The Paradox of Richard Iii: The End of the Plantagenets

By Helle Rink

A paradox is a statement that apparently contradicts itself and yet might be true. Here, I am looking at a paradox of a person who, during one period of his life, was so different from what he is reported to have become at another certain point. Were there two Richards? A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Did he have a split personality? But then, where was Mr. Hyde during his early life? Herein we examine Richards life and how, and if, he became what he was accused of by the Tudors after his death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496972170

Helle Rink

Helle Rink, Danish born, Brazilian bred, and English educated, lives in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She has had a long career with multinationals in Brazil before joining the UN Special Agency World Health Organization in Copenhagen, Denmark, where she stayed until retirement, after which she returned to Brazil. Her chief interest has always been in history, not so much what happened and when but who did what and where. There are many ways to view and interpret history, especially if one goes back to the time where there are few, if any, proofs or documents or if the truth can distorted by those that came after. H. Rink’s former books dealt with the Trojan War (Weekend in Troy; Riding the Wooden Horse). In the present book, she looks at the mystery behind the English king Richard III, his life and death.

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The Paradox of Richard III

The End of the Plantagenets

Helle Rink

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© 2015 Helle Rink. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/17/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7216-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7217-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903055

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Contents

1 The Yorks in Splendour

1.1 Glorious Summer

1.2 In the drawing room

1.3 Family life

2 George of Clarence

2.1 Into the Tower

2.2 In the presence of the Enemy

2.3 The first crime?

3 Edward IV

3.1 Off to London

3.2 A Good Day’s Work

3.3 A king bows out

3.4 The Second Crime?

4 The Lord Protector

4.1 Off with the old and on with the new

4.2 The Council meeting

5 Edward V

5.1 From Ludlow to London

5.2 Into the Tower

5.3 Another Meeting

5.4 Maximum security

5.5 A Weekend at the Tower

6 Richard for king!

6.1 With a little bit of spin

6.2 Enter Rumour

7 Interlude – Tea … and sympathy?

8 Richard III

8.1 Coronation

9 Interlude at the Tower

10 Disaster strikes

10.1 Murder most Foul

10.2 The Third Crime?

10.3 Cui Bono?

11 Interlude in Brittany

12 Rebellion!

13 Richard’s Agenda

14 Richard’s Parliament9

15 Interlude in Paris

16 When Sorrows Come

17 A Proposal

18 Bosworth

18.1 The Night before

18.2 Dawn

19 The Battle

20 Aftermath

21 The three comrades

22 The Richard Paradox

Appendix I - The House of Plantagenet

Appendix II – Richard III’s Parliament

Portrait of King Richard III. Unknown artist.

© National Portrait Gallery, London.

Cui Bono

To Whose Benefit?

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Roman advocate and statesmand

(BC 106-43)

Marcus Tullius Cicero, in his speech in defense of Sextus Roscius, accused of parricide (Pro Roscio Amerino), attributed the expression cui bono to the Roman consul (BC 127), Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla, who time and again asked: ‘To whose benefit?’ (Cicero won his case)

Cicero also used cui bono in his defense of Tito Annio Milone (Pro Milone), accused of murdering his political enemy Publius Clodius Pulcher on the Via Appia outside Rome (BC 52) (Cicero lost his case).

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The Yorks in Splendour

1.1 Glorious Summer

I found myself lying in my most elegant sphinx position on the balustrade of a terrace at the corner where it turned and sloped downwards following a series of steps leading to a rather shopworn stone lion wearing a crown and holding a shield.

For a few moments, a mist seemed to hang over the landscape but, as I took a closer look, it slowly dissolved. I saw a blue sky with a few fluffy clouds floating lazily around; the air was cool but not unpleasantly so.

As I took in the sights, I saw a garden with all the glorious colors of late spring or early summer. Flowers bloomed, their heads waving gently in the breeze, irresistible to cute yellow and black bees and rainbow colored butterflies. The hedges were neatly trimmed and superbly verdant, the grass mown to perfection. Bushes did what bushes do best in summer: blossom, their flowers filling the air with sweet scents. Birds, too, where out and about, showing off their brilliant summer plumage and doing whatever it is birds do; singing and warbling fit to beat the band. Mating season, what?

Further away, set up beaneath great trees a gold and silver pavillion had been erected under which large tables had been set up, groaning beneath the best of viands and wine. Gaily dressed children ran around everywhere, screaming and shouting merrily. The grownups ignored the ruckus, giving their attention to eating and drinking and laughing and arguing. One was a gorgeously dressed man, wearing an enormous amount of jewellery, his cap gay with more feathers than anyone else. He was huge, whiskered and with the whitest teeth of anyone, blond hair and, as far as I could see, blue eyes. Next to him was a lady, beautifully dressed in summer green with matching emeralds here, there and everywhere, flowing sleeves and train, a gausemous veil flowing over her golden hair held there by a splendid tiara encrusted with precious stones. The lady of the manor.

Ladies and gentlemen flitted and flirted and a good time was being had by all. A band of sorts, violas, pipes and whatnot, played in the background. Lords and ladies danced; little girls went ‘ring a’round the roses’ as fast as ever they could, until the lot collided, tripped over each other and collapsed on the grass amid shrieks of laughter.

I sniffed the air and closed my eyes to test the energy levels. Cats can ‘see’ energy; I see it in shades of white all the way through to black. White, go to sleep. Black, go somewhere else. But here the energy was positive and I saw it all white and fluffy, like clouds. Peace! Love! Flower power! I ignored the darker edges.

Lulled by the warmth, I closed my eyes and something made me murmur:

"Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York."1

What, what? queried a voice behind me. I looked around, quite upset at having my mellow mood disturbed. A fellow of medium height was leaning against the balustrade a few steps up from my perch. I measured the distance but decided he was too far away to scratch. So I repeated the lines, swishing my tail which, in cat language, means ‘we have not been introduced. Why are you asking me questions? Bugger off.’ Of course he couldn’t read cat body language so instead he put a finger to his chin and thought for a bit. Then he said:

This is most wonderful bit poetry and I really like it. It has flow and resonance… But forgive me if I find the meaning somewhat perplexing. Would you be so good as to explain exactly what is meant by the ‘sun of York’? Even a royal family doesn’t have its own sun. I sighed, cat fashion. However, I now knew where I was. Somewhere in the 15th century. I felt pleased. I had planned my vacation well. The time of the War of the Roses, after the last battle and way before the next one. However, my new friend was still waiting for my answer: he seemed to need everything explained in two letter words.

My Lord, I said, he must be a lord since he was dressed like one, "in poetic language, the meaning is: after a hard [discontented] winter, the sun [son] of York is shinning. It has a double meaning, you see? A pun, you might say." After a few moment, his face cleared and he said with a loud laugh:

I see, the sun, pointing upwards, and the son of York, my brother Edward over there. How very clever! So the gentleman all dolled up was Edward IV and the lady his queen … offhand, I couldn’t remember her name. My new friend slapped his thighs. I look at him inquiringly. Was he the king’s brother? There were a couple. George or … Richard? He seemed to read my mind as he continued:

But I should introduce myself: I am Richard of Gloucester, king Edward IV’s youngest brother. I may say I was surprised. The name brought up visions of someone along the lines of Quasimodo, hunchback, one blind eye and a heart of gold, see Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris. Fooled again by Will Shakespeare. However, I let it slide.

And I, said I, am Gaius Marius, the cat. Richard beamed.

Now that we have been introduced, may I ask if you are the author of those wonderful lines? Well, I could have lied and swanked but decided not to.

Friend of mine. Short and sweet. Richard bit his thumb.

He must be some poet. Is there more? Well, there was of course, lots, lots more but I hoped not to have to go through all of it; as well as being as long as the old Testament some of it would be plain embarrassing in present company. So I gave him the two next lines:

"And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

He scratched his head. How can clouds be buried in the ocean? I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I said:

It’s a metaphor, my Lord of Gloucester. It means that yesterday’s problems have all gone away. The ocean is by way of poetic license. Will Shakespeare, the king of poetic license.

Richard’s face lightened up.

Of course, metaphors. I see now. Good, good, what comes next? I continued:

"Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures."

He lifted his fingers in the air as if checking off a list:

We are victorious, hence the wreaths, our armour and weapons, worn and cracked from long use, have been put away as we don’t need them anymore and instead of battles we have social gatherings and dancing. He looked at me delighted. I nodded.

That’s it exactly. I wanted to pat him on the back but this wasn’t possible, given the differences in our specifications. He made a movement with his hand that I interpreted as wanting me to continue. I did but swore this would be the last bit.

"Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

To the lascivious playing of a lute."

Well, I’ve told Will these lines were a bit off-colour but Will likes a bawdy bit here and there. What it really meant, of course, that Will had no time for Edward IV. Richard went back to his imaginary list.

The wars have ceased and we no longer need to be constantly on our war horses, scaring our enemies to death, he… Richard frowned: He? Who is he?

Dunno, I said. But whoever ‘he’ is, he sure likes the ladies. Richard laughed merrily:

Must be my brother, Edward; he was always one for the skirts. Couldn’t see a one without chasing it. He raised his eyebrows in question mode. Is there any more?

No, I said firmly, that’s it. Richard said in a dreamy kind of voice:

I’d sure like to meet your friend. I am a great enthusiast for poetry – in fact, I think education should be encouraged in all classes of society. He looked serious and bit his finger in a thoughtful kind of way. Education, not commerce, will make this a great nation.

I wasn’t going to disabuse him. Piracy and stealing, not commerce or education, would make this a great nation. But, as the man says, it takes all sorts. He sat down on one of the lower steps close to my perch and heaved a sigh of contentment.

But your friend the poet is right. This is indeed a new beginning, a happy beginning, for my family and for England. Well, that might be; the common folk would just be glad not to have knights trampling all over their fields and chasing their livestock. For the humans at the bottom of the food chain, it matters little whether the king’s family name is Lancaster or York. If they had any sense, they’d get rid of the lot and have a republic, where the bastards can be thrown out every four years. But it seems the English cannot live without their monarchy, no matter how loutish, stupid, greedy and boorish its members may be. As I always say, there’s no telling for taste. Richard went on in a dreamy sort of voice:

You know, I have never lived in a world at peace. I wanted to ask: who has? Since the first humanoid picked up the first stone and found he could use it to hit another humanoid over the head, inflicting damage or death, war has been a constant on planet Earth. But my pal sounded sad, as if he’d missed something that was everyone else’s birthright.

I’ve been in exile twice, you know. This, and he swept his arm around, encompassing, if you like, the whole gathering, is by way of being a restoration party. He scratched his chin. In a way I can count myself lucky; I was born too late for the big battles and when I was old enough there were just two more to be fought: Barnet and Tewkesbury, which ended the War of the Roses and made Edward king. I sniffed:

All to the good since it got rid of three kings and eight dukes. The world would be all the better with less kings and dukes.

Richard didn’t respond. He was probably trying to figures out who the three kings were. I don’t know myself but read it somewhere. Silence reigned until I broke it:

Made quite a name for yourself, didn’t you, at Tewkesbury? Breaking the Lancastrian center. Our hero! Richard didn’t see the sarcasm but tried to look modest.

One does, he said, humble-like, what has to be done. I lifted my head and sniffed the summer air.

The War of the Roses. Such a pretty name, I said, adding nastily, for covering up such unholy ambition and greed. Richard frowned and I said: The Red Horse rode forth and his name was civil strife, the cruelest of them all. Richard gave me a sideways look and frowned.

But we, the Yorkists, had right on our side. Our claim was the truest. I rolled my eyes.

Puuleese, don’t give me that. The only reason the war ever happened was because Henry VI was a weak king and easily challenged. Had your lot faced Henry V or even Henry IV, you would have kept your heads down and cultivated your gardens. Richard didn’t seem to want to get into this discussion.

You’re just a cat, he said with finality, what do you know? And, anyway, Henry VI might have been weak but his wife, Margaret d’Anjou, wasn’t. She gave us a good run for our money. Thinks I: had she been a man, she’d have beat the lot of you from here all the way to Sunday. But I let it go. No use arguing once it’s all over. I changed the subject:

So, I asked, now that all is peace and love, what are you going to do? With a dreamy look in his eyes, he said:

I shall marry the Lady Anne. I raised my whiskers in surprise:

You mean the Lady Anne who was married to Edward, the Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI? The daughter of Warrick, the kingmaker?

Who else? he cried. The lady is widowed and will need a husband. And having been on the losing side of the war, she will also want a protector. I said carefully:

They do say that you were the one who killed her husband. Richard shook his head.

Nonsense. In that mêlée, anyone may have killed anyone. I can’t swear I didn’t but then I don’t remember specifically that I did. That last battle is all a haze. Ahh, look, there is Lady Anne, alone on a bench over by the rose garden. I shall go and press my suit at once.

And off he went, on courtship bent. Perhaps not a very sensitive soul, our Richard. But then, I shouln’t forget that marriages, in those days, were not made in heaven but at the conference table. Perhaps Anne hadn’t even loved Edward, Prince of Wales. At least, here she was, at the victors’ garden party.

I lay my head down on my paws and watched Richard as he walked across the lawn and sat down on the stone bench next to Lady Anne. Stealthily, he moved ever closer and closer to her while she edged away until the poor lady was pushed off the bench altogether and onto the grass. Richard hastily picked her up and helped her brush off dead leaves and such from her skirts. I couldn’t help murmuring to myself:

Was ever woman in