The King's Grave: The Discovery of Richard III's Lost Burial Place and the Clues It Holds

by Langley, Philippa

  Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

  Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

  Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

  It all seems superficially pleasing – discord has been replaced by harmony, dissension is now a thing of the past. But as soon as Richard sets up this new order he begins to subvert it, with deft and sardonic humour.

  Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;

  And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds

  To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

  He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

  To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

  We learn that his warrior brother Edward, and the court around him, have gone soft and are lost in the sway of sensual pleasure. Richard mocks this, but underneath his mockery lies a far deeper disenchantment that will now be powerfully – and disturbingly – shown to us:

  But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

  Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

  I, that am rudely stamped …

  We begin to see that beneath the finery of his courtly attire Richard is physically misshapen, and the contortion of his mind and body is more and more fully revealed:

  … curtailed of this fair proportion,

  Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,

  Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

  Into this breathing world, scarce half made up …

  We are carried on this torrent of images into the world of an outsider, deeply alienated from others, an alienation that is mirrored in and perhaps ultimately stems from Richard’s physical appearance. Unable to be a lover, both of women and, in a far broader sense, of humanity, he roundly declares:

  I am determined to prove a villain

  And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

  This is a compelling portrait, remorseless in its judgement of the man. Already it is clear that Richard is a cold-blooded killer. It is a chilling manifesto – but only if we believe the play, and the histories it was based upon.

  In Shakespeare’s drama, the first intended victim of his villainy is soon disclosed. Richard has another brother, George, Duke of Clarence, and he confides that he will engineer his downfall, poisoning the mind of Edward, the king, against him. And if Edward – through weakness – relents, Richard himself will ensure that Clarence is dispatched. It will be the first of a series of chilling murders that will propel Richard – on a tide of pitiless ambition – to the throne of England itself.

  Richard’s murder of Clarence is a pivotal moment within the play. And as this ghastly event unfolds, Richard’s physical appearance is more and more disturbingly emphasized. In one instance, as he moves across the stage, a heap of insults is poured upon him: he is ‘a bottled spider’, ‘a poisonous, bunch-backed toad’. His outer deformity is meant to mirror his corrupt inner nature. The Shakespearean Richard is hunchbacked, with a limping gait, and has a withered arm. So much invective gives us another reason why the search for Richard’s remains is so important: we need to know what he actually looked like.

  For in Shakespeare’s drama, and the Tudor histories that underpinned it, the relentless focus is on Richard’s appearance, and the dark pathology they believed grew around it. One of its most striking antecedents is a description given by Sir Thomas More in his History of Richard III, a source composed some eighty years earlier than Shakespeare’s play, but one that would be profoundly influential on the playwright. In it we find Richard: ‘little of stature, ill featured of limbs, crook-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard-favoured in appearance … malicious, wrathful envious…’ We discover that Richard’s birth had been difficult, that his mother ‘could not be delivered of him uncut’ – a breech birth – ‘and he came into the world with feet forward, and also not untoothed…’

  Having shared these details with us, More moves to what he believes are their dreadful consequences, concluding with the damning judgement: ‘He was close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart, outwardly friendly where he inwardly hated, not omitting to kiss when he thought to kill, pitiless and cruel … Friend and foe was much the same; where his advantage grew, he spared no man death whose life withstood his purpose.’

  For More, as for Shakespeare, the realm that Richard inhabits is a perpetual winter kingdom. Everything is frozen, and expansive sentiments of generosity, trust, love and faith are replaced by cold calculation, ruthless ambition, cruelty and an utter ambivalence to worldly values. The figure of Richard carries near demonic power and if, initially, he almost charms the audience, this only foreshadows how he will beguile the sleeping court of his brother Edward IV.

  Here we encounter the three ‘Ms’ of the Ricardian realm the Tudors have painted for us: misshapen, Machiavellian and murderous. Richard is bent, he does not walk, but scuttles – although his gait carries a restless energy and disturbing power. Richard is Machiavellian – and this is what makes his character so compelling. He is a master of dissimulation, of hiding his true feelings, of putting on a persuasive performance that always masks his true intentions. He beguiles and cajoles, and only occasionally does that mask slip. It is this dissimulation – and its chilling consequences – that makes his character so darkly fascinating. And from this dissimulation the murderous Richard emerges, to kill and kill again.

  All rivals are removed without a shred of compunction or remorse. His sights are set on the throne of England, and none will stand in his way, even the young nephews – the sons of Edward IV – whom he has promised to protect. Shakespeare presents us with a villain so alienated from the world around him that he will be cursed by his own mother. Yet his story carries a merciless momentum that leaves us near spellbound in its wake.

  It is only when we pull away from this work of theatrical genius that we are left wondering what the real man – rather than the later legend – was like in fact. Was the actual Richard III so terrifying – or was his character progressively blackened by the Tudor dynasty that supplanted him? We still seek answers to some of the controversies that surround Richard’s reign, but at last have an event – both real and symbolic – that can counterpoint the power of Shakespeare’s extraordinary creation. The search for the king’s lost grave, and the remains that lie within it, finally gives us the chance to connect with the reality behind the Tudor myth.

  In the grave’s absence – and it was long believed broken up and discarded at the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries – there was a great debate over Richard’s reputation. One of Richard’s earliest detractors was the Warwickshire priest and antiquarian John Rous. Rous had almost certainly seen Richard on his progress as king in the summer of 1483, and may well have met him. A few years later, with Henry Tudor victorious at Bosworth and crowned as King Henry VII, Rous wrote a history of the English kings that heaped insult after insult upon Henry’s predecessor.

  Rous began with Richard’s birth, around which his claims were nothing less than staggering: ‘Richard was born at Fotheringhay in Northamptonshire,’ he commenced, accurately enough, before adding, ‘and retained within his mother’s womb for two years, with teeth and hair to his shoulders.’ Here is the origin of the monstrous birth that Shakespeare made so much of. But Rous had only just begun: ‘At his nativity Scorpio was in the ascendant … and like a scorpion he combined a smooth front with a stinging tail.’ To make his astrological point Rous – well aware of when the king was actually born (on 2 October, under the sign of Libra) – deliberately moved Richard’s date of birth forward by three weeks. He then accused him of murdering his nephews, his own wife and the saintly Henry VI, before finishing: ‘This King Richard, who was excessively cruel in his days, reigned for three years and a little more, in the way that the Antichrist is to reign. And like the Antichrist to come, he was confounded at his moment of greatest pride.’

  The moment of pride – a veiled reference to Bosworth being the judgement of G
od on Richard’s rule – would become a staple theme in Tudor histories of the king. Richard III in fact ruled for slightly less than two years and two months. In adding a year to the reign, so that it would correspond to the rule of the Antichrist prophesied in the Book of Revelations, Rous played fast and loose with historical accuracy. His main concern was to win the patronage of the new Tudor king, Henry VII. Unfortunately, he had written an earlier work – a history of the Earls of Warwick, in both English and Latin – in which he praised Richard’s kingship, and although he was able to recall the Latin copy and erase this unfortunate reference, the English version escaped his clutches. In it, Rous was as fulsome in his praise for Richard as he was later to be damning in his criticism: ‘The most mighty Richard,’ he began, ‘all avarice set aside, ruled his subjects in his realm full commendably, punishing offenders of his laws, especially extortioners and oppressors of his commons, and cherishing those that were virtuous, by which discreet guiding he got great thanks of God and love of all his subjects, rich and poor, and great praise of the people of all other lands about him.’

  It is hard to imagine a more dramatic about-turn, or two more different views of a crucial period in English history. Rous’s principal objective seemed to be a desire to flatter the reigning king – first Richard, by praising his rule, and then Henry, by denigrating his predecessor. And if there is an element of truth in both accounts, the one almost the polar opposite of the other, this begins to show us why Richard III – the man and the monarch – is in turn both so fascinating and so controversial.

  Rous’s earlier praise of Richard’s kingship is well-known and frequently quoted. But his preamble to it has received far less attention. Yet it is equally important. In it, Rous not only commended Richard’s kingship, he also supported his right to rule. The Tudors – and many who followed them – believed Richard was a usurper, seizing a throne not rightfully his from his nephews, the Princes in the Tower, the sons of Edward IV. But Rous implied that the king’s taking of the throne was legitimate, stating that his claim was based on a lineage issuing from ‘very matrimony, without any discontinuance of any defiling in the law, by heir[s] male lineally descending from King Henry the Second’.

  In general terms, Rous was praising Richard’s distinguished lineage, which could be traced back to the kings of the twelfth century. But he was also making a specific point. By ‘very [true] matrimony’, Rous meant a marriage ceremony properly observed and legally validated. And here he was comparing the validity of the marriage of Richard’s parents, Richard, Duke of York and Cecily Neville, with that of Richard’s brother Edward IV and his queen, Elizabeth Woodville, the latter being a deeply controversial marriage that took place in secret, with few witnesses and not even in a church, one not announced to court and country until four months after it had taken place.

  When he took the throne in 1483 Richard had argued that this marriage was invalid – because Edward IV had in fact been contracted to marry someone else – and thus its offspring (including Edward’s two sons, the Princes in the Tower) were illegitimate. Rous, in his reference to ‘discontinuance’ [invalidation] through ‘defiling in the law’ [legal objection], was accepting and supporting the king’s claim. This claim was actually enrolled in the records of Richard’s first parliament in 1484, though subsequently suppressed by the Tudors.

  As a clergyman, Rous may have sympathized with Richard’s moral stance on this issue. Edward IV’s court had, particularly in its last years, been notoriously hedonistic. And his approval also took a swipe at Henry Tudor’s claim to the throne, which had been publicized in 1484, the year before Tudor became king. For the future Henry VII was almost certainly of bastard descent on both sides of his family tree – from his Valois and Beaufort origins – and so unfit to rule, as Richard had made clear in a general proclamation to the realm. Rous may well have agreed with it. If this was so, it gave an added urgency to his wish to please the new regime once Henry had come to the throne.

  Rous left us two portraits of Richard. The positive one, composed during the king’s lifetime, was also accompanied by a pen drawing, in which Richard – in full martial regalia – showed no obvious sign of deformity. After his death Rous was more specific about his appearance, remarking that Richard was small in stature, and his right shoulder higher than his left. Rous’s comment, although part of a hostile reworking, cannot simply be disregarded. But even if Richard suffered from such a condition, it did not seem to have hampered his courage on the battlefield, for despite the comparison with the Antichrist, Rous then chose to pay tribute to Richard for the way in which he fought in his last few moments at Bosworth. The compliment is all the more striking for being so reluctant. When on the battlefield, ‘he bore himself like a gallant knight, and honourably defended himself to his last breath.’

  Other commentators also chose to jump ship once Henry VII’s regime was firmly established. The Italian humanist Pietro Carmeliano praised Richard in 1484 as an outstandingly pious, munificent and just ruler; two years later, after he had entered Henry’s service, Carmeliano condemned Richard no less vigorously as the villainous murderer of Henry VI and the Princes in the Tower. But a coherent Tudor view of Richard III only began to emerge later, with two highly influential works composed early in the reign of Henry VIII: an English history compiled by the Italian court historian Polydore Vergil, and Thomas More’s dramatic account of the reign of Richard III. Both had profound sway on the Shakespearean portrait.

  Polydore Vergil’s treatment of Richard III is comprehensive and well-researched. He evidently consulted with many men who could remember well back into the Yorkist period, including some who had played an important part in the government of the time. He had access to a considerable body of written material, including one or more of the London chronicles brought together early in the Tudor period, but drawing on contemporary memories of the events of Richard’s rule. And because Henry VII had given his blessing to Vergil’s project, he had unrivalled access to the noblemen and bishops of the Tudor court, including those who had joined Henry in exile before his invasion of England in 1485. This gives his account of the Bosworth campaign particular value. But an underlying bias is all too apparent in his work, a clear desire to interpret events in favour of the ruling Tudor dynasty.

  Under the guise of historical reasoning, Polydore Vergil in fact speculated on Richard’s psychology, explaining the occurrences of his reign through one consistent idea: that beneath outwardly correct and well-intentioned public behaviour, the king was privately motivated by deceit and dishonesty. As soon as he heard of his brother Edward IV’s death, Vergil related that Richard ‘began to be kindled with an ardent desire of sovereignty’, and straight away resolved to seize the throne. He determined to accomplish this ‘by subtlety and sleight’, and came to power ‘without the assent of the commonality’ – in other words, he was a usurper. Vergil concluded: Richard ‘thought of nothing but tyranny and cruelty’ and at the finish, it was God who gave victory to Henry VII.

  Polydore Vergil would almost certainly have been aware that Richard did in fact have a right to the throne, the Titulus Regius, which was formally set out in the parliament of 1484, but as Henry VII had ordered that all copies of it be destroyed, Vergil deemed it more prudent to ignore its existence rather than discuss its merits. His approach was sophisticated, invoking the deceit he believed brought Richard to the throne and kept him there as an explanation for the good government Rous and Carmeliano had first praised during the king’s lifetime. For Polydore Vergil, Richard’s actions were not prompted by any genuine concern for his subjects’ well-being, but rather by guilt and fear: ‘He began to give the countenance and show of a good man,’ Vergil remarked, ‘whereby he might be seen [to be] more righteous, and to procure himself support, he began many good works, as well public as private.’

  An insinuation of inner turmoil was then employed in a discussion of Richard’s appearance. Polydore Vergil first cited some mannerisms, probably rememb
ered by those who had been about the king: ‘While he was thinking of any matter, he did continually bite his nether lip … also he was wont to be ever with his right hand pulling out of the sheath to the midst, and putting in again, the dagger which he always did wear.’ He repeated the description made by Rous, that ‘he was short of stature, the one shoulder being higher than the other’, before interlacing his own judgement, ‘deformed of body … a short and sour countenance, which seemed to savour of mischief, and utter craft and deceit … as though that cruel nature of his did so rage against itself in that little carcass’. Vergil then damned Richard with faint praise: ‘Truly he had a sharp wit, provident and subtle,’ he conceded, before adding, ‘apt both to counterfeit and deceive.’ And yet he also felt compelled to praise Richard’s final moments at Bosworth: ‘His courage was high and fierce, which failed him not in the very death, which he rather yielded to take with the sword than by foul flight to prolong his life.’

  Richard’s courage was fleetingly referred to in Sir Thomas More’s History of King Richard III, though his unfinished account did not include Richard’s last battle: ‘No mean captain was he in war,’ More remarked, ‘to which his disposition was better suited than peace. Sundry victories he had, and sometimes overthrows, but never for any lack in his own person, either of hardiness or generalship.’ But this praise was a short interlude in an otherwise unremittingly hostile account.

  Sir Thomas More may have been motivated to write his study of Richard as a treatise against tyranny. It was deliberately dramatic, sometimes inaccurate in its historical detail, and always ready to embellish its narrative, sometimes with speeches that were clearly invented. Although More may have consulted some written histories, including a manuscript version of Polydore Vergil’s account, and had access to informants who had witnessed the key events he described, including Archbishop John Morton, in whose household More grew up, Richard’s role was cast from the very beginning as that of grand villain. In pursuit of this, More gave the first full account of how the king might actually have dispatched his nephews, the Princes in the Tower, including the detail that they were smothered in their beds by pillows. New themes were introduced too, hammered into historical orthodoxy by the chroniclers who followed him. Richard was now plotting to take the throne even before his brother’s death, with More being the first authority to suggest that Richard was behind the death of his brother George, Duke of Clarence.