“That won’t do at all,” Richard said, looking at the red-brick Victorian building. “Long after my time. Why does York Minster need a police force? Are there many religious riots and outbreaks of violence? Is there a fight for the soul of post-Reformation England?”
Sam said, “Hardly. The police just keep an eye on the place. Millions of tourists come here every year, and there’s always a risk of fire. It nearly burned down about thirty years ago.”
“I heard about that. Struck by lightening, after a sermon by an ungodly cleric.”
“The Minster Police are the oldest police force in England. And then there are the vergers, they’re a tough bunch, with eyes everywhere. It won’t be easy to do anything with your bones, it really won’t.”
They stood at the west end of the Minster looking up at the towers. A line of people carrying musical instruments were waiting to go in.
“It’ll be closed to visitors today,” Sam said.
Richard was reading the notice. “You have to pay to go into a church? The clergy were greedy in my time, but never like this.”
Sam sprang to the Minster’s defence. “It costs a fortune to keep it going. And you don’t have to pay if you want to go to a service, it’s just for sightseers. You’ll have to make yourself scarce while I go in, however, since you don’t have a pass.”
Sam joined the line of musicians. Given he had those wretched bones to dispose of, the timing was perfect. No one would question his cello case, and there would be a fair number of people milling about all over the place. Not just staff and musicians, but camera crews and electricians, since tonight’s performance of the Verdi Requiem was being filmed.
The verger on duty at the door greeted Sam with a friendly smile. “Hello, Sam, how’s life? Busy day ahead for you, but you’ve cut it fine, rehearsals are about to begin.”
Richard was waiting inside, almost lost in the shadows. He said, “So many security cameras in here, too. Can a citizen of England not now worship without authority watching him at prayer?”
“The government would put cameras in our homes if they could afford it. Listen, I can’t do anything with your bones at the moment. I’m late as it is, and I have to help with the rehearsal. Let’s just hope nobody expects me to take my cello out and demonstrate.”
Chapter 16
At least the rehearsal would give him time to think about what to do with the bones. He wasn’t bothered about the cameras, no doubt Richard would deal with those in his usual way. But he could hardly just dump the bones in a dusty corner.
Wild ideas tumbled through his mind. Toss them one by one into the organ pipes. Climb high and tuck them behind a grotesque. Stow them under the Dean’s seat in the Choir. Hide them in the depths of the flower room; those gorgon flower ladies would see all comers off. Hurl them into the stream that ran far down through the bowels of the great building.
No, he needed more than a place simply to get shot of the bones. Richard had this thing about eternity, and eternity, whichever way you looked at it, was going to last a good while. He wanted his bones snug and safe and sound, and Sam had a chill feeling that if he didn’t fix that, Richard might be around for a good while. He realised he’d come to like the man – and at that thought, he pulled himself up short. Focus, Sam, how could he like a ghost? Yet, against his reason and will, he felt a sense of solidarity with the king.
Why should he be buried in Leicester when he wanted his bones to rest in the land of his forebears? Sam, although he would never admit it in these days of having to be a world citizen, or at least a European, was a Yorkshireman to his own bones. In Richard’s situation, he might well return to Earth for a spot of haunting.
The crypt was going to be the only place where he might be able to find a suitable home for the bones. How, he couldn’t imagine. He could hardly start prying up flagstones, and who knew what might be under them if he did? For now, he’d leave his cello case by the steps that led down to the Undercroft. It would be picked up on camera, but wouldn’t arouse suspicion.
As he rested it on its side, two people came up the stairs. They wore safety helmets and had grubby, earth-stained garments. One of them greeted him. “Hi, Sam, you playing today?”
It was Valerie, an archaeology student from the university.
“Helping now, and singing tonight,” Sam said. “What are you doing down there, are you working on something?”
“I’ve been helping excavate an old tomb that dates back to the earliest building. We’re taking a break now, then I’ll be back this afternoon to fill in and tidy everything up. Go down and have a dekko if you like, but don’t fall into the hole.”
“Later,” Sam said. “I’m needed over there with the strings right now.”
He’d felt, obscurely, that Richard should have a tomb or some kind of memorial. Richard had shaken his head. “It is enough that my bones should lie here, where I wanted them to. Nothing is hidden from the eyes of God.”
Nor, he might have added, from the Directorate of Unruly Spirits and the Department of Earthly Affairs, but once his bones were tucked away, there wouldn’t be much they could do about it. His mission accomplished, he could finally move on, and he knew they wouldn’t do anything that might cause him to make an unwelcome return to Unruly Spirits.
The rehearsal went on for an hour, and then they paused for a coffee break. Sam joined his friends from the music department. One of them, flipping through the headlines on his phone, said, “Hey, guess what, someone’s pinched Richard III’s bones.”
Sam froze. How had they discovered the theft so quickly?
“They reckon it’s some fanatical group of Ricardians who don’t think he should be reburied in Leicester.”
“Quite right, too,” said a fair girl. “He should be buried where he wanted, here in York.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Then the guy with the phone said, “They caught the thieves on CCTV.”
Thieves? That sounded promising.
“And there’s an alert out for a man and woman, believed to be on a motor-bike.”
“That’ll be a new experience for King Richard, riding on the pillion,” said a tall violinist. “Do you think he murdered his nephews?”
A lively discussion ensued and Sam slipped away to find Richard. He was leaning against a pillar and gazing up into the vaulting above his head.
“They’re after those types on the bike, they think they took your bones,” he reported. “It’s on the news.”
“Then the Watchers will be on their way here. They’ll have guessed this is where I would come.”
“In which case we need to move. Let’s edge over to the entrance to the undercroft, I left my cello case there. Can you do your thing with the cameras?”
Chapter 17
Sam’s footsteps didn’t make a sound as he went down the stone steps to the undercroft. At the bottom, he saw a large Keep Out sign and a strip of plastic ribbon stretched across an area over at the other side.
It was just as Valerie said. The archaeologists had dug round the base of an old, weathered tomb; this part of the Minster would have been outside when whoever it was had been buried. The soil around the stone was rich-coloured and loose. Good Yorkshire earth, fitting for the bones of a great and puissant son of York.
Sam looked at Richard, who nodded his approval. He opened the case, and then let himself down into the trench. He wished he’d thought to bring a shovel, and then he saw one lying beside other tools. He stretched up for it, and then began to dig along the edge of the stone.
Up out of the trench, open the cello case, and lay the bones out where he could reach them. They’d have to go in as they were; apart from a skull at one end and the twisted spine below that, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get things like leg bones and arm bones in the right place.
Richard spoke. “Put my skull there, and then I’ll show you
how to place the rest.”
For how long could Richard blur the cameras? And how did it work that he, Sam could move, could do felonious things, while all around him life had paused and the Minster seemed captured in unearthly stillness?
Never mind that, just pile the earth back to cover the bones. Did that look as it had done when he’d jumped into the trench?
Richard nodded again. He seemed paler, more ethereal.
“It is time for me to bid you farewell. You have the thanks of a king, Sam, for what they are worth. Remember me, even if you cannot pray for me.”
He was gone.
Sam stood, tears trickling down his cheeks. He brushed them off, ashamed of his weakness. Now he’d have dirty marks on his face. He looked down at his hands, expecting them to be covered in earth, but they were perfectly clean. He ran up the steps, and put down the cello case exactly where he’d left it before.
The musicians resumed their seats and the conductor asked the oboe for an A. The note rang out, only to be drowned by the roar of a motorbike.
The Watchers had arrived.
Felix and Lyra strode into the cathedral, tossing aside the vergers as though they were made of paper. Heads turned as the leather-clad figures advanced towards the orchestra. They headed straight for Sam, who was arranging music on a stand, trying to look unconcerned.
Once again, those glinting eyes bored into him. Once again, Lyra asked where Richard was and once again he replied, truthfully, that he didn’t know. He dreaded the next question. “Where are his bones?” but before it could be asked, the wail of a police siren split the air. Seconds later three policeman were running down the aisle.
“Stand clear, stand clear, everyone. You two, in the leathers, you’re under arrest.”
Chapter 18
That evening, as he stood waiting among the tenors, Sam wondered what the police would think when the detainees disappeared into thin air, as he supposed they were bound to do. Would the mystery of the missing bones remain that, an unsolved mystery? He devoutly hoped so.
The orchestra took their seats and the choir opened their scores. How appropriate; how very appropriate, Sam thought, that they were performing a Requiem tonight.
“This is for you, King Richard, prince of York,” he whispered to himself. “Welcome home.”
The conductor lifted his baton, the cellos shimmered into life and Sam sang, words and music flowing from his heart.
Requiem aeternam, dona eis, Domine…
Also by
Elizabeth Aston
The Mountjoy Series
Children of Chance
The World, the Flesh, and the Bishop
Unholy Harmonies
Volcanic Airs
Unaccustomed Spirits
Brotherly Love
The Darcy Series
The Exploits and Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy
The True Darcy Spirit
The Second Mrs Darcy
The Darcy Connection
Mr Darcy’s Dream
Writing Jane Austen
Novellas
Mr Darcy’s Christmas
Valentine’s Day
The Painted Fan (coming 2014)
Copyright Information
King Richard’s Bones
Copyright © Elizabeth Aston 2014
Published by Belsyre Books
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual people living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-908002-56-3 (epub)
ISBN 978-1-908002-57-0 (mobi)
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