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

by Langley, Philippa

  With the results in, I headed to ULAS to meet Nick Cooper, the small finds expert and first in a series of specialists I would be consulting. With Simon Farnaby and Dr John Ashdown-Hill present, Cooper quickly brought us up to date regarding the barbed arrowhead. This had been found in the grave at the back of the skeleton between the second and third thoracic vertebrae, although not lodged in the bone. Detailed X-rays now revealed it to be a nail, probably Roman, which had already been in the ground where the body had been laid in the Greyfriars Church. It was not the auspicious start I had been hoping for, but the next result was far more important.

  My palms were sweating as Richard Buckley arrived and we moved to his computer. Buckley was about to reveal the results of the carbon-14 tests on the bones. Carbon-14 dating is used to estimate the age of organic material by calculating the rate of decay of the carbon-14 in the material. These tests could get us to within an eighty-year period. For there to be any chance that the Greyfriars remains were Richard III, who was buried in 1485, the carbon dating result would have to fall within the mid to late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.

  As we gathered round Buckley’s computer, I scanned his face for any give-away signs and made a mental note not to go up against him at a poker table. First he told us that the stratification study of the site had shown that the remains were found in the medieval layer. Cut medieval floor tiles had been found nearby, indicating a hastily dug grave. The tiles were at the correct height for a medieval floor, with the grave itself two to three feet deep. Further, the later Victorian foundations had missed the remains by only three inches, near the leg bones.

  Two samples of rib bone had been submitted to two specialist radio-carbon dating laboratories to enable the results to be crosschecked. The work was undertaken by the Scottish Universities Environmental Research Centre at the University of Glasgow, and the Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit, part of Oxford University’s Research Laboratory for Archaeology and the History of Art.

  Buckley presented the carbon-14 data on screen. It showed a 95 per cent probability that the Greyfriars remains dated from about 1430 to 1460, too early for Richard III but far too late for any of the other known burials in the church. It was a blow. But it wasn’t the end. The analysis had thrown up an anomaly. Stable isotope analysis indicated that the person in the grave had had a high protein diet. This diet had been heavily marine-based, and as marine animals absorb significant amounts of carbon-14, the result had been skewed. The recalibrated analysis provided a 68 per cent probability that the age of the skeleton lay between 1475 and 1530, with a 95 per cent probability of a date between 1450 and 1540. Richard had died in 1485. I could hardly believe it. Buckley added that a heavily based marine diet was indicative of a high-status individual, since the usual medieval diet consisted of potage, a vegetable-based soup. I was elated with these results and sure it was Richard III, but the osteology results were still to come. Would these confirm my belief, or dash my hopes?

  Friday, 7 December 2012

  Dr Jo Appleby had undertaken the osteology examination at ULAS and was waiting to reveal the results to us in one of the ULAS finds rooms, together with Dr Piers Mitchell, a scoliosis specialist and hospital consultant from the University of Cambridge.

  I knew that a comprehensive record of this whole process had to be made, but I was worried about the way the DSP footage and the university’s photography would be released to the world. I was anxious to avoid a repeat of the humiliating display of his dead body after Bosworth.

  Before filming started, Louise Osmond, award-winning director for DSP, tried to allay my fears by explaining what I would see. The remains would be on a table in the centre of the darkened room, positioned on a specially designed light box that would illuminate them gently from beneath. There would be no harsh strip lighting in an impersonal laboratory setting, and the remains would be given as much dignity within the analysis as possible. This explanation was a comfort, but didn’t alter my feeling that I was about to do the very thing I had tried to avoid.

  I shed quiet tears of despair despite Simon Farnaby gently reminding me that the only option was to display Richard’s remains; the world had to see him for itself.

  I don’t remember the opening words of the session. All I could see was the box that illuminated him, his washed bones bright against the darkness. To me he seemed unprotected and I felt like a ghoul invading his privacy. I saw faces, mouths moving, and then I heard the word hunchback again. It was all too much: I had to escape that dreadful room.

  Agreements had been negotiated to prevent the public display of pictures of Richard’s body except in museum archives and these were important to me. But now they seemed worthless, buried by the scientific demand for visible proof. I stood outside, wondering desperately how I could prevent pictures of Richard’s remains from being strewn over the internet.

  I was joined by Sarah Levitt who had become a friend and understood the turmoil I was in; but as Head of Museum Services she also understood the pressure to authenticate the find. She reminded me that the search for Richard had always been about the truth: ‘This is Richard’s moment to reveal his truth,’ she said.

  But there was still that awful word, ‘hunchback’, that I thought had been discarded. Why had the specialist used it – and to describe scoliosis? Simon Farnaby told me to go back in and stand up for myself and make Piers Mitchell explain. I thought about all those who gave to the International Appeal and who had saved this project for Richard; not for me, or any scientists and TV programme. I returned to the room and could now look at Richard so beautifully illuminated, and see his remains for what they were: the evidence he would give to the world.

  Jo Appleby and Piers Mitchell stood at the far side of the light box facing Simon Farnaby and me. Appleby was confirming the age of the remains, which were of someone in their late twenties to late thirties (Richard was thirty-two). Lifting the skull with great care away from the lower jaw, the mandible, she tilted it towards us to show the inner cavity. She pointed to the top surface where the bone plates met, her finger indicating a smooth but jagged line. Here the sutures of the skull were still visible, but had fused, thus providing the estimate of age. In addition, the third molars, the wisdom teeth, had erupted which meant the remains were those of an adult, since wisdom teeth normally develop some time between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. I asked about the rest of the teeth. She said they were in relatively good condition, with some dental calculus (calcified plaque) and a few cavities, with the missing front tooth most likely lost in the grave as there was no evidence of trauma on the bone or healing, but the later dental report would investigate this further.

  Next, Piers Mitchell explained the scoliosis. He had measured the remains, and the angle of the curvature of the spine appeared to be sixty degrees, but it could have been as much as eighty degrees in life. Without seeing him in the flesh, it was difficult to tell how severe the scoliosis would have looked. It was idiopathic scoliosis, that is, of no known cause: he hadn’t been born with the condition – it had developed later in life. It was most likely progressive and may have led to a shortness of breath, due to increased pressure on the lungs.

  The most common cause of scoliosis is hormonal. As puberty began, at around ten to twelve years, the spine would have begun to curve. How long it would have taken to reach its final shape was impossible to tell. The curve was a ‘C’ shape, in the upper torso, not an ‘S’ shape, and would have made the right shoulder appear higher than the left. Mitchell now showed us the two clavicle bones, or shoulder bones, and pointed out that the end of the right clavicle was a different size and shape, much bigger than the left. He said that the individual would have been an ordinary child, and, as the lower and upper vertebrae had a straight alignment, would have stood erect and walked normally. The hip joints and the length of the legs also suggested a normal gait. However, without the feet, Appleby added, it might be difficult to prove this conclusively.

  Seei
ng the extent of the C-shaped curvature of the spine, I asked Mitchell if it would have been painful, but he couldn’t answer. I cited the example of the DSP cameraman at the dig who had curvature of the spine and had been in great pain after carrying a heavy camera. Mitchell still wouldn’t be drawn and moved on to describe the skeleton, again using the word hunchback. He said that, although we knew the person didn’t have kyphosis, when bent forward there was probably some form of prominence on the right side. He called this prominence ‘hunchback’ merely as a commonly understood term.

  Jo Appleby resumed her analysis. She said that the remains were in good condition and suggested someone well-nourished in life. The femur (thigh) bones and the bones of the lower leg were strong with good muscular development and attachment. Mitchell added that the arms showed no sign of being withered. The upper arm bones – the humerus – were the same length and symmetrical. The lower arm bones, the radius and ulna, though normal, were gracile – that is, quite graceful and slender.

  Appleby then moved down to the pelvis, lifting it gently to reveal the sciatic notches, the circular gaps that indicate the sex of a skeleton. A smaller gap was male; larger was female (for childbirth). In the Greyfriars remains the gap was of medium size, and therefore the gender was indeterminate. It could be female. At this point, Appleby explained the scale against which human remains are measured. At one end is the heavy-set, thick-browed, very male person, and at the other an incredibly delicate female. In between, you have every possible variation, from a very muscular female to a delicate male. The Greyfriars remains, with their gracile lower arm bones and pelvis, were around the centre of the scale. I asked if this could be part of the pubescent hormonal disturbance that brought on the scoliosis, but they couldn’t say. Appleby declared that, on balance, she thought the remains were male, but only the DNA result would confirm it one way or the other. As far as height was concerned, she said the skeleton was five feet eight inches tall, above average for the fifteenth century, but the scoliosis would have taken two or more inches off the person’s height. As the lower leg bones showed no evidence of injury or trauma, the missing feet had been removed while the remains lay buried in the grave – most likely by the Victorian builders.

  Next, Robert Woosnam-Savage, Curator of European Edged Weapons at the Royal Armouries in Leeds, and Dr Stuart Hamilton, Deputy Chief Forensic Pathologist, East Midlands Forensic Pathology Unit, would reveal the likely sequence of events during the last moments of life, and explain the nature of the fatal blows.

  In his research, Woosnam-Savage deals with the most vicious of human behaviour on the battlefield, with the weapons of the era. He could be aptly named, but the sensitivity he and Stuart Hamilton showed helped me get through that day. They had warned me in advance that the presentation would be detailed and possibly distressing. I accepted that; we can’t change events, but we have to know the facts in order to understand them.

  Woosnam-Savage began by saying that he would call the remains Richard, and that he would start at the top of the skull and work downwards. Hamilton agreed, saying this would reveal the likely sequence of injuries. Jo Appleby tilted the skull towards us, and Woosnam-Savage pointed to a distinct shave wound. A sharp-bladed weapon, a sword or halberd, had been swung directly at the head from behind, with such force that it had taken off a thin slice of skin and bone. It, or a similar blow, had even skipped slightly, and made a second shave wound immediately after. Another blow, also from behind but at a slightly different angle, had been aimed at the head, but again had taken only another small slice of skin and bone. The skull had not taken the full impact of the blow.

  From the angle of the strokes, Woosnam-Savage concluded that mere scalping was not intended, and also that Richard’s head must have been uncovered to have received such a wound; he was possibly bending or on his knees, though this was not certain. Woosnam-Savage couldn’t say whether Richard had ducked and dived away from the blows, so that they failed to connect fully, or whether the attackers’ aim was faulty in a frenzied mêlée. But it seems that Richard may have been dazed by these first injuries, because the next wound was close up and on target.

  Appleby tilted the skull again. There was a square puncture wound visible at the top. I remembered this from the exhumation and had assumed it had been made by a pole-axe. It hadn’t. A much more likely candidate for the weapon that delivered this penetrating injury was a type of dagger with a four-sided blade, such as a rondel dagger. The dagger could have been placed directly above the top of the head and then, using the palm of the other hand on the pommel for extra force, pushed down into the head with brute strength. Appleby moved the skull to show the interior and the two small flaps of bone the knife wound had dislodged inside. The weapon had penetrated the bone, and affected the brain, but it was not a fatal wounding.

  Now Jo Appleby turned the skull round to show the back. Here, there was no doubt about the violence wrought upon Richard’s head. Woosnam-Savage said it looked very much as if a cutting blade, such as that found on a halberd, had been swung down with force, and sliced off part of the back of the head, taking a portion of the brain with it. This may have proved a fatal blow, and, if so, death would have been almost instantaneous. Hamilton agreed, conjecturing that Richard would most likely have felt nothing but the impact before losing consciousness. The powerful swing had left a flap of skull still attached, no doubt matted with blood, hair and grey matter from his exposed brain. Woosnam-Savage commented on how this slicing motion, along with the other scoops and slices to the skull, agreed so well with the most evocative description found in a ‘praise poem’ written for the Welsh noble, Rhys ap Thomas, who may have played a crucial role in the battle. The poem was written before about 1493 by the poet Guto’r Glyn, who also fought at Bosworth: ‘Lladd y baedd, eilliodd ei ben’ (‘Killed the boar, shaved his head’).

  Appleby turned the skull again slightly to reveal another potentially fatal wound. The tip of a sword, or bladed weapon, had been thrust through the head on the right, penetrating to a depth of just over four inches and marking the inside of the skull on the opposite side. Although there was no way to determine the sequence of the blows this wound alone would have been enough to kill Richard, as it was a stab perfectly capable of felling him almost at once.

  Six wounds to the head had made their mark on the bones but death, when it came, had probably been immediate. In the adrenalin rush, Richard would have felt nothing: the shave wounds like bumps and scratches, the knife wound a dull thud in his head.

  Woosnam-Savage wanted us to see the face. Appleby put the skull back on the mandible so that it was complete on the light box. On the right of the mandible there was a slash mark, a knife wound, but not very deep, or long. It would need further investigation to tell whether it had been done to remove Richard’s helmet strap or was another attack wound, but it looked as if it too could have been delivered from behind. Above the cut was a single stab wound on the cheekbone to the right of the nose, potentially from a four-sided dagger, such as a rondel. It was a clean, square puncture wound similar to that on the top of the skull, so perhaps it was inflicted by the same attacker. Woosnam-Savage showed how an assailant might have come from behind and held Richard’s head for purchase as he stabbed the dagger into his face, but not to its full extent. Might Richard have been fighting on his knees?

  Woosnam-Savage believed it would be speculation to go any further. Unlike remains from many battle sites, including Towton in 1461, the features were not terribly defaced. It appeared that Richard may have been protected from further damage, perhaps on the orders of Henry Tudor. If Henry was to claim King Richard’s throne, he needed his rival not only dead, but seen to be dead, and not just on the battlefield; civilian observers who had known him and could identify him would be essential to Tudor plans.

  From the marks on the bones, Woosnam-Savage and Appleby calculated there were a total of eight wounds to the head, all of which had come from behind. The legend that King Richard’s head ha
d hit Bow Bridge on his return to Leicester, where his spur had struck on the way to battle, was, it seems, a myth, as there was no mark to suggest the skull could have struck a bridge.

  Richard’s armour had done its job: his arms and legs showed no attack marks or defensive wounds. But there was a further post-mortem wound, another cut from behind, where a dagger had been slashed across a rib on the right-hand side of his back, although whether this was inflicted with the armour removed, or as it was being cut off the body was unclear. It was suggestive, however, of a probable ‘victory’ blow.

  I felt a sense of relief, as I thought we had come to the end, but the story was not over yet. The body had one final wound to reveal. Woosnam-Savage squeezed my hand, and quietly told me to prepare myself. In his study of human remains from medieval battlefields, he had never come across what he regarded as such blatant physical evidence for the particular and final indignity inflicted on Richard’s body.

  He asked us to move down the table. Appleby lifted the pelvis and tilted it towards us. Woosnam-Savage pointed to a small but deep cut that went in one side and out the other. Richard had been stabbed in the right buttock, so forcibly that the blade had penetrated the pelvic bone. The weapon used may have been a double-edged sword or dagger, but Woosnam-Savage thought the very fine nature of the trauma indicated it was most likely a dagger.

  The atmosphere in the room had been quietly sombre. Now it was charged with shock. I could scarcely take in his words. The acute angle of the cut showed, Woosnam-Savage explained, that it probably couldn’t have been made when the armoured Richard was standing, or even lying on the ground. The blow would, however, appear to be consistent with it having been struck when his body was perhaps tilted and at a more readily accessible angle, his rear presenting an easy target. He had most likely been stabbed while slung over the back of the horse that bore him back to Leicester.