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

by Alex Marchant

  ‘I– I will make sure the fishgarths get removed one d–day!’ stammered Richard.

  ‘Will you now?’ The crone shrieked with laughter, then fell into a fit of coughing.

  Richard and Eirlys dashed past her on to the waterside path. At length another bridge crossing the Ouse appeared through the darkness. Beyond, the towers of the Minster glowed coldly. Night-birds, or bats, flapped around the pinnacles.

  ‘Go up that street.’ Eirlys pointed. ‘Don’t turn right or left … and you will be back at the tavern where you were.’

  Richard moved to leave, but the girl caught his wrist. ‘Wait … wait. This place is a magic place. Down by the river. Before you go, let me show you.’

  Richard wanted nothing more than to go, but he did not want to be churlish after she had helped him. Reluctantly he went to the riverside with Eirlys. An old willow bent over the bank, its boughs streaming in the water like outstretched hair. Overhead, the rain ceased and a pale moon slipped out, its image shivering on the dark waters.

  Eirlys knelt by the water’s edge, careless of the mud. Reaching into a pouch at her belt, she brought out five white stones. She held them out on her palm, five pieces of quartz as white as her hair.

  ‘It is said,’ she breathed in a low voice, ‘that when the Matins bells ring in the monasteries and the monks begin the Night Order, if one drops five white pebbles into the Ouse, he will see a reflection from either the past, the present or the future. Will you not try it?’

  With some reluctance, Richard took the pebbles. They felt ice-cold despite having been in Eirlys’s hand. Further down the river, the Matins bell of St Mary’s abbey began a low, deep tolling; the bells of other monastic houses joined in the clangour.

  Richard slowly let the pebbles drop into the shallows. One … two … three … four … five.

  He stared at the surface of the water, thinking about what he wanted to see. Not the past – too much evil and sorrow lay there. And the present? Well, that he already knew. But the future …

  For what seemed an age, he could see nothing. Then … a flicker of gold. Or … or … what was that on the river’s swell? Fish swirling round under the surface, lights from the torches along the rail of the nearby bridge? The moon as it rode westward in the heavens?

  The nebulous shape was round and resembled a crown with pointed tines …

  He reached out and his fingers touched the water, and the vision vanished instantly, breaking apart in the ripples his hand had made.

  ‘I saw it!’ cried Eirlys, voice filled with excitement. ‘You … are you royal?’

  He dared not say he was the king’s brother. Not there, out alone in the darkness. And he … he had not seen it really, had he? It surely was just imagination …

  ‘I must go,’ he insisted. ‘If you think you’ll get a beating, well, I’ll get an even worse one from Warwick. And it’s not even my fault.’

  ‘Your name!’ she cried, a shining pale vision in the gloom. ‘Your name at least …’

  He was scrambling away from her up the bank towards the road.

  ‘It’s Richard …’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Richard … of Gloucester …’ He would not tell her that Gloucester was not his birthplace – that he was, in truth, its duke …

  ‘Richard! I will remember you … next you come to York. And you will come back, I know it … someday. But not with Lord Warwick!’

  At her words, a little shiver ran up his spine. It sounded almost like a prophecy, and Eirlys was a strange, fey creature. It was probably all show, though, used to garner coins from the gullible when the mummers’ troupe was on the road.

  He was glad to be away.

  He rushed up the street, conscious of how out of place he looked, running alone, with the midnight sky above and the chanting of monks an eerie distraction in the distance.

  Ahead, he spied a figure on the street corner, equally out of place as he was in the unfamiliar town. Blessed Mary be praised, it was Rob Percy! He raced up to him, slipping on the wet cobbles and bashing straight into Rob’s legs, almost knocking him over.

  The older youth swore, then grabbed Richard by the collar.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I have been searching everywhere. Warwick would have killed me if anything untoward had befallen you! I was imagining you dead in the river! Royal duke or no, I should beat the stupidity from you, you little dunderhead!’

  ‘I didn’t go of my own volition … and you shouldn’t have been chatting up some girl, but looking out for me. Like my cousin, the earl, told you to.’

  Rob shut his mouth with a snap. He knew he was at least partly at fault. He calmed himself down.

  ‘I … I guess it’s both our faults. Let’s get back to Warwick’s lodgings without further delay. I have a feeling there’s going to be a thrashing for us both …’

  The youths walked quickly together up the night-clad street. Men exited the taverns, more than merry; women in striped hoods glided to and from the rank alleys, beckoning. Rob tried to guide Richard out of their path, but the younger boy was not paying attention anyway.

  He was thinking of the River Ouse.

  The five white stones.

  The golden crown that was – surely – just a trick of his imagination?

  About the author

  J. P. Reedman was born in Canada but has lived in the UK for more than twenty-five years. She enjoys history, archaeology and travel. An interest in Richard III dating to the early 1980s was re-awoken by the rediscovery of his grave in 2012.

  J. P. is now a full-time author, writing fiction about the House of York, little-known medieval women and ancient Britain. Her best-known Ricardian books are I, Richard Plantagenet and A Man Who Would be King.

  Amazon:​http://author.to/ReedmanRichardIII

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

  Twitter:​​https://twitter.com/StoneLord1

  Dame Joanne’s Talke Thinge

  Larner and Lamb

  Oure deare Dames and Subjectes, lett Us telleth ye of the tyme We didst attendeth a talkyng thinge, about Us! ’Twas presented by Oure Dame Joanne, across Muddleham Bridge in ye moderne tymes.

  We didst choose Oure clothyng to blend in with ye moderne folk, and so We didst weareth a blacke leathern bomb-berr jackette, Oure right tight fittyng denim jeans hose whyche hath caused mannie a dame to swoone (smooths haire downe) and a flatt capp, the whyche We heareth is verily fetchyng in moderne Yorkshire.

  Oh (rolls eyes) here cometh Lovell...

  ‘Hail thee, Lovell, what art thou wearyng, manne?’

  ‘Sire! Dickon! Your Grace! ... I thought it best to blendeth in with ye moderne folk!’

  ‘Oh Lovell, We cannot see thee blendyng wearyng THAT!’

  ‘B-b-but Dickon, dost thou liketh not my shinie, blue, flared breeches and my pinke, frillie shirt? And look Dickon! Plat-ye-form soled shoes!’

  (Pinches bridge of nose). Dame Joanne didst suddenlie arriveth and asked Lovell if he were attendyng a circa 1970s disk-oh thinge ... Of course, he was not (sighs).

  We didst order him right sternlie to changeth his awfulle apparel to a more ‘subtle’ outfitt. He cameth back in his orange coat, greene plaid trousers and matchyng shoes ... ’twas subtle, for Lovell ... (shaketh hedd).

  Dames Jo and Kokomo arrived to picketh us up in the carr thinge with Oure portrait on its door!

  We telleth them: ‘Look ye here, dames! No curtseying, no “Your Grace” or “My Liege”, no swoonyng (though ’tis difficult not to in Oure presence).’ (Smooths haire downe). ‘We wysh to blend with common folk. We wysh to be inn-cogg-nitto.’

  Dame Kokomo then spake up: ‘Aye Dickon, and I feel I may say so, that ye do look right common.’ (?) ‘And thou, Lord Lovell, lookest right fashionable – thou dost looketh like a professor or an intellectual person!’

  HA!!

  We were seated in a hall, listenyng to Dame Jo, telling of Oure noble deeds and goodly laws, when Lovell whispered to Us.
<
br />   ‘I'm going to ask a question at Ye ende.’

  ‘Oh Lovell.’ (Frowns). ‘Thou knowest where those boyes both went safely, and without harm to theire persons, thou buffoon!’

  ‘No, Dickon, not that,’ he whispered. ‘I have a more pressing question.’

  ‘Whatever, Lovell.’ (Sighs and rolls eyes).

  Then, Dame Joanne sayeth: ‘So ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our talk. Do any of you have any questions about King Richard III?’

  Lovell stood up. (Pinches bridge of nose). But another manne hath raised his hande in the aire and Dame Joanne did asketh him what was his question.

  ‘How could that old crouchback, King Richard, even ride a horse, let alone fight as courageously as you say?’

  We glowered at him – he was an ugly little manne with wonkie eyes and a thinne, cruel mouth. He remindeth Us of someone? ... When he saw Us give him Oure stare of disapproval, he didst beginne to quaketh in his boots.

  Dame Joanne, who hath seen Oure angry countenance, didst hurriedlie saye:

  ‘Well, Sir, he wasn’t actually a hunchback – that’s just Tudor propaganda. And he was very fit.’ (Smooths haire downe). ‘He is known to have been a great warrior and he very nearly got to Henry Tudor and killed him. It was proved in the documentary that was made that he could have ridden, charged and fought fiercely.’

  We narrowed Oure eyes at the nasty little manne and he shuffled his feete nervouslie.

  Lovell putteth up his hande.

  ‘Yes, you there, Sir, with the orange coat, professor?’

  ‘I am Professor Francis.’

  ‘And what is your question, sir?’

  ‘Well, madam, I would like to know…’ (We glower at him right sternlie). ‘Where ... err ... where is the toilet?’

  ‘Oh!’ sayeth Dame Jo, rather perplexed. ‘Turn left at the end of the corridor.’

  Lovell didst giveth her ye ‘thumbes up’ signe and headed off, followed by the nasty little manne, who was clutching the front of his trousers and pushed in front of Lovell to get to the privy. His neede was obviously urgent!

  ‘Any more questions?’ sayeth Dame Jo.

  Of course, We felt that We hadst to rescue the dame, so We didst raiseth Oure royalle hand.

  ‘Madam, I have a question.’

  ‘Oh, and what is your name, Sir?’

  ‘Ah, well, I err ... I am Ricky, err Ricky Broom.’

  ‘OK Ricky, what's your question?’

  ‘Madam, dost (coughs) … do you think the reconstruction head of King Richard III is accurate?’

  (Smooths haire downe).

  ‘Ah, well, my – err, Ricky – I think I would say in reality King Richard III was probably even more handsome.’

  We smileth. ‘Ah yes, We, I ... err ... I, I bet he cut a striking figure.’

  The talke ended. We sat downe awaiting Lovell. Suddenlie two ladies sittyng behind Us speaketh.

  ‘Ere Jane, ’e looks like ’im, dont ’e, eh?’

  We turned around.

  ‘Rickaay innit? You look like ’im!’

  ‘Hmm? Me?’ (We tryeth hard to look innocent).

  ‘Yer, you’d look like ’im if you took yer hat orf, you’d be just like ’im, wouldn’t ’e, Doreen?’

  ‘’E would,’ said the exuberant Doreen.

  ‘Take yer att orf, go on Rickaay!! Take it orf,’ they chorused.

  Just in time, Lovell appeared. He looked serious.

  ‘Si—, err, Ricky pal, don't remove your hatt, you know what the doctor said.’

  We looked regretfully at Jane and Doreen, and We thought Lovell wouldst sayeth that We hath a cold.

  ‘If he removes his hat they will escape and multiply by the second.’

  Both women let out an ear-piercing shriek, and hastened awaye from Us.

  ‘Oh Lovell, didst thou have to telleth them We hath head lice, manne?’

  ‘Well ... it worked, Dickon, for thou wert nearly rumbled!’

  Dame Jo spoke: ‘Oh Sire, we know thy haire is healthie, Dame Kokomo knoweth it too!’ and they both touched Oure haire affectionately.

  We didst cross Muddleham bridge, weary from Oure time travelling. Oure sonne, Edward, ranne to greet Us, with his beste friend, Lennie Lovell, sonne of Lord Lovell.

  ‘Uncle Richard?!’

  ‘Yes, Lennie?’

  ‘My father says he was a hero todaye!’

  ‘Hmm?'

  ‘Yes, he made two ladies think you had nitts!’

  (Sighs) ‘Yes, well, of course We do not, it was merely to maketh the inquisitive ladies leaveth Us alone.’

  ‘Uncle Richard?’

  ‘Yes, Lennie?’

  ‘I had nitts once ...’

  (Rolls eyes) ‘Well, Lennie, We really didst need to knoweth that ... get thee awaye, and practise thy archerie with Edward!’ Hmmph! Stupid boy! (Shaketh hedd).

  We walked to Oure royalle appartments and put on Oure tunic and hose, and decided to lieth on Oure bedd for a whyle, whereupon We didst heareth a sounde whyche didst frighteth Oure verrie soule.

  ‘Rickaay!!’

  We sat up quickly! ’Twas yon naughtie dames, Jo and Kokomo!

  ‘Why, my Liege, I hath my nitt comb to banish yon wildlife from thy haire!’ sayeth Dame Jo, laughyng!

  ‘And I shalle calleth thee by thy newe name, Ricky Broom!’ sayeth naughtie Kokomo! ‘Since thou art “in-cog-NITT-o!”’

  ‘Oh, you both are right naughtie dames! We shalle ... We shalle chase ye around Oure herbe garden and whosoever We catcheth shalle weareth this awfulle capp!’

  They squealed and ran as We gave chase.

  ‘I'd rather have thy crown, Sire!’ shouteth Dame Kokomo.

  ‘I loveth well thy enormous jewels, too!’ yelleth Dame Joanne.

  ‘Get ye hence, ye awfulle dames! We cometh after ye with thys nitt-filled capp!!’

  Ah, such funne ... how welle We loveth Oure lyff in Muddleham ...

  About the authors

  Susan Lamb is fascinated by Richard III. However, so much is written about the tragedies in his life and his demise that she wanted to imagine some lighter moments. When she saw what a huge female fan base he has, the ‘Dickon for his Dames’ Facebook page came into being.

  Susan lives in the West Midlands with her husband, Ray, her mom, and Beauty, the perfectly named greyhound. She loves reading, writing short stories, horses and also visiting historical places connected with King Richard.

  Joanne Larner, the ‘other half’ of Larner and Lamb, is the author of a trilogy of novels about Richard III. She enjoyed reading the Facebook page ‘Dickon for his Dames’ and so, when Susan asked if she would be interested in collaborating with her to write a book based on it, she jumped at the chance. Dickon’s Diaries, a madcap mix of medieval and modern, was born and the ‘Dames’ have now also published Dickon’s Diaries 2.

  Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N2Y4KPM

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Dickiethird/

  Blurb: https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7690403-dickon-s-diaries

  https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/8808709-dickon-s-diaries-2

  Bowyer Tower

  Wendy Johnson

  My fate, so fragile, so slender, is finally sealed. Fear? I am past fear. Fear was the grip of the Constable’s men, bruising my flesh; leading, half-dragging me to this place of confinement. They need not have dragged me. Would not have dragged me had it not been for my defiance, my struggles, my cries for justice. The slamming of the door, the screeching of the bolt, the silence that followed; therein dwelt my fear. Gut wrenching, mind rending fear. But that sensation has long outlived its purpose, for what is the use of fear when what will come, will come? I am imprisoned and alone. Alone in my sanity, whilst those around me melt in their madness, dripping servile wax to seal the deed.

  The woman. They weep for the woman, hanged at my command, like Judas from his elder tree. They have no thought, it seems, for her crime: for the Kingmaker’s daughter and my new-born son, both lapped in lead in
Tewkesbury vault. No, the world sees only an outline of the truth. A hurried sketch in palest ink, calling for the artist to fill in the gaps. Except that he never will. This treacherous likeness is how my brother would have me be remembered. And like any other traitor, I am doomed to die. The end will not come by the noose, nor by the knife. No hanging or drawing for the brother of the king. I have been granted that. A mercy? I hardly know. The end will be the end, regardless.

  I know that Mother has implored him; her praying hands draped with Paternoster beads. Relentless

  Mother: chip, chipping away. He is your brother, Edward, do not spill his blood. I pitied her divested pride, the long hours upon her knees. I pitied Dickon, too, with his solemn eyes, his efforts at reason. Pitied them both, that they should be forced to plead: that with Edward blood should filter so thinly, while syrup and honey ooze.

  My destiny, and my father’s, both conjured by a queenly hand: his by war, mine by the lightness of a whisper, a persistent drip-dripping of hate. The rain barrel will overflow if there are storms enough.

  Mother and Dickon have had their wish: clemency of a kind, from Edward the king – when his queen had turned her gilded head, and he and I were brothers again. It shall be quick, he has conceded. Quick and unexpected. Shall it be a pillow, then, in the night? Shall I suffocate amongst linen and feathers, my final gasp drowned by quills and down?

  Farewells: a courtesy Edward has not refused. His own was taken in the Painted Chamber, a theatre of law, where it was waxed and sealed and tied with tape: no time for privy words. With Mother, there were prayers – the best way, she said, to pass the time. She has left me Mechtild for company; her Book of Ghostly Grace to see me through the night.

  Margaret, I said. I should have liked to have seen Margaret. Mother’s beads found their way into my palm; cool and smooth and slithering. For Margaret’s sake. Instead of Margaret. A little comfort.