‘Of course you must say so,’ said Dickon, though for the first time he was troubled. ‘So we have been written.’
‘None do love me,’ said Richard, the grief flaring briefly below the rage.
‘I do,’ said Dickon, ‘for you were made from me.’
‘The world will know your truth,’ Richard promised him.
‘And it will learn from yours,’ promised Dickon in return.
Richard was not sure he cared to be a lesson for others, but did not see he had any power in the matter.
‘The day grows dark,’ said Dickon, although the sun still hung high in the sky. Dickon himself grew faint. Richard could see the brook and the willow through the dead king’s translucent chest.
‘Brother, don’t go,’ said Richard, suddenly afraid. Don’t leave me to my fate.
But Dickon had vanished.
‘I am I,’ said Richard again to himself. With Dickon gone, he began to feel real again. But then, he thought, truths became myth in time, and in time oft-told stories become truth.
One new truth, however, remained lodged in his heart. A bitter, sacred duty.
None would recall you, brother, the king of but three years’ reign. But I will make nations know the name of Richard, Duke of Gloucester; Richard, King of England, third by that name. All shall revile the butcher-king, so that when your day comes again, they will care to learn your history’s truth.
It was time to return to his brother’s hall, there to follow the unbending path to his future.
‘I gird my soul in spite and hate,’ he said aloud to the empty glade, ‘to play in full my scripted fate.’
Thus resigned, thus embracing, Richard called his mare to him.
Civil war was coming. As he rode towards it, words came to him, a gift from ink and darkness.
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word ‘love’, which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me: I am myself alone.
Kindred Spirits: Return of the King
Jennifer C. Wilson
As the doors of Leicester Cathedral closed for the final time that day, the ghost of Elizabeth Simpson sank into a chair in the south aisle.
‘One of our busiest Saturdays for a while, I think,’ she said, not entirely sure who was about, but certain that somebody would be, whether she could see them or not. That was the thing with ghostly communities – transient groups in every way.
‘I counted almost five hundred I’m sure, from the ticks in the staff notebook.’ The deep, steady voice of her husband Samuel made Elizabeth jump.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ she scolded. ‘Over two hundred years of this, and you still insist on making me jump.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t spend so long lost in your own thoughts,’ her husband retorted. ‘Anyway, we must keep our disagreements to ourselves; you never know who is around these days.’
It was true. The cathedral had seen a resurgence in ghostly activity since the reinterment of Richard III in March 2015. Ghosts who had been thought long gone appeared at the nightly gatherings, out of the blue. Between these newer re-arrivals, and the increased visitor numbers amongst the living, some of the longer-term residents were unimpressed.
‘Watch out, my dear, Whatton’s on his way,’ Samuel said, nudging his wife. Elizabeth nodded at the approaching man, but didn’t rise. She knew he hated that.
‘Simpson,’ John Whatton said in greeting as he drew level with them. ‘My lady,’ he nodded stiffly to Elizabeth. ‘More Richard III fans crowding the place out today I see. Honestly, you’d think the novelty would have worn off by now.’
‘Don’t start all this again, Whatton,’ Samuel sighed. ‘Westley will be along at any moment, and between the pair of you, it’s enough to drive any man back to his tomb.’
‘Or woman,’ Elizabeth added. Personally, she enjoyed the increase in activity. There were so many interesting people buried in the cathedral after all, and a good number had stayed around, as it were. She glanced across the space, wondering if, and hoping that, Marie Bond would make an appearance that evening. At ninety-seven years old, Marie was the eldest regular resident of the cathedral, and the tales she could tell kept them all entertained – when she was in the mood.
To Elizabeth’s delight, the elderly lady appeared, escorted as usual on the willing arm of young Susanna Peppin.
‘Marie! So lovely to see you!’ Elizabeth rose and greeted her friend and her companion, receiving a tut of derision from Whatton. She ignored him, showing Marie to a chair and ensuring the lady was comfortably settled. They had never managed to secure a permanent solution to the walking-stick problem for her, so human (or spectral) assistance was the best they could offer. Susanna never seemed to mind.
‘Somebody thought they saw Richard’s ghost outside in the square this afternoon. You haven’t heard anything have you?’ Marie asked of the group.
‘Richard?’ John Westley had arrived.
‘Yes, Richard. The Third, obviously. Well? Anyone else see anything?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I’ve been out and about most of the day, albeit invisible. I would have seen him if he had come inside.’
‘Typical,’ scoffed Whatton. ‘We are the ones who have stayed here, all these years. He visits – what? – once, since the funeral? And yet it’s his ghost they all claim to see. We don’t interfere with him and his friends at the Tower; how dare he disturb our days here?’
‘But he doesn’t, my dear man, I think that’s rather the point,’ said Marie, rolling her eyes at Elizabeth.
‘I just think it’s a bit too much. He’s nothing but a late-comer. He’s been a resident for – what? – a matter of years? And yet he gets all the attention.’ John Whatton wasn’t finished.
‘Well, is it truly any wonder?’ Marie snapped at him. ‘Apart from a few history students or distant relatives, what exactly do the rest of us have to offer? We should be grateful to have even the bones of a king amongst us, keeping things lively.’
‘Hear, hear,’ seconded Elizabeth.
‘Everyone, everyone!’ John Herrick broke into the group’s conversation.
‘What is it, husband, why the commotion?’ Marie demanded.
‘He’s here, it’s true!’
‘What?’ the spirits demanded in unison.
‘Richard. King Richard. With Queen Anne. He’s come to visit …’
*
‘If we do this, we do it entirely out of sight,’ said Queen Anne Neville, looking her husband directly in the eye. Second husband, if anyone wanted to be pedantic, but she didn’t. She didn’t like to think of her first husband, or marriage, eternally glad the man’s ghost had never chosen to try and visit her.
Richard turned to look up at the tower of Leicester Cathedral behind them.
‘But I’m sure we were seen, so we might as well just carry on, surely? And so what if a few of my loyal fans spy me here or there?’
‘Being seen for a moment by a cathedral resident is one thing, and harmless enough, but I don’t want you causing any disruptions. I agreed to come with you if you swore there’d be no trouble. The first hint of it, and I’ll be back on the next train out of here, back to London. Without you.’
Anne smiled to herself as she saw Richard’s shoulders drop. Whatever the reputation he had at the Tower, even after only a few visits to Westminster Abbey, she knew he was still the charming, gallant knight he had once been, and still a man of his word as a result. Battles and conspiracies hadn’t completely erased that.
‘Come on, don’t you want to get going?’
Richard shook his head. ‘Not this evening. There’s a fair amount to get through, and I don’t want to rush.’ He paused. ‘I am glad you agreed to come with me. I’ve only been back briefly, wanted to see what the whole place was like now, a few years down the line.’
‘Don’t get all soppy on me, Richard Plantagenet. I’m sure there ar
e others who would have visited with you if you had asked. So, if we’re not starting now, what’s the plan?’
‘Well, according to the map,’ Richard consulted the pamphlet he’d managed to smuggle out of the visitor centre dedicated to him, disguised in a gust of wind as the automatic doors blew open earlier, ‘the tour should actually start at the Blue Boar Inn, so I thought we’d go there this evening, stay over, get a feel for the place, and make a start bright and early tomorrow morning.’
‘Is that even possible? Staying over I mean?’ Anne raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s still a hotel. Well, I mean, there’s still a hotel on the site. Not the same one, of course. There’s bound to be an empty room. Then, tomorrow, we start at Bow Bridge. Again, not original, but still ...’
Anne tilted her head to one side, not immediately convinced by Richard’s plan, but it was getting late, and even being able to pass through walls didn’t make getting lost in a comparatively strange town an appealing option.
‘Very well. Come on, let’s see what we can find.’
*
The next morning, having spent a comfortable night in the modern hotel – in between playing with the television and some gentle haunting of a few groups of drunks – Richard and Anne left via the glass automatic doors, leaving behind them the smell of cooking breakfast and light gossip. Consulting the map once again, the couple made their way through the square and across the traffic to the current Bow Bridge, a more modern replacement of the one Richard had crossed that fateful day. Both fateful days, come to think of it.
‘Honestly, that woman and her spurs story,’ he tutted. ‘Things hit bridges, it means nothing. And my head did not hit the parapet on the way back.’
Anne rolled her eyes. She’d worried this would happen. Everything was obviously going to be different, and plenty would most likely be wrong in her husband’s eyes. Finding the old Leicester Castle, the next location on their journey, converted into a business school, part of the university, sent him off into another rant as he strode around the series of modern rooms, pointing out what should have been where. Eventually, she managed to usher him into the calm of the church of St Mary de Castro.
‘This is better,’ said Richard, visibly relaxing.
The place was almost empty, their tour having reached the church before it was open to the public. Only a handful of volunteers were pottering about, getting the place open and ready for the day’s visitors. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, as Richard strolled across to a pile of leaflets and started flicking through.
‘At least they have it mostly right,’ he said. ‘I did like this place, enjoyed worshipping here when I visited. And look, they’ve even noted it: The last monarch to worship here.’ He’d found the portrait of himself hanging on the wall. With a scowl, he noticed the portrait hanging next to it: Henry VI. ‘Just a shame there’s such a strong Lancastrian presence.’
Richard felt Anne approaching from behind, and knew it was pointless to think too negatively about how things were. Truth was, they were following his Walking Trail, not Henry VI’s or Henry Tudor’s, around places labelled with their links to him, and nobody else. That wouldn’t be the case if nobody cared. And here he was, on a progress of sorts, Anne by his side, having agreed to join him for whatever reason he hadn’t fully fathomed yet. After so long, he wouldn’t have blamed her for turning him down, but what they’d had was slowly starting to return. He was courting his own wife, and both parties seemed to be enjoying it. Except, she was currently looking at a portrait of her former father-in-law. This would not do.
He coughed quietly, hoping to attract her attention, and help her note that he wasn’t pleased with the attention she was paying Henry VI’s portrait. As she turned, and made her way towards him, he quickly turned away, not wanting her to see he was troubled by her attention to Lancastrian portraits.
He felt her arm on his, and smiled.
‘Shall we rest a while?’
They strolled through to the front of the church, and sat down, tucked out of the way in case visitors suddenly arrived. After an hour of sitting and enjoying the peace, watching the odd tourist make their way around the building, Richard was ready to move on. With a final glance, they passed back through the walls into Castle Yard, and turned towards the Turret Gateway. Here as well, he felt on solid ground. The area, although obviously modern in context, at least had a similar layout to that which he had remembered. The gateway was more crumbled, but he felt he knew where he was.
Reaching the main street, Richard paused for a moment, before pulling himself up straight and looking at the building opposite, another part of the university from what he could see.
‘Of course, the Church of the Annunciation is long gone, but apparently some of the original arches are still in the basement.’ Even he could hear the forced steadiness in his voice.
Without another word, he slipped through the walls, as Anne followed rapidly behind, only to pass straight through him as he froze just inches from the other side. He was staring into space, not focusing on his surroundings, not focusing on anything. Just blank.
‘I can’t. I thought I could, thought I could make light of it, but I can’t,’ he said, his voice starting to crack. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image: his own corpse, lying on public display, the wounds of battle there for all to see. His humiliation.
Anne didn’t reply, but wrapped him in her arms and pulled him close.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, after a long silence.
Richard nodded into her shoulder. He didn’t want to move, but knew he couldn’t stay in that building any longer.
‘To the next gateway?’ he mumbled.
Anne nodded, and pushed him gently away. ‘This is why invisible is better,’ she said, barely above a whisper.
‘Right then.’ He turned and led the way back to the street. ‘A quick turn around the Newarke Gateway, then on to the main event, as it were?’
*
As they approached the area of the visitor centre, cathedral and Guildhall, Richard felt a weight pressing where his heart would have been. It hadn’t been there at the start of the day, or when he’d visited briefly in the past, but today, having seen the rest of the tour, with all those memories flooding back, he was more involved somehow.
‘Come on,’ encouraged Anne, reaching for his hand. ‘It’ll be fine. And maybe a touch of gentle haunting wouldn’t hurt.’
Richard grinned. He knew he would get his way in the end. He always did. Even if ‘the end’ involved lying in a lost grave for a couple of centuries, then having the indignity of his feet being cut off by a wall and a carpark built over his head. Yes, he could play the long game. Battles and wars and all that.
The bells started to chime a call to service, as people began to mill about, catching up with each other in twos and threes. He stayed out of sight of the living. These weren’t the right targets for a haunting. He would wait and find some suitable tourists later. He offered the crook of his elbow to Anne.
‘Shall we attend the service?’ he asked.
She replied by slipping her arm through his, and they flickered through the stone wall. To their surprise, a group of ghosts were waiting for them as they entered. The royal couple nodded their greeting, unsure initially what sort of response they would receive.
‘Elizabeth and Samuel Simpson, Your Graces.’ A man spoke first, stepping forward, his wife alongside him in greeting. Others behind them nodded, a hint of nervousness about their reactions.
‘Come to interfere, have you?’ John Whatton butted into proceedings.
‘No, why would you say that?’ said Anne, hurriedly, before Richard could say a word.
Whatton didn’t even bother to reply, instead walking off, deliberately turning his back on the Plantagenet pair.
‘Well, what a reaction,’ she continued, looking to the Simpsons.
They shook their heads, almost in unison.
‘Ignore him, Your Grace. Ig
nore all of us. Please, make yourselves at home, and do enjoy your visit. But do feel free to join us again later, should you wish.’
The small welcome party vanished, each disappearing in their own direction.
‘An interesting welcome,’ mused Richard, looking around the building properly, wondering who else might be around, and who they might encounter. ‘Come on, let’s get started. I won’t visit the tomb during the service; that doesn’t feel right,’ he said, as they perched on seats at the back, being careful not to disturb anything as they did so.
For the duration, the pair sat calmly. It wasn’t their religion, but both enjoyed the peace that was so often lacking in their daily activities. As the final hymn drew to a close, Anne placed her hand over her husband’s. He turned his over and squeezed hers in return. Yes, the day was going well.
The congregation began to disperse, the steady flow outward being gradually replaced by a trickle inward, as visitors realized the service was over, and the cathedral could once again be entered by tourists.
Richard’s tomb was at the back, still protected by the strictest security of the velvet rope, in place during the service and not yet removed. People hovered on either side of the space, waiting to go in, whilst Anne and Richard, invisible to all, slipped through.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Anne, taking Richard’s hand again.
‘It is,’ Richard agreed. ‘I mean, yes, it doesn’t have the whole effigy thing going on, and some have argued it’s a bit plain, but it’s certainly striking. Simple and effective I think. A significant improvement on what I had to start with, and a lot more dignified than a carpark space!’
He had listened to and read all the discussion about where his mortal remains should have been located: here in Leicester, in Gloucester, in York, or, where kings had been buried for centuries, in Westminster Abbey. Standing beside the stone tomb here, at the heart of the cathedral, he was pleased to be in pride of place, his name and motto carved, resplendent and unmissable now.
Finally, the rope was moved aside, and the line of tourists began to snake past, all quiet, respectful and calm. These still weren’t the right people, Richard thought. Nor in the right place. He glanced about, and saw his target. A group of schoolchildren, being herded into the main door by a stressed-looking teacher, a few others spread through the group, trying to keep things in order.
Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Page 13
