems most anxious,’ he said. ‘By the looks of him he has a report to make. Give him immediate audience.’

  Sir James burst into the chamber in a manner that would normally have brought him a rebuke, but his flushed face and air of excitement had everyone’s attention. He knelt before the king, his eyes bright and shining.

  ‘The Tudor’s ships have sailed from Brittany, Your Grace. They are expected to be off our coast in a few days, except the weather is not in their favour.’