In Days of Old, a shakespeare fanfic

In Days of Old...

Richard is determined to find out what happened to his nephews.

The third in a series of paranormal Ricardian stories, all in good fun.

-0-0-0-

It was late summer and a couple months had passed since I'd last seen King Richard III, but that didn't mean we hadn't been keeping in touch. True to his word, he made use of his Smartphone and regularly sent texts from KR3, though how a spirit got a cell phone account was something I still didn't understand. Oh well.

He even called a couple times, apologizing for the delay in getting started on working together (he's such a polite spirit), but let me know he was still taking care of matters at his end. He had been trying to track down the spirits of people from his time that he'd taken into his confidence regarding his nephews, who it turns out had been sent into hiding before Bosworth (no real surprise there). Apparently, though, everyone he tried to contact had already crossed over – his sister Margaret, the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, Sir James Tyrell, and a few others, some whose names I recognized and some I didn't – leaving him frustrated and uncertain as to his next step.

Meanwhile, I filled my time by writing another story for the magazine. This one I titled "The Kings and I" and it was based on my recent adventures in Yorkshire. And don't ask me why, but I softened Tudor's personality. Instead of writing what an obnoxious jerk he'd been, I wrote that while Richard and I were touring Yorkshire, we ran into Henry VII and Queen Consort Elizabeth, and made a few comments on how lovely Elizabeth looked, and how she and her husband were an affectionate couple. Yes, I went out of my way to be polite to Tudor, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to play nice. Maybe by doing so I could help soothe hurt feelings and improve relations between the two kings.

This second story, like the first one, was well received and by now the boss was willing to do just about anything for his star reporter. In addition, I got a very nice letter from Elizabeth of York, and was surprised when I came home from work one day to find a bouquet of red roses from you-know-who waiting for me, with a card saying "Perhaps I misjudged you."

When Richard finally showed up (looking quite nice, I might add, with his hair trimmed up a bit and wearing a casual suit that really looked good on him) he asked if I had any ideas since none of his had panned out.

"Why don't I see if I can contact Henry Tudor, ask if he knows what happened."

"Absolutely not!" said Richard emphatically. "For all we know, he's responsible for their deaths. Either him or that arrogant mother of his. Do you think he's going to admit to such a thing?"

"I agree that Tudor may not be interested in cooperating for your sake, but could it really hurt to ask? I mean, whatever happened took place over 500 years ago. It's not like anyone is going to call the cops on him. At the very least, Tudor might be able to offer some kind of closure."

Richard wasn't convinced. "Don't go expecting me to talk to that usurping bastard," he grumbled. I understood completely where he was coming from, but explained that Tudor might be willing to talk to me, especially as I had already gone out of my way to be accommodating.

"I saw your latest article. Is that why you were so nice to him?"

"That and I really liked Elizabeth," I said.

"Do you actually think he noticed?"

"He read the first article, remember? Besides, there's this." I showed him the letter from his niece, and the card that came with the roses. I didn't tell Richard I'd pressed one, just to have as a keepsake from our little adventure.

Richard remained unconvinced. "How will you contact him? I didn't take him to be a technology kind of guy."

"Me, neither. That's why I was thinking I could leave a note at his tomb in Westminster Abbey, and see if he responds."

"How are you going to get time off to go to London?"

"I'll convince the boss it's necessary for the story I'm working on."

And that's what we ended up doing.

-0-0-0-

Getting time off was easier than I thought. The boss was very accommodating these days, and when I explained I needed the time for research on a new story, he told me to take all I needed. A few days after that, I found myself in the Lady Chapel of Westminster Abbey, standing before the magnificent tomb of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. Not sure if this was going to work, I wrote my note and discreetly tucked it in one of the crevices when no one was looking. Then I returned to my hotel room, waiting to see if I'd get an answer.

The next day, I found a note on the table next to my bed.

"Meet me on August 22 by the sundial at the Bosworth Battlefield. And tell Plantagenet that if he comes along, he should keep his mouth shut."

Later, when Richard stopped by for a progress report, I showed him the note.

"Hmph. We'll see about that," was all he said.

-0-0-0-

So there I was, at Bosworth Field on the anniversary of the battle, King Richard standing next to me. There were all manner of remembrances taking place that day, including the laying of roses at the sundial, as well as reenactments, and I could tell that Richard was touched by how well he was being remembered after all these years. Not wanting to attract unwanted attention, the king was dressed in casual 21st century clothes, looking like just another tourist.

"You wanted to see me, Miss Kingsbury?"

I turned to see Tudor with his queen at his side. Both were dressed in their regal garments but with so many living historians and people who simply enjoyed wearing period dress, they blended right in and were assumed by visitors to be part of the activities, although I heard a number of comments about how authentic they looked.

"Thank you for coming, Your Majesty." I thought I'd address him according to his rank (if not his personality) and butter him up a little, keep the good vibes coming.

"You didn't exactly see me at my best the last time we met," he admitted, totally ignoring Richard. I guess this and the roses were as close to an apology anyone was ever going to get from Henry Tudor, but that was all right by me.

Meanwhile, Richard was doing his best at holding his tongue, knowing there was a time and place for name calling – and this wasn't one of them. Not if we wanted Tudor's co-operation.

We ended up actually having a civil conversation. Surprised? Yeah, so was I. But then came the time to get to the heart of the matter, to ask the hard question. As politely as possible I asked King Henry if he could shed any light on what happened to Richard's nephews.

Tudor frowned. "You think I had something to do with their...disappearance?" He made it sound like I was accusing him of murder. Then again, maybe I was.

"Some suggest that you had as good a motive as anyone for getting them out of the way," I explained, but managed to say it in a way that made it sound like I didn't necessarily agree.

He gave a disgusted snort, while his wife patted him on the arm. "Now, now, Henry. She's just asking if you know what happened to my brothers. She's a reporter, after all. It's her job to ask questions, even hard ones."

I glanced in her direction and swore I saw her give me a conspiratorial wink. Thank you, Elizabeth of York. "Exactly. I was just wondering if over the years you heard any rumors."

"Well, for your information, though I would like to have known, I never knew what became of them. It would have been nice if I had, instead of always wondering if one or the other was going to pop up and lay claim to the throne. And before you ask, no, Simnel and Warbeck weren't who they pretended to be. I tried to be magnanimous with Simnel because of his tender age, but Warbeck? I'm afraid dealing with him required more drastic measures" He looked at his wife, as if pleading for her understanding. Apparently she did, because she gave him a smile in return. Then she turned her attention to me.

"The reason Master Warbeck looked so much like my brother is that he was one of my father's by-blows from one of his visits to the Low Countries," she said. "Of course, we didn't learn this until much later." Her voice trailed off. I'm sure she wasn't comfortable talking about the unpleasant ending the young man met, regardless of who his parents were.

Tudor finally looked over at Richard. "Have you checked with your good friend, Lovell?" He made the words "good friend" sound like an insult. "Wasn't he always at your beck and call, ready to do your every bidding?" I guess he still hadn't gotten over Lord Lovell's plots against him after Richard's death.

Richard had been showing remarkable restraint through all this by remaining silent, but since Tudor was asking him directly, "I've tried getting in touch with him, but no luck. I'm wondering if he decided to cross over permanently."

"I don't think so," Tudor replied. "Last I heard, he was still hanging around this earthly plane. Have you checked at Minster Lovell?"

"Of course I have."

"Well, try again."

And with that, Tudor and his queen disappeared.

"Well, that went better than I expected," I said. "At least the two of you weren't at each other's throats."

Richard gave a small grin. "I can manage to hold my temper. Sometimes."

"So what do we do now?"

"I suppose we could go back to Oxfordshire. Try again."

-0-0-0-

With the Tudors gone, the two of us enjoyed the quiet for several minutes, taking in our surroundings. I was reminded of visits to other battlefields in the US, places like Gettysburg and Antietam, once scenes of great carnage but today places of beauty and remembrance. Most of the visitors had moved on to other venues, leaving us alone. There was a faraway look in Richard's eyes, and I wondered if he was remembering that day.

"Richard? Excuse me, Your Grace? Is it really you?"

A voice from behind interrupted our thoughts. We turned to see a man dressed in plate armor waving at us.

"Thirlwall?" said Richard, surprise written on his face. "This is an unexpected pleasure!"

So this is Sir Percival Thirlwall, I thought, Richard's standard bearer making his way toward us and looking quite striking in full harness. The two shared a manly embrace, grinning and slapping each other on the back.

"I can't tell you what a pleasant surprise it is to see you here this year," said Thirlwall. "I know you usually avoid the battlefield, especially on this day."

Richard shrugged. "Maybe it's time I started putting the past behind me. But what are you doing here, looking like this?" He gestured toward the armor.

"I took part in the reenactment, only this time I got to keep my legs!" he said with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. In real life, the poor man died refusing to let the king's standard fall even when his legs had been cut out from under him. "You'd have enjoyed it. They did one of those alt-history things where you got to win!" Then he noticed me. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Richard introduced me as Miss Kingsbury. "But you can just call me HD," I said.

"And you must call me Percy." He took my hand and kissed it, just like in one of those old-fashioned romances. I giggled like a teenager, but then my tummy growled. "Oops! I guess I'm hungry."

"Then may I suggest we retire to Leicester?" said Percy. "There's this neat little pub that has all kinds of Ricardian décor."

And with that, he was out of his armor and attired in a more contemporary outfit as we headed for my car. Yeah, spirits can just pop in and out, but I still had to get from place to place the old fashioned way.

-0-0-0-

The place was everything Percy said it would be, an out-of-the-way pub that was popular with the Ricardian crowd, locals and visitors alike. The interior was decorated with just about anything medieval with a particularly nice collection of bladed weapons and accented with white roses, white boars, and enough prints and paintings of Richard and the Battle of Bosworth to make it look like a homespun museum. The place was full, but not overly crowded, and exuded a friendly ambience.

It was fun, filling my face with good food while listening to Percy and Richard reminisce about the good old days. All their talk about knights and battles got me remembering an old song. I started humming the tune but couldn't remember all the lyrics, so I made the mistake of asking if anyone else knew the song. "It starts out, In days of old when knights were bold."

Percy's eyes lit up. "Aye, I know that one." And he started singing with the most beautiful baritone voice I'd ever heard. Too bad the lyrics he remembered weren't as lovely.

In days of old when knights were bold and toilets weren't invented,

You left your load upon the road and walked away contented.

Richard gave his friend a stunned look. "Thirlwall? What are you thinking? There are ladies here."

Was he referring to me, because in truth I found it quite funny, but all I could think to say was, "Those aren't quite the words I was thinking of."

"They're not?" Percy stood up and called out to the other patrons of the pub. "Does anyone know the words to In days of old when Knights were bold?"

A party of four sitting near us looked our way and smiled. One man raised his tankard, "I do!" and started singing.

In days of old when knights were bold and cared not for such trifles,

They nailed their balls upon the walls, and shot at them with rifles.

"I didn't know they had rifles in those days," I said laughing, while Richard rolled his eyes and muttered, "This is going from bad to worse."

The next thing I knew, the group, still wearing IDs showing they were with a party that had earlier been visiting the battlefield, were moving their table next to ours, shaking hands and making introductions. When it came Percy's turn, he stood up and made a gracious bow.

"Sir Percival Thirlwall of the Northumberland Thirlwalls at your service."

One young man who I believe said his name was Eric was obviously thrilled by this revelation. "Are you descended from...? No, wait; are you the Sir Percival Thirlwall, the one who fought with King Richard?" Clearly he was not someone intimidated by spirits walking among us.

"The same," Percy grinned, and started singing again, only this time it was from "The Ballad of Bosworth Field."

"Sir Percivall Thriball, the other hight, & in his hart was true;

King Richards' standard hee kept upright until both his' leggs' were hewen him froe;

to the ground he wold neuer let itt goe, whilest the breath his brest ws within;

yet men pray ffor the knights' that ever was soe true to their King."

Everyone broke out in cheers, and soon it was a party atmosphere. Richard looked at his standard bearer. "You know, Thirlwall, I have to confess I don't remember you like this back when we were living."

"That's because I learned a very valuable lesson that day at Bosworth."

"What was that? Not to follow your king in a forlorn hope?"

"No! Of course not! Why, if I had it to do all over again, even with knowing what was going to happen, I'd still be there fighting at your side. I can think of no nobler death—to die for what you believe in, for who you believe in."

If spirits could get teary eyed, that would have been Richard at this point. "All these centuries, knowing my actions led to your death, and the deaths of so many other good men, well...it's troubled me..."

"It shouldn't. Don't you realize every one of us knew there was a good chance those were going to be our last moments on earth? We knew the risks, and we took them anyway. Aye, and we did so gladly. We didn't fight for you because we were ordered to. We fought for you because we loved you."

You could almost see the relief washing over Richard.

"Now," continued Thirlwall, "back to what I was saying. The lesson I learned is that we never know what the future may bring, that any day can be our last day. I know it sounds trite but it's true. And rather than spend our days worrying about this or that, we should enjoy each day. Embrace life, or in our case, the after-life! Have fun! There's enough seriousness in the world."

"Ain't that the truth," I said.

Percy smiled at me. "Exactly, so let's not add to it. And Richard, if you're not able to find out what happened to your nephews, just accept it and move on. Whatever their fate, it was out of your hands after August 22, 1485."

The party mood continued, and we were all feeling quite rosy, especially me as I was the only one able to enjoy the local ale. All of a sudden, something grabbed Percy's attention. From the look on his face, it was something he wasn't too pleased with.

"Keep your heads down. It's Bill Brandon. He likes to come to the reenactments; always fights on the Tudor side and enjoys picking on the Yorkists."

"Who?" I asked before realizing he was referring to William Brandon, Henry Tudor's standard bearer and Percy's counterpart. He was also the last man taken down by Richard before the king was slain. As I recalled, Brandon had a questionable reputation, having once been imprisoned for assaulting an older woman and her daughter. Not the kind of guy – living or otherwise – I wanted to hang out with. But too late. Brandon saw our little group and headed our way.

"Hi ya, Dick!" he said, giving Richard a hard slap on the back that nearly knocked him off his chair. "How ya doin'?" Brandon was a big man, built like one of those Olympic weightlifters, the ones who lift 400 pounds without breaking a sweat.

"Fine, until you arrived," Richard muttered.

Brandon laughed off the remark. "Mind if I join you?" he said, and took a seat without waiting for an answer. I cringed and scooted my chair away from the brute. "You know, you're the only man to ever best me," he continued, ignoring the scowl on Richard's face.

"It was a first and last for me, too," replied Richard, managing to keep his tone civil.

"Ya know, a lot happened since that last time we met."

"Oh, don't I know it."

"Hey, did you hear about my boy, Charles? How d'ya like what he did, marrying the king's sister right under the fat bastard's nose." He laughed noisily.

"We don't really follow what happened under the Tudors," I interjected, not wanting to hear about Charles Brandon and Princess Mary. I saw enough of that when I watched The Tudors. Then again, I found myself wondering if the real Charles looked anything like Henry Cavill. I mean, let's not blame the son for the sins of the father.

"Well, I can take a hint," he said, not sounding the least bit offended, "but before I go, I'd like to raise a glass to you." He was looking at Richard. Then he glanced around the room, taking note of how many patrons were wearing white roses of one form or another. "Barkeep!" he barked. "A round for everyone. On me." The man happily obliged. When everyone's cup or glass was refilled, Brandon raised his high, and even though spirits can't drink asked the room, "Who will join me in a toast to Good King Richard?"

The room broke out in cheers. "To Good King Richard!" everyone shouted.

Once things settled back down, Brandon made ready to take his leave. "Have a good day, Dick. I know we didn't see eye to eye, leastwise on the battlefield, but believe me, it was nice seeing ya again."

And he left the three of us looking at each other, wondering what to make of it all.

By now, it was getting late and as the next day we were heading to Oxfordshire and Minster Lovell, it was time to call it a day. Richard may be a spirit, but I'm only human and needed some sleep, so we wished Percy good night and promised we'd get together again.

"And soon," he said. "I'm going to hold you to it." He was looking directly at Richard when he said that. "Remember, embrace each day as if it's your last, and for goodness sake have some fun."

-0-0-0-

So the next day we drove to Minster Lovell, a lovely old village located on the River Windrush in the Cotswolds. Some consider it one of the most picturesque villages in not just Oxfordshire, but in England, with the romantic ruins of Minster Lovell Hall. Built in 1435 on the site of an earlier building, it had been the home of Richard's dear friend, Francis Lovell, 9th and last Baron Lovell, who'd had additions made to the place.

The fate of Francis has long been a mystery. It's said that after fighting with Richard at Bosworth, he fled. Two years later, he turned up taking part in the Lambert Simnel rebellion. After this, no one is certain what became of him, not even Richard.

"You mean in all these years, you've never encountered your old friend?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But wouldn't you like to know what happened to him?"

"I suppose so, but I don't know that the people here want to know. For them, the mystery of Minster Lovell Hall is part of the charm of the place," Richard said. "It's what brings people here, and let's face it; the tourist industry is an important part of the local economy. So maybe discovering the truth isn't all that important in some instances."

We wandered the grounds of Minster Lovell Hall, admiring the beauty still evident. "But how did it end up in this condition?" I asked.

"After Bosworth, Francis was attainted, declared guilty of treason."

"I'd forgotten about that, that Tudor pre-dated his reign to August 21 so he could declare all those who fought for their true king traitors. I imagine by doing so he accumulated a hefty amount of wealth in fines and confiscated lands."

Richard nodded. "Probably best I don't comment too much on that. I read one book in which the author said Tudor's actions displayed a willingness to extend the olive branch to his former enemies, but I'm afraid I don't buy into that attempt to twist what he did into something good."

"Sounds more like a money and power grab to me, but what do I know? I'm just the amateur historian. So was the hall another victim of the English Civil War?"

"Actually, no. With Francis attainted, his lands reverted to the Crown. Years later, around 1602, the manor was purchased by a man named Sir Thomas Coke. Another Thomas Coke, probably a descendant, dismantled the house in the mid-1700s. You see? I do manage to keep up with some things."

"So how do you let Francis know you're here? That is, if he's here at all. Do you send out some kind of spirit world bat signal?"

"I can't explain how it works because I don't really know, but I just think about him, and if he's nearby and wants to get in touch, he'll let me know. Think of it as sensing his presence."

"Does he have to be within a certain distance?"

"Within a mile or two, I think."

"Are you sensing anything now?"

"Afraid not."

-0-0-0-

During our stay Richard was the perfect tour guide, showing me the sites while all the time hoping Francis would make his presence known. But no such luck. After two days, we agreed this wasn't working and called it quits. By now, Richard was to take accept Percy's advice and move on, accepting that whatever happened, happened.

As long as I had the time I decided to visit nearby Oxford. I told Richard it wasn't necessary for him to come along if he had other things he wanted to do, but he wouldn't hear of it and accompanied me. I suspect he enjoyed telling me all about his visit to Oxford, which had been one of the first stops on his Royal Progress after his coronation. Oxford is also a university town, meaning there are plenty of bookstores. Naturally, I had to see how many I could visit in one afternoon. And that's when we hit pay dirt.

While browsing in one shop, I spotted a selection of historical romances with covers that reminded me of the bodice rippers I read back in my teens. What can I say? I'm a sucker for romance novels! One particular title – Romancing the King – caught my attention as the man on the cover looked like a very buff King Richard. It was by an author I'd never heard of, someone named Frank Love. I turned the book over and on the back saw a small author's bio that said Frank and his wife lived in Oxford, accompanied by a black and white photo of the man. Not bad looking. I took the book to show it to Richard, thinking he'd get a kick out of it.

His first reaction was to laugh at the cover. "If only I'd ever been that brawny!" Then he saw the picture on the back and froze. "My God, it's Francis!"

It turned out we'd been looking in the wrong place. Francis Lovell had been around all along, among the living, enjoying the life of a romance writer. Knowing he was in Oxford and what name he was using suddenly made it very easy to track him down. The next day, we had found his house located on the outskirts of town and were knocking at the door of an old-fashioned English cottage.

"I still can't get over it. Is it really you?" said Francis Lovell, aka Frank Love. The smile on his face would have made a rainy day sunny.

We were sitting together in a cozy room filled with books. Lots and lots of books. Made me feel like I'd died and gone to heaven!

"I read somewhere recently about you giving an interview or something. To be perfectly honest, it's been an awfully long time since I bothered trying to contact anyone from my living days. When my own end came and discovered I could still hang around in a different form, I pretty much kept to myself. I guess you could say I was having difficulties adjusting."

"I can relate," said Richard. "But if I may ask, what did you do with yourself all those years?"

"I suppose like you, I just wanted to be alone. Eventually, though, I got tired of that and started hanging around with the living once again, mostly in the background, though. I must say that the Tudor years, even while being officially dead, were not the most fun."

Richard fully agreed. "You should have seen the tomb Tudor eventually gave me." He wrinkled his nose. "I guess it was better than nothing at all."

"Actually, I did see it. That was during Henry VIII's reign, before he started tearing down all the monasteries. But anyway, once I started getting interested in life again, I began to dabble in writing." He pointed to a bookcase filled with manuscripts, all hand written and dating back many, many years. "These days, it's historical romance fiction. Considering I lived in one form or another through many of the times I write about, and knew many of the people, it's really quite easy."

He showed us his collection of Frank Love books – Romancing the King, Bride of Middleham and its sequel, Bride of Minster Lovell, Gypsy Heart of Darkness, Under the Full Moon, Yorkshire Lass, One Anne Too Many and many others.

"And my wife does all my cover art," he added, beaming with pride. "That's why so many of the men on the covers bear more than a passing resemblance to you" he said to Richard. "She's always had a bit of a crush on you, you know."

"So you and Anne are still together?"

"Yes. She's the joy of my after-life, just like she was the joy of my living life. She's out shopping now, but you're welcome to hang around until she returns. I know she'll be terribly disappointed if you leave without at least saying hi."

We agreed to do so. It would be fun to meet the woman who remained true to her husband and continued aiding rebels plotting under Henry Tudor's nose even after Francis's disappearance and presumed death.

"But what brings you to my humble abode after all this time?" Francis asked. "Interested in an autographed copy of one of my books?"

"I'm trying to find out what happened to my nephews."

"In that case, I'm just the man to help you."

And Frank went on to explain that as Richard had wanted, the boys were taken to Burgundy after Richard lost the battle, having previously been kept out of sight so as not to have attention drawn to them. Once there, his sister saw to it they were placed in safe households and they did indeed live full lives.

"Young Ned was in love with the idea of being a great warrior, and when he was old enough headed off to be a condottiero in one of the Italian city-states, a 'modern day' John Hawkwood. Having made his fortune, he eventually settled in northern Italy, married a contessa, and had a passel of children."

"Do you know if he's still around," asked Richard, "or if he's passed over?"

"No, he's still around. Last I heard he was some kind of financial guru. Goes by the name of Ed West."

Ah, I thought, Ed West for Edward of Westminster. Very clever.

Richard smiled. "I knew I was right to look for you, Francis; that you'd have the answers I was looking for."

Francis, or Frank, looked pleased at the compliment. "You know I'd never fail you."

"But what about Dickon?"

"Ah, he grew up to be a successful wool merchant in Flanders, became a very, very rich man. He also married, had numerous children and grandchildren, with one son becoming a successful portrait painter. These days he's into the music scene, some kind of producer I think, and goes by the name Dick Shrewsbury."

Dick Shrewsbury, as in Richard of Shrewsbury? Wow, I thought, these boys had been hiding in plain sight, just like Frank.

"This is amazing, all this information," said Richard. "How did you come by it?"

"Much of their early lives I got from your sister Margaret before she decided to pass over. She didn't know if your spirit was still wandering around, and wanted the information available in case you showed up. And who better for her to tell than your old friend, Francis Lovell. The rest I later dug up for myself. Knowing what had become of them, it was easy for me to learn the rest."

"I can't tell you what a relief it is to know what happened. I'm past the point of caring what the world thinks, especially those snarky authors who think they know it all. I just wanted to know for my own peace of mind."

"By the way, they both live in London these days," said Frank. "Maybe we can all go to there and give them a visit. I've got a reading and signing next week, to go along with my latest release, The Secret Life of Margaret Beaufort."

"Should I know who's this secret life she's involved with?"

"Why you, of course!"

-0-0-0-

Once we were back in London, it didn't take long for Richard to track down his nephews. As you would expect, there was an informal get-together to which I was invited. It was a low key event. No big hoopla, just a satisfying reunion with "Uncle Dickie" as his nephews called Richard, Ed and Dick, Frank and Anne, and me along to make sure there was a record of this momentous event.

Ed was tall with tawny-colored hair, and if I looked hard enough I could see the resemblance to his father, at least as portrayed in old paintings. He was soft spoken, and dressed conservatively in dark colors, looking like a well-to-do banker.

Dick, on the other hand, reminded me of a young Keith Richards. He was very casually dressed in t-shirt and jeans, and wore enough bling to give Uncle Dickie a run for his money.

No one objected to me writing about their stories and all were more than happy to pose for some group pics. By the time the party broke up, with everyone agreeing to keep in touch from now on, I was mentally planning my next big story. I could already see the headlines. Richard III Exonerated! The truth about the Princes in the Tower. Take that, all you Ricardian nay-sayers!

While in London, we also attended the book signing and reading by Frank Love from his latest book – The Secret Life of Margaret Beaufort.

"Ooh, Dickie!" he read. "My Yorkshire stallion!" she gushed, rushing to his side and placing a proprietary arm around him. "I'm so glad I've caught up with you before you're off to do whatever it is a king does during the day." She flashed him a seductive look, then noticed Lovell. "You. You can go now," she said imperiously, making a shooing motion with her free hand.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but no matter. It was fun.

As we were getting ready to leave, a messenger approached Richard. "Are you Richard Plantagenet? Then this is for you." He handed a business size envelope to Richard, waited for his tip, and left.

Richard opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper covered in old style handwriting. He smiled and handed the paper to me. "It's from Percy," he said. On it was a bawdy limerick.

There once was a man named McBass,

Whose balls were made out of brass.

When he clanked them together,

They played "Stormy Weather"

And lightning shot out of his ass.

Beneath that was the name of a pub, a time, and today's date.

"Are you ready for a night out?" the king asked.

I smiled. "You bet!"

-0-0-0-

When I got home, I was informed that I was being promoted to head the magazine's new London Bureau. Magazine subscriptions were through the roof, and the story about what really happened to the princes was making worldwide headlines. This in turn was encouraging other spirits to come out, as many had never wanted to cross over but had been unsure about mingling with the living.

My inbox was already filled with requests from other spirits who wanted to be interviewed. After reading about Richard III and how he'd been exonerated of the falsehoods that had been told about him for so long, many wanted a similar chance to tell their side of their story.

One possibility had already grabbed my imagination, a six-part series on the Tudor Wives Club. But that would have to wait for another day. Right now, all I wanted to do was bask in the glow of a job well done.

The End