Richard Liveth Yet
(c) Kathy H D Kingsbury, August 26, 2021

August 22, 1485
Redemore Plain near Market Bosworth, Leicestershire

Richard Plantagenet knew he was going to die, but he wasn't afraid. He was a Plantagenet and he was not afraid of Death. He would die king of England, and go down fighting until his last ounce of strength gave out. The anger that had overwhelmed him when he realized he had been betrayed had burned itself out. All that remained was an inner calm and acceptance.

This must be how it was meant to end. First my family taken from me one by one, then my good name, and any moment now, my life.

He only ever wanted to do what was right, but that had never been enough. He recognized the mistakes he had made, but it was too late now to correct them.

Unhorsed, beaten down, his helm gone, his body continued absorbing the vicious blows raining down upon him. He tried once more to raise his arm, to make one last slash with his sword, but something struck his wrist and the weapon fell from his hand as he felt the pain of fractured bone. Forced onto his knees, he struggled to rise to his feet but at last his strength failed him.

Not much longer now, he thought. So close…so close...

Someone behind him shoved him to the ground and he knew the death blow was about to be delivered, but amid the din of battle, a voice shouted, "Cease!" He never knew who it was who shouted or what was supposed to cease because at that same moment the back of his head exploded with a violent pain that was followed immediately by blackness…and then nothing.

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August 23, 1485
St Wynthryth's Priory in Leicestershire

The summer sun hung low in the sky when Henry Tudor arrived at the Priory of Saint Wynthryth's, a small, humble community named for an Anglo-Saxon saint as obscure as this place that was dedicated to him. Accompanying Tudor was a small retinue, as the fewer aware of this visit, the better. Among his group of attendants only two truly knew what was going on–Sir Rhys ap Thomas and Sir Owain ap Gruffydd, Welshmen both who had been knighted on yesterday's battlefield.

Tudor made a point of wearing the crown that had been recovered from the field. He wanted everyone who saw him, whether friend or foe, to see the proof that the usurper and tyrant, Richard Plantagenet, was dead and that he, Henry Tudor, was now king.

But Tudor knew that his opponent wasn't dead.

At least not yet.

In the immediate aftermath of yesterday's conflict, Tudor had tasked Sir Owain and Sir Rhys to find a casualty who bore enough of a physical resemblance to the erstwhile king to pass for him if not looked upon too closely. The knowledge of what they were doing was to be kept to themselves. If they needed assistance, they were to say nothing more than that they were performing a service for King Henry.

And so they had found some poor soul whose name only God knew and who would serve their purpose. That the badge he wore showed he had served the usurper only made what was to be done that much more appropriate—a foot soldier performing in death one last service for his late master. With the face disfigured enough to keep the deception from being obvious, arrangements had been quickly made and the corpse taken to Leicester where even now it was being displayed as that of the man who had called himself King Richard III. Meanwhile, the real Richard Plantagenet had been taken elsewhere, injured and hanging between life and death.

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Once inside the monastic precinct, they found it a hive of activity. The complex, hidden away from the outside world and usually a place of quiet contemplation, was today filled with movement as monks bustled about, providing care to the wounded who had been brought to them. Most of the brothers paid little heed to the new arrivals, concentrating instead on performing their assigned tasks, quietly praying as they worked.

A balding, elderly member of the community approached them. This was Father Prior Anselm, and he came forward to greet these men about whom the air of battle still clung. Accompanying him was another monk, younger than Anselm but not young, probably in his forties. This was Brother Andrew, the infirmarian. These men had met with Tudor briefly late yesterday evening, making introductions today unnecessary.

What the new king had demanded at that meeting, in the form of a polite request, was more than a little unusual but Father Anselm had complied without question. After all, a man who had an army at his command and who had just defeated God's anointed king wouldn't have any qualms about punishing a small priory that didn't acquiesce. Besides, there had been the promise of a gift of money in return for services rendered and St. Wynthryth's was a poor community.

"You've followed my instructions?" Tudor asked, foregoing any pleasantries.

"Of course, Your Grace," said the prior politely, noticing the scowl on Henry's face.

"Where is he?"

"As you specified, he is housed in a private room away from the rest of those in the infirmary. As we discussed yesterday, I have assigned Brother Andrew here" he nodded in the direction of the other monk, "who is skilled in herbs and healing to care for our...guest."

"And my other instructions?"

"I have informed the brothers that no one is to speak to the man except Brother Andrew or myself, and only as necessary to treat his wounds."

Tudor nodded approvingly. "Very well, then. I will speak to him. Now."

Father Anselm took a deep breath, concerned at how his next words might be taken. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why? Is he dead?"

This time it was Brother Andrew who spoke. "No, Your Grace, not dead, but neither has he regained consciousness. In fact, I am concerned that he may never do so."

Henry was not to be deterred. "I will see him all the same."

Father Anselm gestured, "If you will follow me, then."

When they reached the door to the room, Tudor turned to his knights. "You two, stay here. I will speak to our guest alone. The same for you," he said to the monks, who accepted such behavior with good grace. Sir Owain, on the other hand, made ready to open his mouth to object, his curiosity as to what the new king had in mind momentarily overcoming his common sense, but Sir Rhys gave him a sharp look, then turned to Tudor.

"Yes, Your Grace."

-0-0-0-

Tudor looked around the small, dimly lit room, its lone window shuttered to keep out light that might otherwise disturb the patient. His nose twitched at the sick-room smell that permeated everything—the pungent aroma of herbs and salves combined with other less fragrant odors. He shut the door behind him tight, as the words he had to say were for Plantagenet's ears only, whether or not the other man could hear them.

He scanned the simply furnished room, looking for something to sit on. Spotting a chair by a small table, he pulled it to the bedside and sat down. For several minutes he simply stared at the form on the bed, blankets covering him in spite of the August heat.

Richard was lying on his left side, propped up with pillows to keep him from rolling onto his back and putting pressure on his injured head which was swathed in bandages, the dark smudge in back where blood had seeped through contrasting sharply with the white cloth. Someone had dressed him in a simple robe (Henry wondered which monk had generously given his for their patient) but evidence of bruising was still visible, and he lay so still that if it weren't for the faint rise and fall of his chest Tudor might have thought him dead.

It was obvious that the right side of the king's body...no, the tyrant's body, he correctly himself...had taken the brunt of the attack. His face bore numerous cuts and bruises, and his right eye was so swollen that even if he were to wake up, Tudor doubted he would be able to open it. His right arm that had wielded his sword with such deadly accuracy rested on a pillow, the broken wrist now set and wrapped, immobilized with splints and a cast made using flour and egg whites. Tudor suspected that if he could see the rest of Richard's body, he would find it equally bruised and battered. Armor only protects so much, he mused, and his opponent had been subjected to a savage attack once he'd been unhorsed.

Brother Andrew had explained that most of the injuries were serious but not necessarily mortal, but the head wound? Even if his patient recovered, the infirmarian had expressed doubt as to whether the man would regain all his faculties. He'd seen too many head wounds in his time to know that even when the patient recovered the recipient of such an injury was often left little better than an imbecile.

Could this be the same man who had fought with a fierceness Tudor had never seen? The same man who felled his standard-bearer and unhorsed his personal bodyguard with a broken lance before being brought down himself?

Even now, having had a day to think upon it, Henry Tudor could not understand what had made him stop his men from delivering the coup de grâce to his Plantagenet foe. It wasn't as if he felt merciful, because he didn't. The last thing he needed was a deposed king hanging around, even if the man were his prisoner.

So he sat, pondering the mess he'd gotten himself into. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Leaning closer, he spoke to Richard, keeping his voice barely a whisper. Even with the door shut, he couldn't risk being overheard.

"So, we meet at last. You don't look like a monster. No withered arm that I can see. No hunched back."

He snorted a small, weak laugh, knowing that those were all lies agents of the French king had helped to spread, but he wasn't going to contradict them publicly. He understood that it was better for soldiers to think of their opponents as something less than human. It made dispatching them so much easier. The last thing he wanted was for one of his troops taking pause to think of his enemy as a living, breathing person. To do so could make bringing one's sword down to cleave an opponent's head more difficult.

Too bad Tudor hadn't taken his own advice yesterday!

"I was hoping we could actually talk, you and I. I have a number of questions for you."

Richard made no response (not that Tudor had expected one) but remained oblivious to his surroundings, his mind trapped in darkness.

"When you were anointed with the Holy Oil at your coronation, did that serve as some kind of absolution? Were the sins you committed to gain the throne forgiven in that one act? Is it true that you killed mad old King Henry and his son? Did you poison your wife? Were you really hoping to marry the Princess Elizabeth to keep her from me? Or are these all just pesky unfounded rumors?" He paused before continuing with what he really wanted to know. "Most of all, I need to know where your nephews are. You didn't really murder your brother's sons, did you, Plantagenet? If you did, that would save me the trouble of dealing with them. But murdering children is such a cowardly act, and if there's one thing I've learned about you is that you are not a coward."

Henry slowly shook his head. "No, you're not a coward" he repeated. "If anyone was a coward yesterday, it was me. When I saw you charging toward me, you looked like some terrible avenging angel. Or maybe more like St George determined to slay the dragon. Is that it? Was I your dragon?" He shuddered as once again he recalled his standard-bearer going down, sending his own red-dragon standard falling to the ground.

"I will admit this to you and to you alone. I was...alarmed. Dammit, more than alarmed. For those few minutes, I was terrified for my very life. If your horse hadn't become mired, it's very likely our positions today would be reversed. But you wouldn't have hesitated. You'd have struck me down."

Tudor said nothing more but remained seated for several more minutes, contemplating the situation. All would have been so much simpler if he'd let his men finish off his opponent. Even now, it would be so easy to snuff out his life. Unconscious, unable to defend himself, even Tudor could do it. A pillow held firmly over the face for a few minutes, then put back in place when the deed was done, and no one would ever know the difference. Richard Plantagenet would simply have succumbed to his injuries. But no, that wasn't something Henry Tudor could do. Killing in the heat of battle was one thing, but killing in cold blood? It wasn't that he objected to eliminating his opponents in such a way, only that he didn't want to be the person doing it.

Finally, he got up from the chair and absent-mindedly moved it back to where he'd found it. He headed toward the door, pondering his next move. His hand on the latch, he turned to take one final look at Richard Plantagenet. Maybe his foe would not recover from his wounds, but Tudor doubted he would be that lucky.

So he stepped out of the room and motioned to his men that he was ready to leave. But before he left, he stunned Brother Andrew when he approached the infirmarian and said, "Take good care of your patient, if only because he is a courageous man."

And Henry Tudor knew that no matter how much he hated Richard Plantagenet and every member of the House of York, he couldn't deny the niggling admiration he felt for the man's bravery.

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St Wynthryth's Priory, Leicestershire
Early September, 1485

It was a beautiful September day, only the faintest hint of fall in the air, and Father Anselm and Brother Andrew were enjoying what little free time they had by walking the cloister.

"I have a confession to make," said Andrew.

Father Anselm cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "So soon? I just heard your confession a couple days ago."

"It's...it's important," said Brother Andrew in a low voice, his eyes traveling across the garth to where Sir Owain stood, slouching against the wall on the opposite side. It was obvious the king's man disliked being ordered to stay here as much as the monks disapproved of his presence.

The priest acknowledged with a slight nod, already suspecting where this conversation might be heading. "Shall we go to the confessional?" he said, likewise keeping his voice low. "That way, no matter what you say, it will be my absolute duty not to disclose anything you tell me. Not to a king's man, not even to the king."

Brother Andrew gave a slight smile and the two men made their way to the church.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession."

"May the Lord help you to confess your sins, my son" replied Father Anselm, following the traditional formula. But he knew this wasn't going to be a typical confession, and the prior admitted that he was more than a little curious as to what the other man was going to say.

"I don't care which side the man fought on, I dislike being put in this position. I don't feel like I'm helping a poor soul, but doing the new king's dirty work for him. It's bad enough having Sir Owain forced upon us. This was a religious house...and I am having uncharitable thoughts about him, and about the king."

"Continue," urged Father Anselm.

"If all they wanted was to get information out of him, couldn't they have questioned him on the battlefield?" Brother Andrew asked, frustration in his voice. "Instead, they bring him to us, wanting us to heal him, no doubt so they can take him to London or wherever and torture him. I was once a soldier before I turned to God and the life of a religious. I understand what goes on during a battle."

"That was when you and your older brother went off to fight?" asked Anselm, remembering Andrew mentioning something about this in the past.

"Yes, as a young lad I sought the glory of battle. My brother and I were foot soldiers in Lord Dacre's army at Towton. So I am no innocent when it comes to what men can do to each other."

"That was more than twenty years ago."

"Yes, and the horrors I saw on that battlefield haunt me to this day, and are why I am troubled by what will happen to that poor man I'm caring for."

Father Anselm nodded sagely. "Your concern for the welfare of your patient is admirable. Did not our Lord say, 'Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me'? And in the Parable of the Good Samaritan, does He not bid us to have mercy? Are we not instructed to love our neighbors as ourselves? I'm sure He would have us include both Yorkists and Lancastrians."

Brother Andrew agreed. "There's something else that troubles me. Whoever he is, our patient is no common soldier, nor even a lowly knight. He didn't fight for the new king, else there would not be all this secrecy surrounding him. I don't know if he was a member of the late king's household or one of his advisors, as I've heard they were all either slain in battle or executed shortly thereafter, but he is, or was, somebody important. Also, I found this caught on his clothes when they brought him in."

He showed Father Anselm the silver boar badge he'd found and until now had kept hidden. "This is King Richard's device, and would have been worn by his closest companions, maybe one of his household knights. In short, I suspect that he is a man of very high standing."

Anselm could find no fault in the other's reasoning. "This may all be true, but none of it is something you need to confess. Well, perhaps your feelings toward Sir Owain, but I suspect many share those feelings."

"There's more. You see, I haven't been completely truthful when I've reported that our mysterious patient's condition has not improved."

Ah, now we get to the heart of the matter.

"Although his condition is still dangerous, he has had brief periods of consciousness and these are becoming more regular. He still spends much of the time sleeping, but that is good as sleep allows his body to heal."

"And what does he have to say?"

"Nothing. So far, he hasn't spoken. The first few times he opened his eyes, he would stare at nothing, unaware of his surroundings, but he continues to show improvement. Now when he wakes up he is more alert, and while he still doesn't speak we have been working out simple gestures for things he needs like food and drink. While he hasn't responded verbally, I feel sure that given time the power of speech will return to him. Whenever I am with him, I make a point of speaking to him as though he knows what I'm saying. And there's something else. One day I suggested we pray. As I began the Pater Noster, he clasped his hands together and bowed his head without my ever having suggested it. This man, whoever he is, does not deserve whatever it is the new king has in store for him. And for that reason, I have not reported his progress to you, or to Sir Owain."

The priest's brow furrowed as he considered everything he'd been told. At last he said, "What do you propose we do?"

"Simply this. We fake his death and give the man a chance to live."

Anselm wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. "Have you thought through?"

"I have. Shall I tell you what I would do?" asked the infirmarian. "It would not be without danger..."

Anselm didn't hesitate. "I have devoted my life to the Church and to our Lord. If I have to choose between the Temporal and the Spiritual, I will choose the Spiritual every time. I am sure that this is what He would want me to do."

Andrew nodded, and for the next hour the two men discussed his plan in detail.

When they finished, Father Anselm informed Andrew what penance he was to perform, made the sign of the cross, and pronounced the words of Absolution, "Diende, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."

As they returned to rejoin rest of the community, Father Anselm spoke quietly. "I think that when this is over, both of us are going to be in need of Absolution." But there was no recrimination in his voice, only a gentle smile on his face.

-0-0-0-

The next day, following Morning Prayer, the monks gathered as they usually did in the east wing of the cloister where Father Anselm held chapter. With Anselm at the head, the rest of the monks took their seats by order of age, from oldest to youngest. After the usual readings from the rule book and the Bible, and the assigning of tasks for the day, Anselm announced he had something of importance for the brothers to discuss, and turned things over to Andrew.

"If we undertake to help this man," he'd explained to Andrew the previous day, "I need to know that everyone is aware and approves. If even one man dissents, then the matter can go no further. There are high stakes involved here, and if the new king were to learn what we are about, the punishment would be severe even to those who had nothing to do with the matter."

The brothers were, almost to a man, supporters of the House of York and mourned the death of good King Richard, and when the vote was taken, the results were unanimous. All would freely assist Brother Andrew with his plan, not realizing that they would be helping the king whose death they mourned.

Brother Andrew's plan was simple enough. With the use of herbs and other medicines, he made it look as though Richard was sinking, not improving. The administration of strong sedatives when Sir Owain was around, usually demanding to see their patient, helped maintain the ruse that the patient was still comatose. When necessary, Brother Andrew gave Richard certain herbs that in small doses would slow his heart rate, again to reinforce the idea that he was failing. When they were alone, Brother Andrew would apologize to his patient, explaining that they were trying to save his life. He hoped his patient could hear him and understand.

It was Brother Oswald who came up with the idea of placing a rotting fish in the mattress. "To give off the odor of corruption and impending death" the young man explained enthusiastically, the idea being that the smell would be unpleasant enough to keep Sir Owain from getting too close and noticing that the patient's pallor was due to cosmetics.

"Do I even want to know where you came up with this idea?" asked Brother Andrew.

"From some pilgrims who were passing through a while back. They had some wonderfully funny stories to tell!"

Andrew had to agree that such a plan might work. "A good idea, but you're the one who is going to have to clean the room and re-stuff the mattress when this is all over."

When the day came that Richard "died," the brothers came for the body to wash and prepare it for burial. Sir Owain, by this point, was thrilled. Soon he would soon be able to leave the monastery, satisfied that the defeated king was finally deceased. When asked if he wanted to make a closer inspection to confirm the patient's death, he declined. The last thing he wanted to do was go into the foul-smelling room.

Meanwhile, Richard, who was only sedated, was taken to where the dead were prepared for burial. There the substitution was made. By coincidence, there was a body awaiting burial, one of several casualties of the battle who had been left behind for the monks to care for but who had never recovered. It was this body that was sewn into the shroud and given a simple, but sincere, burial, while Richard was quietly taken to another part of the monastery where he would remain until Sir Owain was gone.

Once King Henry's spy departed, the monastery was able to return to a semblance of normalcy, and Andrew, with the help of his fellow monks, was at last able to openly tend to his patient.

-0-0-0-

Late September 1485
London

King Henry looked again at the piece of parchment in his hand. The writing was the small, cramped script that he immediately recognized from the many reports he'd received from Father Anselm over these past few weeks.

It is with deep regret that I write to inform you of the passing of the man whose care you charged us with. As Sir Owain will attest, the patient never fully regained consciousness but remained in a mostly comatose state while he was with us. For weeks we attempted to get him to take drink and nourishment, often to no avail. Soon it was easy to see that the end was near. After receiving Extreme Unction, he peacefully slipped away and is now with our Heavenly Father. We buried him in our cemetery. Not knowing his name, his grave has been marked with a simple wooden cross…

Tudor had already confirmed the contents with Sir Owain. Satisfied that all had happened as described, the small hint of a smile played at the corners of the king's mouth. This letter was an answer to his prayers. At last, Henry Tudor would know some peace of mind, at least where the last Plantagenet king was concerned. No need for further clandestine visits to that God-forsaken monastery. No need to explain to anyone what he had done or why. Crumbling the letter into a ball, he consigned it to the flames in the fireplace. At last, he was able to write fini to a foolish chapter that should never have been written.

The idea that monks might lie or that Richard Plantagenet still lived never occurred to him.

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Author's Note

I wrote "Richard Liveth Yet" because like so many who are drawn to the historical Richard III's story, I've often found myself wondering what might have happened if he hadn't been killed at the Battle of Bosworth. So I toyed around with various scenarios and decided on this one in which Richard loses the battle but still survives. I have more adventures planned for my fictional Richard, some of which are included in this collection, while others are still waiting to be written.

For those not familiar with Richard III's final charge at Bosworth, he did indeed take down Henry Tudor's standard bearer, a giant of a man named William Brandon, and unhorsed his body guard, Sir John Cheyne, before something happened that unhorsed Richard, forcing him to fight his final fight on foot. Even his enemies praised his bravery (if nothing else). Even Henry Tudor's official historian Polydore Vergil wrote that, "King Richard, alone, was killed fighting manfully in the thickest press of his enemies."

As for Henry Tudor, I softened him just a bit because I simply cannot imagine the real Henry Tudor, a man who predated his reign to August 21, 1485 so he could legally charge those who fought for Richard with treason (among many other questionable actions perpetrated during his reign) behaving as he does in my story.

St. Wynthryth's Priory is a totally fictional place (although St Wynthryth is a real Anglo-Saxon saint about whom almost nothing is known), as are the monks who live there. Sir Owain is likewise fictional, but not Sir Rhys ap Thomas. I included Sir Rhys because he is said to be one of my 19-times great grandfathers. According to family tradition, it was Sir Rhys or one of his soldiers who delivered the death blow to Richard.

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