A "Spirited" Interview
© Kathy H D Kingsbury, July 26, 2021
A paranormal story in which Richard III gets a chance to answer his detractors.
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I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. It wasn't that my interviewee was late, but rather that I was early. When this week's assignments had been handed out, I'd nearly fainted. Not because I was to interview a spirit, or ghost if you will, as I'd interviewed plenty over the years. It was who I was to interview, and the last thing I wanted to do was to start things off by making a bad impression.
Spirits, just like living people, don't always like to give interviews and this one had repeatedly turned down requests. It seems that he preferred a quiet after-life but something caused him to change his mind and I didn't want to be the one to make him regret that decision. Besides, this was a dream come true for me. You see, the boss knew I was a keen student of history, something that can be helpful when interviewing spirits from the distant past. He also knew I had a specific interest in the Wars of the Roses, and that's how I ended up being the one who was going to interview King Richard III.
Arrangements had been made for us to meet at this cute little tea shop. Now tea shops aren't all that common here in the States, but whoever was in charge of these things must have thought that the reclusive king would appreciate the attempt at finding someplace that might remind him of home.
I, however, wasn't so sure.
Why? Because there were no tea shops in 15th century in England. Tea would not be introduced to that country for another two hundred years. Oh well, nothing I could do now other than hope His Grace (the proper way to address a Plantagenet king, by the way) would be the "it's the thought that counts" kind of person.
So here I was, at the right place with about 15 minutes to spare, and had gone ahead and ordered a pot of my favorite tea. I had been tempted to imitate Captain Picard and say, "Earl Grey, hot," but guessed that had probably been done to death. So I settled for a pot of Yorkshire and sat at the table, sipping my drink and trying to nibble daintily on a pastry (is that even possible?) when out of the blue he was there, sitting across from me, looking like the NPG portrait come to life but without the serious expression and frown lines, and eyes a beautiful shade of blue.
And talk about dressed to kill! He was decked out like the medieval monarch that he was, wearing rich brocades and silks trimmed with fur. Then there was the shiny stuff. The old song about rings on her fingers and bells on her toes came to mind, as I took in his beringed fingers, jewel-encrusted gold chain, and jeweled hat pin, all precious metals and even more precious stones twinkling in the artificial light of the shop. The man's bling would put a modern day rapper to shame, that's for sure!
I was trying to decide how to proceed when he smiled and I nearly went full fangirl. Oh my gawd, he was so handsome, definitely not the distorted, deformed monster the Tudors would have us believe of him! Did he have any idea the effect that smile had on this female? Probably not. Thankfully I managed to pull myself together and introduced myself.
"Kingsbury" he said, repeating my last name. "A good English name. Are your people originally from England, then?"
"Some of them. But I also have ancestors from Germany and Slovakia."
"Ah," he nodded. "No doubt you have the best of all cultures within you."
"And some from Wales," I added quietly. "Including a Welshman by the name of Rhys ap Thomas." I held my breath as I waited for his response. Telling a spirit that you're descended from the guy who's supposed to have delivered your death blow might not sit too well, but it turned out my worries were for naught.
"That's all right," he said with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "I would never hold that against you. It's not as if we can choose our ancestors."
Wow, good looking and a charmer! Where did Shakespeare come up with the stuff he wrote, anyway?
"Before we continue, how would you prefer I address you? Your Grace? Your Majesty?"
"How about just Richard."
And he smiled again.
And I managed not to squee out loud. At least I thought I had kept it from escaping my lips, but I must have made some kind of noise as the waitress who took my order earlier glanced over at our table. I tried to discreetly nod in her direction.
"Can she see you?"
"Of course. I could have it so that I was only visible to you, but where would be the fun in that?"
The waitress must have figured my guest wanted to place an order and made her way over. "What would you like, dearie?" she said sweetly, giving Richard an approving eye. It didn't seem to bother her in the least that my companion had popped in out of thin air dressed in hose and doublet. Then again, spirits paying visits to the living are not exactly uncommon these days.
"A cup of tea would be nice. Whatever my companion is having."
"Anything sweet to go with that? We've got some delicious éclairs that would go great with your tea."
"No, thanks. Got to watch the waistline."
Really?
"Okay then. One pot of Yorkshire, coming up," she said and headed back to the counter.
I'd never known a spirit to ingest anything, so while the waitress was taking care of Richard's order, I asked, "You are able to eat and drink?"
"Not really, being mostly a non-corporeal being, but I'm good at pretending. It helps put people at ease."
Okay, that made sense.
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Tea was served. Richard took the pot and refreshed my cup, being every inch the perfect gentleman. I almost let out a sigh of contentment. A girl could get used to this, and he was more than making up for some of the rotters I'd had to interview in the past. I had to pull myself out of my reverie, though, as next I knew he began speaking.
"Shall we begin? What would you like to ask me about?"
That was my cue to get the ball rolling. I set my phone to record and put it on the table between us, got out my notes, pen, and paper (in case I wanted to jot something down), and settled down to business. Although there were certain topics I hoped we could talk about, I thought it best to keep things informal and let Richard lead the way.
"If you could go back in time, knowing what you know now, would you do anything differently?"
He picked up his cup, pretending to take a few sips. I guessed this was his way of collecting his thoughts. "It's not an easy thing to do, discussing one's personal failures."
You can say that again, I thought but said nothing. Instead, I simply gave an encouraging nod.
"It's even more so when you're king of England with the grand name of Plantagenet to live up to, and your failures cost you your throne, your life, and the end of your dynasty."
For a moment, a look of sadness crossed his features, but it left as quickly as it came. More than 500 years have passed since he last walked this earth as a living, breathing person, but it was obvious that some memories remained painful.
"There are so many half-truths, distortions, and downright lies that continue to be perpetuated about me. I've been accused of just about every foul deed imaginable. Sometimes I'm surprised I haven't been blamed for the creation of the Seven Deadly Sins."
I let him know that I couldn't agree more, and mentioned historians who still write negatively about him. "Some of them act as though you reached across the centuries and attacked them personally."
Richard chuckled. "So you've read some of those hack jobs, have you? Even the one by that Hicks fellow, the one about my dear Anne? If it were possible, I'd slap that man with a libel suit so fast it would make his head spin. Of all the unmitigated gall! Not only does he insult my wife and queen, but accuses me of being some kind of sexual predator. It's unpardonable!"
"You mean…you've read Anne Neville: Queen to Richard III by Michael Hicks?"
"And Desmond Seward's Richard III: England's Black Legend, as well as many others. Just because I'm a spirit doesn't mean I don't read. Besides, you can call in vanity if you want but I like to know what's being said about me. "
"I've read that you were known as a great lover of books and the arts."
"I still am." His forehead wrinkled as a thought occurred to him. "Wait a minute, are you one of those…what do you call yourselves? Ricardians?" His face broke into a grin.
I felt myself blush. "Yup. You found me out. I'm a card-carrying member of the Richard III Society, American Branch, and have been for many years."
"This is indeed a pleasure. Please extend my sincere thanks to your colleagues for all the good work they've been doing. Their efforts to clear my name is much appreciated, not to mention being instrumental in finding my mortal remains and having them reinterred with some dignity and honor, something I didn't get back in 1485. So, you've read up on me beyond the usual interview preparations?"
"Oh, yes. I've a full library of books about you, your life and times. Non-fiction. Fiction. Pro. Con. You name it, I've probably read it."
He leaned forward, as if he were going to take me into his confidence. "So tell me, with all your reading, what do you think of those time-travel stories about me?" he asked, grinning mischievously.
"You read those, too?" Oh my goodness, I couldn't believe this!
"I've got to find something to fill my time now that I'm immortal. There was one I read where I was transported to the 21st century and ended up at a reenactment of the Battle of Bosworth. That was fun."
"I know the one you mean. Dare I ask, what about the romance novels? Do you read those, too?" Sorry, I couldn't help myself.
Richard burst out laughing. "Yes, I confess that I do. What man wouldn't enjoy reading about himself as a…what's the term? Babe magnet?" We both laughed at that. "With all those mistresses I'm supposed to have had, it's a wonder I ever got anything done, but I'm sure my secretary, John Kendal, would have made sure everyone and everything was properly scheduled." And we spent the next few minutes discussing his appearance in time travel, alt history ("I love the ones where I win at Bosworth!"), and other works of fiction.
"But now I'm curious," he said, changing the subject. "How did you get the assignment to interview me? Is it because of your obvious passion for a certain medieval monarch?" (Did he just wink at me?) "Although I prefer to think of myself more as early-Renaissance."
He struck an exaggerated regal pose before we both broke into giggles. Good looking, good dresser, good manners, a reader of Ricardian fiction, and a sense of humor? This man just kept getting better and better.
"You know," he said, resuming a more serious demeanor, "many innovations and art styles associated with the Renaissance were already being introduced to England by the time I was on the throne, not that Henry Tudor would ever have admitted that. The idea that with my death, the Renaissance suddenly burst onto the English scene is ludicrous."
"Speaking of Henry Tudor, do the two of you ever see each other? If so, how has that worked out?"
"It's like this. Not everyone chooses to remain on earth once they die. Most spirits move on to the next realm, but Tudor's like me, not ready to go there just yet. Yes, we've met briefly from time to time. Nothing planned. Nothing formal. More like two people who just happen to pass on the street. We're polite to each other, a small nod of the head, maybe a quick 'Good day.' I guess you could call it an undeclared truce, though it's unlikely we'll ever be best friends."
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"It's obvious just looking at you that you're nothing like the malformed villain that has come down to us from Shakespeare and the Tudors. Those who saw you in life, such as Nicolas von Poppelau in 1484," – I checked my notes to be sure I had my facts straight – "wrote that you were 'three fingers taller but a little more slender and not as thickset as me, also much thinner. He has very subtle arms and legs, and also a great heart'. Yet in spite of firsthand accounts such as this, and now the physical evidence found in your grave, we still have people who insist otherwise. Do you care to comment?"
"Von Poppelau was an interesting man, and his visit was a pleasant diversion coming as it did during a difficult time." He didn't mention what that difficult time was, but I knew from my reading that he was referring to the death of his son and heir, Edward of Middleham, that had occurred earlier that year.
"As for my appearance? You'd think that once my mortal remains were found, that would have permanently put to rest the idea that I was born a monstrous, hunched-back creature. 'Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time into this breathing world scarce half made up, and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them…' as the Bard so eloquently puts it. I may have been slight in stature, not perfectly proportioned," he motioned to his right shoulder, which was slightly higher than the left, "and darker complected where my brothers were fair, but I suspect that my good mother, the Lady Cicely, would have thrown me out with the rest of the trash had I been born so grotesque a thing! Yet still, you find books being written even now that continue to perpetuate such nonsense."
"If I may ask, and if it's not being too personal, when did you realize you had scoliosis?"
"It was when I was a lad of about 11 or 12. I'd taken a bad tumble from a horse that laid me up for days with pain and back spasms. A most uncomfortable time. It was some time after that it was noticed that my back was growing crooked. It was always thought that the fall is what caused this to happen, and I spent my life working to overcome any limitations it caused. It wasn't until long after I'd passed over to this side that I learned the truth about my condition, that it even had a name. The scoliosis coming on after the fall was probably nothing more than coincidence."
"Did it trouble you much?"
"Not so much when I was young, but as I got older? Yes, it became more painful and there were times when I found myself tiring more easily, but I refused to let it dictate how I would live my life."
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"You've been accused of a number of scandalous crimes. Would you care to speak to these, to give us your side of the story?"
"Not at all. That's why I agreed to this interview. But there are so many. Let's see…where to start. It's true I've been accused of such things as poisoning my dear wife, Anne, and lusting after my brother's daughter, Elizabeth." He did a perfect eye roll at that. "That I was responsible for the death of batty old King Henry VI of saintly renown who has surely received his reward in Heaven; of my brother George, Duke of Clarence, who was forever scheming, and never knew when to keep his mouth shut; and a host of others. It seems a score card is needed just to keep track of my alleged victims!"
I bit the sides of my mouth to keep from grinning, but the idea of someone following him around with a score card was just too funny.
"Anne died from a long wasting illness," he said, our conversation becoming serious once again, "what today would be diagnosed as tuberculosis and easily treated with antibiotics, but back then…?" He shrugged, a visible expression of the frustration and futility he must have felt back then. "The death of our only child the previous year affected us both in different ways. For me, I was able to bury my grief in my work. But Anne? She had no such outlet and over time her grief took its toll on her health. These days, it would probably be said that grief wore down her resistance, but there was never anything the least bit sinister about her illness.
"It's true that once it was realized that Anne's illness was terminal, I reluctantly consented to beginning marriage negotiations for the hand of Princess Joanna of Portugal. Being a king means one has to often put personal feelings aside and do what is needed, and a king needs a queen who will give him heirs. Some will say that this is heartless behavior, but it was a fact of life back then.
"As for my niece, Bessie? The idea that I would marry her was then, and still is, absolutely ludicrous. My brother's sons had been set aside because of their bastard status. Why would anyone think that my marrying their sister would strengthen my claim to the throne? I had been declared heir by Parliament, had already been crowned. What more strengthening did I need?"
"What about the letter she is supposed to have written to the Duke of Norfolk?" I asked. "The one in which she wrote that you were "her only joy and maker in the world".
"I'm afraid I have nothing to say about it. I never knew about this alleged letter when I was alive, and only know what I've read since my death. Remember, Bessie was just a teenager at that time. For all I know, she might have had a crush on me but believe me, such feelings were never reciprocated. Besides, she was my niece, for goodness sake!"
A teenage crush? Yeah, that I could believe. If he'd ever smiled at her even in the most avuncular way with those baby blues of his? Oh yeah, definitely could see her crushing on Uncle Richard.
We talked for a while more about his brothers, George ("one of those guys you'd call a nasty drunk") and Edward ("didn't know how to keep it in his pants"). As I said before, I wanted to let Richard choose the direction of this interview, and it was obvious he wanted to talk about the Battle of Bosworth. Very well, Bosworth it would be.
"It is time to set the record straight. To tell my side of the story, maybe clear up a few misunderstandings along the way. Contrary to popular myth, my failure at Bosworth was not due to some exaggerated moral depravity of mine, but rather because I am (or was) only human, and unfortunately made some rather unfortunate mistakes. You see, I put too much trust in the wrong people, and made some questionable decisions.
"You would think that growing up during what historians today refer to as "The Wars of the Roses" (or is "Cousins War" preferred these days?) I would have learned to use a little more discretion when it came to trusting others. All I had to do was remember how my cousin Warwick, called "The Kingmaker," had turned against my brother Edward IV after first helping Ned gain the throne. But that's a whole other story."
"Well, you know what they say about hindsight being 20/20," I chimed in.
"As to what happened at Bosworth on that fateful day, the 22nd of August in the year of Our Lord One Thousand, Four Hundred and Eighty-Five, when my army met the invading host of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, on the field of Redemore near Market Bosworth? It's true that ever since that confrontation, people have wondered why I included Thomas Stanley in my battle plans, knowing he was Henry Tudor's step-father. So, kick me in the head and call me stupid."
I snorted out loud at that last comment. "Sorry."
"No problem. As I was saying, it was bad decision making on my part, accepting Stanley's protestations of loyalty when I should have been taking a closer look at the man's motives. But how was I to know he was planning to see which way the battle was going before he threw his troops into the fray?"
I wanted to say, Because he and his brother had done that before? but resisted the urge.
"Like a fool, I believed Stanley when he reassured me I could count on him and his men, that I needn't question his loyalty.'"
Again I wanted to interject something like methinks the man didst protest too much, that it should have been a sure signal to look more deeply into Stanley's loyalty! And again, I managed to keep my yap shut. Let the man tell his story his way.
"So what happened when things started getting a little hot out there? When my battle plans started going awry? That's right. Stanley threw in his lot with his step-son, Tudor. I should have known better. Did I really think he could go home to his wife after the battle and tell her, 'Sorry, Margaret, but you see I was fighting for Richard'?"
"Uhm, forgive me for interrupting, but it was William Stanley who led his troops against you. Tudor's step-father, Thomas, remained on the sidelines."
A quick frown flashed across his face. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Dammit, I'm always getting those two mixed up, even after all these years."
I made a no-big-deal face, and said, "You're not the only one to confuse the two."
"I guess that's part of what is meant by the 'fog of war'. But to continue, Stanley's defection (regardless which one it was) didn't have to mean the end of things. No battle, no matter how well planned, goes as expected. I had more than enough experience as a warrior and commander to know this to be so."
He took another one of those pretend sips of tea before continuing. From the expression on his face, it was easy to see that he was mentally reliving that day.
"As the battle progressed, the fighting grew more furious. And I could see that things were beginning to go badly for me."
"Why didn't you just take the men you had and leave and reorganize? You know, like that old saying about 'He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day'?"
He sighed. "Whoever said that was obviously not a Plantagenet. The truth of the matter is that it never occurred to me to do such a thing. I believed strongly in chivalry and honor; they were ideals I did my best to live up to, even if everybody else conveniently forgot about them. Leaving the field to Tudor would be the same as admitting cowardice and defeat, and I could never have brought myself to do such a thing."
"At least you would have still been alive and able to challenge Tudor once more."
"I don't think I could have lived with myself if I had. Besides, it would have been political suicide. What would my people have said, how could they have ever trusted me again? Besides, I kept hoping I was mistaken, that Stanley and his men were coming to my aid."
Seems I'm not the only one who has entertained the possibility that William Stanley's "defection" might have begun as a mistaken act of friendly fire.
"By that point, I was determined to take on Tudor in single combat. After all, I was a pretty good fighter, and had one heck of a reputation for skill at arms and bravery in battle."
"Yes," I agreed, "even Henry VII's official historian, Polydore Virgil, later wrote of you fighting manfully in the press of your enemies."
Richard waved a dismissive hand. "Another hack. But anyway, the way I figured it, if Tudor were eliminated there would be no more battle. Cut off the head and the body dies. The reason for fighting would cease to exist. The war would be over, the invaders defeated. Finis. So, I decided to challenge Henry to a fight, just the two of us, mano a mano. Sadly, I forgot that the other side does not always play by the same rules. That and those foreign pikemen with their strange maneuvers that broke the charge of our horses. I managed to take down that big lug, William Brandon, though – an unsavory sort if ever there was one – and that Cheney fellow before I myself was unhorsed."
Just thinking about what happened next made me cringe inside. I'd seen the photos of his skull with all its injuries, read the forensic reports. Then there was the way his corpse had been desecrated. Let's just say it wasn't a pretty picture and leave it at that. Richard must have felt the same way because he said nothing said about any of this. Instead, he sat quietly for a while. I wouldn't be surprised if those memories of his final moments on earth were still upsetting. Even spirits who have been dead for centuries can have trouble thinking of, much less talking about their death, especially if it had been violent.
"So there you have it," he said at last, managing a sad smile. All at once, I wanted to reach out and give him a big ol' hug. But that wouldn't have been very professional. Besides, the moment passed quickly and he was speaking again. "I did not lose at Bosworth because I was some inhuman monster, struck down by a vengeful God. I did not lose because of my supposed immorality. I lost because, quite frankly, I made some stupid mistakes. I trusted the wrong people, and made some poor decisions. I guess, like so many of us, I never really thought I would lose."
That must have been a hard thing for him to admit. Nobody likes to own up to the fact that they screwed up, and the last thing I wanted to do was keep going over these unhappy recollections with him. But I was a reporter and had a job to do. At least that's what I told myself. So I poured myself another cup of tea, using that as an excuse to give us both a little time to get it back together and was surprised when he was the one to resume the conversation about Bosworth.
"As long as we're dredging up the past, there is one small detail I would like to clear up. It's this business of what I said during the fight, my final words as it were. William Shakespeare has me running around the battlefield shouting, 'A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!' Very dramatic, but hardly accurate. And while it's true that I shouted 'Treason!' more than once, what I remember most was saying, 'Damn you, Stanley! Your ass is going to rot in hell for this!'"
This time, the impish grin was back.
"Do you think he is?" I asked. "Rotting in hell, that is." What? I wanted to know!
"I sure hope so. In all the centuries since that August day, I've never seen him, so maybe he is. If so, then as far as I'm concerned it couldn't have happened to a nicer person."
And at that, we both laughed. Yeah, tacky, but I didn't care.
"You know, he ended up losing his head for supporting the Perkin Warbeck rebellion."
"Yes, the young man who claimed to be my nephew, Richard of Shrewsbury. I did find that interesting, but by then I'd been dead for a while and it was beyond my capacity to do anything about it one way or the other."
I glanced at my watch and saw that we were reaching the end of the agreed-upon time limit for this interview, and though there were still many topics I'd wanted to discuss, I knew it was time to start wrapping things up.
"It's been lovely talking with you, Ms. Kingsbury, but I'm curious. You never asked me about my nephews, those so-called 'Princes in the Tower.'"
Ah ha! The 400 pound gorilla in the room. "It was my intention all along has been to let you pick what you wanted to talk about."
"Very well, then. But let me leave you with this. Have you ever had to take over the guardianship of two ill-mannered, spoiled young boys?"
I shook my head no.
"They were deserving of a good thrashing, and their tantrums were enough to try the patience of a saint, and I have never made any claims to sainthood. Though the thought crossed my mind more than once as I listened to their unseemly behavior, I never 'offed' them. But maybe I should leave the rest for another time."
Oh great. He was leaving me with a cliffhanger! "To make sure there's a part two to this interview?" I asked hopefully. I was doing mental fist pumps in the air. Yes, a follow up would be awesome!
"An excellent idea, only next time, let's meet at my place."
"Your place? And where is that?"
"Why, Middleham Castle, of course."
By the time we said our good-byes, I was already making mental preparations for a trip to England and Yorkshire.
The End