1485
Francis was on his knees in the friary. It was winter, the bitter cold was creeping into his bones. He had travelled to Leicester in all the secrecy he could manage. They would have his head if they found him here.
But he had had to come.
The cold of the stone floor was murdering his knees, and he began to seriously doubt his ability to walk once he rose.
There wasn't a headstone. No name was carved. There was nothing at all to commemorate him. No candles were lit, no grand statue singing his praises and rewarding his efforts. Nothing like there was in York. Even in death, the city of York adored him and it was there that Francis had sought, and found, refuge. He would often visit the stained window in the Minster, kneeling before that as he knelt before this grave, kneeling as one would at an altar.
He brought white roses, when he could get them, and left them at the grave. A silent, anonymous rebellion against the man that had taken the life of his best friend.
"What ever shall we do, Dickon, without you?" He whispered bitterly. "Nowhere is the same without you." He paused. "I'm not the same without you."
"Ah Francis, give the girl what she wants and have done with it." Richard said with a laugh. He was lounging by the fire, his feet were resting on the large oak table opposite him. His elegant, finely bejewelled hand nursed a silver goblet full of the finest Gascon wine, and he was merrier than Francis had seen him for a long time.
"Easy for you to say," Francis scoffed. "You at least know the woman you are married to. I barely know Anna and she barely knows me!"
William Catesby laughed from his spot on the floor. He was leaning against the wall at the side of his fireplace, one knee extended, the other raised with one arm resting on it. He too held a goblet full of wine, and he tapped his fingers on the side, relishing in the sound of the rings on his fingers hitting the silver.
"All she wants is a bit of attention. Visit her bed every night, bid her good day every morning and send her the occasional jewel." He shrugged. "Simple."
Francis rolled his eyes and Richard roared with laughter.
"Oh how glad I am for my Anne!!" He said with a grin, his blue eyes sparkling. "Hearing you tell of the woes of marriage! How lucky I am for my darling wife!"
Catesby dipped a finger in his wine and flicked the drops at Richard. Francis laughed.
"You dare to throw wine on your Duke?!" Richard asked in mock anger.
"I dare!" Catesby replied. "As long as you smirk and tell of your happy marriage to the woman you love I shall dare!"
Richard laughed again. He looked at the ornate clock on the fireplace.
"Midnight." He said with a smile. "Merry Christmas, boys."
"Merry Christmas, Dickon." Francis said. Catesby downed his wine.
"Aye. Merry Christmas lads."357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjUBUy1JJWU
It was Francis' favourite memory. 357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWZys5MUTap
Christmas 1482. 357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk3GYv7bOrw
They were all three of them happy. Blissfully happy.
But happiness never lasts, and like the calm before the storm, neither one of them knew what would hit them until after it had already passed, leaving devastation in its wake.
Richard was still the mere Duke of Gloucester back then, and he had refused his brother the king's invitation of a Christmas at court in order to spend the season with his wife and son and his dearest friends.
It was Richard all over. He had no time for the trivialities of court or the protocol of royalty. Besides, he knew how it would end. Edward would be in bed with a drunken whore and his wife Elizabeth would end the festivities in a fit of jealousy.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHHVcLFKdwK
Richard adored his brother - and swore blind he would die for him if need be - but could never quite stomach his infidelities. Edward loved his wife - had torn the country apart to marry her instead of the French princess that was intended - and so Richard was endlessly baffled as to why Edward found company in the arms of common whores on oh so many nights.
He was thankful for his Anne. Sweet, caring Anne. Both Richard and Francis doubted a malicious thought had ever even crossed her mind. Francis doubted he would ever be able to curb his jealousy at Richard for having a wife so loving as Anne.
Francis thought of his Anna. He would never be able to sit by the fire, with her resting on his knees, playing idly with strands of her hair, as Richard often did. He would never be able to bounce their baby son on his knee whilst she placed a loving hand gently on his shoulder.
"There's one blessing," Francis muttered to the stone slabs of the friary floor. "You are with Anne now. Give her my love... God knows I miss hers." He said with a sigh.
It was the winter after her death, and whilst by day Richard could go on being the king (for king he now was), by night he was all but an empty shell.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPEI10vY6vC
Even surrounded by his friends - Francis, Catesby and Richard Ratcliffe - he could not prevent the despair from taking hold and burrowing its way into his soul.
Staring out of the window into the blackness of the night sky, Richard turned to his friends.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdRkNCgAyIg
"Methinks..." He began, "I should retire." 357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyfY24Ob2Lz
He drained his goblet, and set it on the table with a dull thud. 357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKUYy11TnEq
His eyes were sunken and shadowed, his hands shaking. His fingers were fumbling in his palms, twisting the ruby ring on his littlest finger. Francis glanced at the jewels on the hands of his closest friend. Bedecked with elegant gold and priceless gems, Richard’s slender fingers were trembling.
Catesby nodded silently, finishing the last of the wine in his own vessel. Ratcliffe did the same, and each of them bade the king a farewell and a good night.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm88nBZkTEW
Francis remained sitting in his chair.
"Should you not be following Ratcliffe making sure he doesn't injure himself?" Richard said humourlessly. "We all know he can't handle his wine."
Francis remained silent, studying the man before him.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3tHkSLYEOv
Kingship had taken a toll on Richard. The carefree, jovial young duke had transformed into a man with trembling hands and worry lines etched permanently onto his handsome face. He had never allowed any outside of his innermost circle to bear witness to his emotional turmoil, and as far as the rest of the court was aware, King Richard was fine. A little put out after the recent loss of his wife, but fine nonetheless.
Francis knew differently. He knew the empty hallways haunted Richard, and he knew that most nights he sat by the fire in an armchair when everybody else had left instead of retiring to bed. He couldn't face those empty sheets, the empty space beside him where she used to lie.
"You should go." Richard said darkly.
"I do not think it wise, Dickon." Francis said gently. Richard turned to glare at his oldest friend.
"I did not ask for what you think wise, Lovell." He said, his tone a warning. "Go."
Francis wanted to reply, to protest, but he knew that in the end it would be futile. How could he refuse his king? Bloody hell, how could he refuse Richard? All the man had to do was say jump and Francis would ask how high.
So Francis merely nodded, and before saying another word, exited the room silently.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEETGCOj3ON
When the door had closed, he paused outside for a moment. He could hear beyond the door the sounds of broken sobs tearing apart the chest of a desperate man.
Richard remained behind closed doors, his hands clutching his temples in frustration, in desperation. The sobs came frantically, too fast for his heart to keep up. He had fallen to his knees in despair, his eyes closed tight against the images in his head. But no matter what he did he saw her. He saw her lying before him on her sickbed, pleading with him to leave, to not risk his own health. He saw her taking her last breath, the auburn hair that he had once adored so much falling across her pale, lifeless face. Her slender body was limp beneath the sheets, and no matter how much he held her, no matter how much he gripped her hands, no matter how many times he pressed kisses to her lips, she was never coming back.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx3zX6KYWfT
She was gone, and he was a king with no heir, and no wife.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRSQSjiU0hc
His throne was under threat from invasion and he had lost his only stronghold. Anne was his fortress, his retreat, his escape and his reason for fighting. He had vowed that he would keep hold of his crown for his Anne, because he would not allow her to be persecuted under the rule of Henry Tudor should he fail.
Now she was gone. Richard vowed instead that he would fight for his crown, but if he died in battle, it would no longer be the worst thing that could happen.
It had all started one summer when Francis was a child. His father had taken him to the castle on the hill and had introduced him to the Lord Warwick. Francis had looked around in awe, stunned by the large castle walls, by the hustle and bustle of the courtyard. His father had shooed him along, bidding him to explore, to make friends.
But Francis had never been any good at making friends. He had been an awkward little child; with no siblings and hardly any interaction with people his own age, he was more comfortable around adults than ten year olds.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzzBSVCQ4u6
He obeyed his father's orders nonetheless, and scurried out into the fray. He ducked under a milkmaid carrying a vat of milk to the kitchens, he skirted out of the way of the horse master leading three stallions to the stables. He narrowly avoided running headfirst into the Lord Warwick's daughter Isabel (who gave him a disdainful glare) and stopped short against the wall, looking for a safe route out of the throng.
"You'll get used to it." A boy said from beside him. The boy had dark hair and bore a smirk on his face. "They don't notice us round here." He said with a little laugh.
Francis smiled.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ06uvFkCtEc
"Well I am glad I have found at least one friendly face. My name is Francis. Francis Lovell." He said with an outstretched hand. He had seen his father offer his hand to new acquaintances a hundred times over, and now he adopted the custom as one of his own.
The boy took the hand and shook it with a laugh.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPfTctdCUix
"I am Richard." He said simply. Francis raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
"No last name?" He said. Richard smiled.
"I have one. But I don't think you'll like it." He said with a simple shrug. "Nobody acts the same around me once they hear it."
"I'm not like everybody else. I promise I won't." Francis said with a smile. Richard shrugged once more.
"Okay." He said. "Plantagenet. I am a Plantagenet."
Francis thought he was joking. Plantagenet? The name of the royal family? Surely not! But then he saw Richard's eyes. The childlike vulnerability behind those pale blue irises revealed Richard's fear, the anxiety that yet another friend would change once they discovered his heritage.
Francis saw a lonely boy, tired of protocol and being called 'your grace'. All Richard wanted was a true friend, not just another child ordered to befriend him by grasping parents wishing to get ahead in the world. Not yet another friend that tip-toed around him.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ84ldHNeL0q
And so Francis ignored the fact that Richard was the brother of the king, and he shrugged.
"Okay." He said with a smile. Richard returned the smile, his relief evident that he had finally found a friend uninterested in his high status.
"I bet you're causing all sorts of mischief up there, Dickon." Francis said sadly. He looked up at the ceiling, seeing beyond it and imagining the sky up above. He imagined Heaven, and he hoped fervently that Richard was looking down, that he was listening.
"York rebelled, you know. Refused to accept Tudor as king." He said with a small laugh. "But of course you know that. I bet you know everything." He said quietly. "You always did know everything."
The darkness was growing deeper, and the solitary candle Francis had lit was beginning to flicker and wane.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOMmN7rSkEJ
He was kneeling by an unmarked, uniform floor slab. Not a soul would know that a king was buried underneath. Francis had had to bribe the friar with one of his last few coins just to find out himself.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5GYEvWevxi
Richard had been flung unceremoniously into this hastily dug pit. The bastard 'king' hadn't even had the courtesy to carve his name onto the stone.
Francis looked at the candle, and the glass holder it stood in to prevent the wax from dripping to the floor. He tilted his head in wonder. Then he reached out his hand and removed the candle. He handled the glass holder gently, and then he rose and threw it to the floor.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtn5sdOpR3y
The shards of glass scattered everywhere, and Francis took a deep breath. He picked up the largest, sharpest shard and inspected it.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnwAFtU4Fob
It would do.
He leaned over the floor slab, the glass in his hand. And he began to scratch.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRyCqaRuk8j
He etched into the stone the name of his dearest friend.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzGLO5Frnq1
King of England357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS3WOhyp27D
Friend
It was not elaborate, and Francis' hand was shaking. Into his words he had poured his own grief, his own desperation, his willingness and desire for everything to be as it once was.
The shard of glass he had used had cut his hand to ribbons. Droplets of his own blood were falling onto the stone, running in the crevices his words had formed. His blood flowed into the 'R' of Richard, and it felt oddly pagan and ceremonial, that Francis' blood should stain the words on the stone. If only the blood could raise the dead, Francis lamented. If only Richard could be here again.
The open wound stung sharply, but he had felt worse.
The penmanship was uneven and slanted, but it mattered not. Richard had his name.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMUy9S3Mhov
Francis had wanted to carve something grand, but then Richard would not want such grandeur. He wanted to be remembered as the benevolent duke of Gloucester, not the besmirched king of England.
Francis only wished he could do the same for Catesby and Ratcliffe. Ratciffe, who had lain dead on the battlefield, who had been cut down fighting for Richard's crown, lay, like the king he had died for, in an unmarked grave. Only his lay in a field somewhere with no hope of discovery.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc3cdgT5y90
And Catesby lay behind the impregnable walls of the Tower of London, his headless body also lying in a shallow grave with no carving of his name. The new Tudor king had had Catesby executed just three days after he had won the throne from Richard. There had been no trial. Catesby had committed no crime, simply fighting for the wrong side.
And now Francis was alone.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDS6VE3Qbd7
Truly alone.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpbhCQ5wFIU
All three of his closest friends had died at the hands of Henry Tudor. Francis, who had been a great lord, who had been truly happy, was now penniless, traversing the country on the run, living in various inns and hostels, anywhere that would take him. He almost wanted to lament his fall from grace, but then he remembered the king that lay lifeless beneath him and felt rather selfish. Richard had been a great man, and a great king, and yet here he lay.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLjX0w6OMRe
The injustice alone brought tears to Francis' eyes.
He thought about Tudor, sitting on his throne in a warm room somewhere in the south of England. He thought about how the crown that encircled his forehead had once sat atop Richard's, and how it had been plucked from Richard on the battlefield, whilst he lay dead at Tudor's feet.
And now Tudor spread vile lies about the man that had been Richard the third. That he had intended to marry his niece, that he had murdered his nephews and was born with a misshapen arm and a full set of teeth after two years in his mother's womb.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZTQd4OGIqR
He was making Richard a monster, and there was not a single damned thing Francis could do about it.
All he could do was sit in the friary and bring white roses, hoping to God that someday, somehow, no matter how far off it may be, Richard's name would be remembered. Remembered not as the hunchback Tudor said he was, but the kind-hearted man with the gentle smile that was never destined to die so young.
A/N - You might know Richard III as the evil, grasping, hunchbacked uncle that stole the throne from his nephew and then locked him in the Tower and murdered him. I don't think its true. The injustice of what has been done to Richard's memory brings tears to my eyes, but maybe that's just me. The most beautiful part about the true story is that three years ago Richard's body was found, and he now lies in Leicester Cathedral, with a proper memorial and a proper carving of his name, with a visitors centre dedicated to rehabilitating his image just across the way.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdW7Gr73g2c
