I, Richard Part 12

Bosworth Field is much the same as it was over five hundred years ago when the armies met in August 1485. It hasn't been plowed over for housing estates, and Wal-Mart hasn't managed to put an unsightly megastore anywhere near it. Thus, it remains a forsaken, windswept place marked only by flagpoles that show visitors where the various armies were encamped and by plaques that explain along an established route exactly what happened at each spot.

It was when I reached a plaque that directed my gaze toward the distant village of Sutton Cheney where King Richard prayed in St. James Church on the night before the battle that I saw my story take shape. And what happened to me as I stood before that plaque was something that had never happened before nor has it happened since. It was this: I read the words that told me to look for the windmill some mile or so in the distance and to recognize this structure as marking the village of Sutton Cheney where King Richard had prayed the night before battle. And as I lifted my eyes and found that windmill, the entire short story that you will read here dropped into my mind. All of a piece. As simple as that. marking the village of Sutton Cheney where King Richard had prayed the night before battle. And as I lifted my eyes and found that windmill, the entire short story that you will read here dropped into my mind. All of a piece. As simple as that.

All I had to do was recite the facts of the story into my handheld tape recorder as the wind buffeted me and the temperature challenged me to stay out of doors long enough to do so.

I came home to California and created the characters who would people the small world of "I, Richard." Once I did that, the story virtually wrote itself.

The guilt or innocence of the parties in history is lost to all of us, pending the discovery of a doc.u.ment whose veracity cannot be disputed. Indeed, I wasn't interested in trying to prove anyone did anything. What I was interested in writing about was one man's obsession with a long-dead King and the extremes he was willing to go to in order to advance himself under the banner of that defeated white boar.

I, R RICHARD.

Malcolm cousins groaned in spite of himself. considering his circ.u.mstances, this was the last sound he wanted to make. A sigh of pleasure or a moan of satisfaction would have been more appropriate. But the truth was simple and he had to face it: No longer was he the performance artist he once had been in the s.e.xual arena. Time was when he could bonk with the best of them. But that time had gone the way of his hair and at forty-nine years old, he considered himself lucky to be able to get the appliance up and running twice a week.

He rolled off Betsy Perryman and thudded onto his back. His lower vertebrae were throbbing like drummers in a marching band, and the always-dubious pleasure he'd just taken from Betsy's corpulent, perfume-drenched charms was quickly transformed to a faint memory. Jesus G.o.d, he thought with a gasp. Forget justification altogether. Was the end even worth worth the b.l.o.o.d.y means? the b.l.o.o.d.y means?

Luckily, Betsy took the groan and the gasp the way Betsy took most everything. She heaved herself onto her side, propped her head upon her palm, and observed him with an expression that was meant to be coy. The last thing Betsy wanted him to know was how desperate she was for him to be her lifeboat out of her current marriage-number four this one was-and Malcolm was only too happy to accommodate her in the fantasy. Sometimes it got a bit complicated, remembering what he was supposed to know and what he was supposed to be ignorant of, but he always found that if Betsy's suspicions about his sincerity became aroused, there was a simple and expedient, albeit back-troubling, way to a.s.suage her doubts about him.

She reached for the tangled sheet, pulled it up, and extended a plump hand. She caressed his hairless pate and smiled at him lazily. "Never did it with a baldy before. Have I told you that, Malc?"

Every single time the two of them-as she so poetically stated-did it, he recalled. He thought of Cora, the springer spaniel b.i.t.c.h he'd adored in childhood, and the memory of the dog brought suitable fondness to his face. He eased Betsy's fingers down his cheek and kissed each one of them.

"Can't get enough, naughty boy," she said. "I've never had a man like you, Malc Cousins."

She scooted over to his side of the bed, closer and closer until her huge bosoms were less than an inch from his face. At this proximity, her cleavage resembled Cheddar Gorge and was just about as appealing a s.e.xual object. G.o.d, another go-round? he thought. He'd be dead before he was fifty if they went on like this. And not a step nearer to his objective.

He nuzzled within the suffocating depths of her mammaries, making the kinds of yearning noises that she wanted to hear. He did a bit of sucking and then made much of catching sight of his wrist.w.a.tch on the bedside table.

"Christ!" He grabbed the watch for a feigned better look. "Jesus, Betsy, it's eleven o'clock. I told those Aussie Ricardians I'd meet them at Bosworth Field at noon. I've got to get rolling."

Which was what he did, right out of bed before she could protest. As he shrugged into his dressing gown, she struggled to transform his announcement into something comprehensible. Her face screwed up and she said, "Those Ozzirecordians? What the h.e.l.l's that?" She sat up, her blonde hair matted and snarled and most of her makeup smeared from her face.

"Not Ozzirecordians," Malcolm said. "Aussie. Australian. Australian Ricardians. I told you about them last week, Betsy."

"Oh, that." She pouted. "I thought we could have a picnic lunch today."

"In this weather?" He headed for the bathroom. It wouldn't do to arrive for the tour reeking of s.e.x and Shalimar. "Where did you fancy having a picnic in January? Can't you hear that wind? It must be ten below outside."

"A bed picnic," she said. "With honey and cream. You said said that was your fantasy. Or don't you remember?" that was your fantasy. Or don't you remember?"

He paused in the bedroom doorway. He didn't much like the tone of her question. It made a demand that reminded him of everything he hated about women. Of course course he didn't remember what he'd claimed to be his fantasy about honey and cream. He'd said lots of things over the past two years of their liaison. But he'd forgotten most of them once it had become apparent that she was seeing him as he wished to be seen. Still, the only course was to play along. "Honey and cream," he sighed. "You brought honey and cream? Oh Christ, Bets...."A quick dash back to the bed. A tonguely examination of her dental work. A frantic clutching between her legs. "G.o.d, you're going to drive me mad, woman. I'll be walking round Bosworth with my p.r.o.ng like a poker all day." he didn't remember what he'd claimed to be his fantasy about honey and cream. He'd said lots of things over the past two years of their liaison. But he'd forgotten most of them once it had become apparent that she was seeing him as he wished to be seen. Still, the only course was to play along. "Honey and cream," he sighed. "You brought honey and cream? Oh Christ, Bets...."A quick dash back to the bed. A tonguely examination of her dental work. A frantic clutching between her legs. "G.o.d, you're going to drive me mad, woman. I'll be walking round Bosworth with my p.r.o.ng like a poker all day."

"Serves you right," she said pertly and reached for his groin. He caught her hand in his.

"You love it," he said.

"No more'n you."

He sucked her fingers again. "Later," he said. "I'll trot those wretched Aussies round the battlefield and if you're still here then... You know what happens next."

"It'll be too late then. Bernie thinks I've only gone to the butcher."

Malcolm favoured her with a pained look, the better to show that the thought of her hapless and ignorant husband-his old best friend Bernie-scored his soul. "Then there'll be another time. There'll be hundreds of times. With honey and cream. With caviar. With oysters. Did I ever tell you what I'll do with the oysters?"

"What?" she asked.

He smiled. "Just you wait."

He retreated to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower. As usual, an inadequate spray of lukewarm water fizzled out of the pipe. Malcolm shed his dressing gown, s.h.i.+vered, and cursed his circ.u.mstances. Twenty-five years in the cla.s.sroom, teaching history to spotty-faced hooligans who had no interest in anything beyond the immediate gratification of their sweaty-palmed needs, and what did he have to show for it? Two up and two down in an ancient terraced house down the street from Gloucester Grammar. An ageing Vauxhall with no spare tyre. A mistress with an agenda for marriage and a taste for kinky s.e.x.

And a pa.s.sion for a long-dead King that-he was determined- would be the wellspring from which would flow his future. The means were so close, just tantalising centimetres from his eager grasp. And once his reputation was secured, the book contracts, the speaking engagements, and the offers of gainful employment would follow.

"s.h.i.+t!" he bellowed as the shower water went from warm to scalding without a warning. "d.a.m.n!" He fumbled for the taps.

"Serves you right," Betsy said from the doorway. "You're a naughty boy and naughty boys need punis.h.i.+ng."

He blinked water from his eyes and squinted at her. She'd put on his best flannel s.h.i.+rt-the very one he'd intended to wear on the tour of Bosworth Field, blast the woman-and she lounged against the doorjamb in her best attempt at a seductive pose. He ignored her and went about his showering. He could tell she was determined to have her way, and her way was another bonk before he left. Forget it, Bets, he said to her silently. Don't push your luck.

"I don't understand you, Malc Cousins," she said. "You're the only man in civilisation who'd rather tramp round a soggy pasture with a bunch of tourists than cozy up in bed with the woman he says he loves."

"Not says, does," Malcolm said automatically. There was a dreary sameness to their postcoital conversations that was beginning to get him decidedly down.

"That so? I wouldn't've known. I'd've said you fancy whatsis-name the King a far sight more'n you fancy me."

Well, Richard was definitely more interesting a character, Malcolm thought. But he said, "Don't be daft. It's money for our nest egg anyway."

"We don't need a nest egg," she said. "I've told you that about a hundred times. We've got the-"

"Besides," he cut in hastily. There couldn't be too little said between them on the subject of Betsy's expectations. "It's good experience. Once the book is finished, there'll be interviews, personal appearances, lectures. I need the practice. I need"-this with a winning smile in her direction-"more than an audience of one, my darling. Just think what it'll be like, Bets. Cambridge, Oxford, Harvard, the Sorbonne. Will you like Ma.s.sachusetts? What about France?"

"Bernie's heart's giving him trouble again, Malc," Betsy said, running her finger up the doorjamb.

"Is it, now?" Malcolm said happily. "Poor old Bernie. Poor bloke, Bets."

The problem of Bernie had to be handled, of course. But Malcolm was confident that Betsy Perryman was up for the challenge. In the afterglow of s.e.x and inexpensive champagne, she'd told him once that each one of her four marriages had been a step forward and upward from the marriage that had preceded it, and it didn't take a h.e.l.l of a lot of brains to know that moving out of a marriage to a dedicated inebriate-no matter how affable-into a relations.h.i.+p with a schoolteacher on his way to unveiling a piece of mediaeval history that would set the country on its ear was a step in the right direction. So Betsy would definitely handle Bernie. It was only a matter of time.

Divorce was out of the question, of course. Malcolm had made certain that Betsy understood that, while he was desperate mad hungry and all the etceteras for a life with her, he would no more ask her to come to him in his current impoverished circ.u.mstances than would he expect the Princess Royal to take up life in a bed-sit on the south bank of the Thames. Not only would he not ask that of her, he wouldn't allow it. Betsy-his beloved-deserved so much more than he would be able to give her, such as he was. But when his s.h.i.+p came in, darling Bets.... Or if, G.o.d forbid, anything should ever happen to Bernie.... This, he hoped, was enough to light a fire inside the spongy grey ma.s.s that went for her brain.

Malcolm felt no guilt at the thought of Bernie Perryman's demise. True, they'd known each other in childhood as sons of mothers who'd been girlhood friends. But they'd parted ways at the end of adolescence, when poor Bernie's failure to pa.s.s more than one A-level had doomed him to life on the family farm while Malcolm had gone on to university. And after that... well, differing levels of education did did take a toll on one's ability to communicate with one's erstwhile-and less educated-mates, didn't it? Besides, when Malcolm returned from university, he could see that his old friend had sold his soul to the Black Bush devil, and what would it profit him to renew a friends.h.i.+p with the district's most prominent drunk? Still, Malcolm liked to think he'd taken a modic.u.m of pity on Bernie Perryman. Once a month for years, he'd gone to the farmhouse-under cover of darkness, of course-to play chess with his former friend and to listen to his inebriated musings about their childhood and the what-might-have-beens. take a toll on one's ability to communicate with one's erstwhile-and less educated-mates, didn't it? Besides, when Malcolm returned from university, he could see that his old friend had sold his soul to the Black Bush devil, and what would it profit him to renew a friends.h.i.+p with the district's most prominent drunk? Still, Malcolm liked to think he'd taken a modic.u.m of pity on Bernie Perryman. Once a month for years, he'd gone to the farmhouse-under cover of darkness, of course-to play chess with his former friend and to listen to his inebriated musings about their childhood and the what-might-have-beens.

Which was how he first found out about The Legacy, as Bernie had called it. Which was what he'd spent the last two years bonking Bernie's wife in order to get his hands on. Betsy and Bernie had no children. Bernie was the last of his line. The Legacy was going to come to Betsy. And Betsy was going to give it to Malcolm.

She didn't know that yet. But she would soon enough.

Malcolm smiled, thinking of what Bernie's legacy would do to further his career. For nearly ten years, he'd been writing furiously on what he'd nicknamed d.i.c.kon Delivered d.i.c.kon Delivered-his untar-nis.h.i.+ng of the reputation of Richard III-and once The Legacy was in his hands, his future was going to be a.s.sured. As he rolled towards Bosworth Field and the Australian Ricardians awaiting him there, he recited the first line of the penultimate chapter of his magnum opus. "It is with the alleged disappearance of Edward the Lord b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Earl of Pembroke and March, and Richard, Duke of York, that historians have traditionally begun to rely upon sources contaminated by their own self-interest."

G.o.d, it was beautiful writing, he thought. And better than that, it was the truth as well.

The tour coach was already there when Malcolm roared into the car park at Bosworth Field. Its occupants had foolishly disembarked. All apparently female and of depressingly advanced years, they were huddled into a s.h.i.+vering pack, looking sheeplike and abandoned in the gale-force winds that were blowing. When Malcolm heaved himself out of his car, one of their number disengaged herself from their midst and strode towards him. She was st.u.r.dily built and much younger than the rest, which gave Malcolm hope of being able to grease his way through the moment with some generous dollops of charm. But then he noted her short clipped hair, elephantine ankles, and ma.s.sive calves... not to mention the clipboard that she was smacking into her hand as she walked. An unhappy lesbian tour guide out for blood, he thought. G.o.d, what a deadly combination.

Nonetheless, he beamed a glittering smile in her direction. "Sorry," he sang out. "Blasted car trouble."

"See here, mate," she said in the unmistakable discordant tw.a.n.g-all long a's a's becoming long becoming long i i's-of a denizen of the Antipodes, "when Romance of Great Britain pays for a tour at noon, Romance of Great Britain expects the bleeding tour to begin at noon. So why're you late? Christ, it's like Siberia out here. We could die of exposure. Jaysus, let's just get on with it." She turned on her heel and waved her charges over towards the edge of the car park where the footpath carved a trail round the circ.u.mference of the battlefield.

Malcolm dashed to catch up. His tips hanging in the balance, he would have to make up for his tardiness with a dazzling show of expertise.

"Yes, yes," he said with insincere joviality as he reached her side. "It's incredible that you should mention Siberia, Miss... ?"

"Sludgecur," she said, and her expression dared him to react to the name.

"Ah. Yes. Miss Sludgecur. Of course. As I was saying, it's incredible that you should mention Siberia because this bit of England has the highest elevation west of the Urals. Which is why we have these rather Muscovian temperatures. You can imagine what it might have been like in the fifteenth century when-"

"We're not here for meteorology," she barked. "Get on with it before my ladies freeze their a.r.s.es off."

Her ladies t.i.ttered and clung to one another in the wind. They had the dried-apple faces of octogenarians, and they watched Sludgecur with the devotion of children who'd seen their parent take on all comers and deck them unceremoniously.

"Yes, well," Malcolm said. "The weather's the princ.i.p.al reason that the battlefield's closed in the winter. We made an exception for your group because they're fellow Ricardians. And when fellow Ricardians come calling at Bosworth, we like to accommodate them. It's the best way to see that the truth gets carried forward, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are you yammering about?" Sludgecur asked. "Fellow who? Fellow what?"

Which should have told Malcolm that the tour wasn't going to proceed as smoothly as he had hoped. "Ricardians," he said and beamed at the elderly women surrounding Sludgecur. "Believers in the innocence of Richard III."

Sludgecur looked at him as if he'd sprouted wings. "What? This is the Romance of Great Britain you're looking at, mate. Jane b.l.o.o.d.y Eyre, Mr. Flaming Rochester, Heathcliff and Cathy, Maxim de Winter. Gabriel Oak. This is Love on the Battlefield Day, and we mean to have our money's worth. All right?"

Their money was what it was all about. The fact that they were paying was why Malcolm was here in the first place. But, Jesus, he thought, did these Seekers of Romance even know where they were? Did they know-much less care-that the last King to be killed in armed combat met his fate less than a mile from where they were standing? And And that he'd met that same fate because of sedition, treachery, and betrayal? Obviously not. They weren't here in support of Richard. They were here because it was part of a package. Love Brooding, Love Hopeless, and Love Devoted had already been checked off the list. And now he was somehow supposed to cook up for them a version of Love Deadly that would make them part with a few quid apiece at the end of the afternoon. Well, all right. He could do that much. that he'd met that same fate because of sedition, treachery, and betrayal? Obviously not. They weren't here in support of Richard. They were here because it was part of a package. Love Brooding, Love Hopeless, and Love Devoted had already been checked off the list. And now he was somehow supposed to cook up for them a version of Love Deadly that would make them part with a few quid apiece at the end of the afternoon. Well, all right. He could do that much.

Malcolm didn't think about Betsy until he'd paused at the first marker along the route, which showed King Richard's initial battle position. While his charges took snapshots of the White Boar standard that was whipping in the icy wind from the flagpole marking the King's encampment, Malcolm glanced beyond them to the tumbledown buildings of Windsong Farm, visible at the top of the next hill. He could see the house and he could see Betsy's car in the farmyard. He could imagine-and hope about- the rest.

Bernie wouldn't have noticed that it had taken his wife three and a half hours to purchase a package of minced beef in Market Bosworth. It was nearly half past noon, after all, and doubtless he'd be at the kitchen table where he usually was, attempting to work on yet another of his Formula One models. The pieces would be spread out in front of him and he might have managed to glue one onto the car before the shakes came upon him and he had to have a dose of Black Bush to still them. One dose of whiskey would have led to another until he was too soused to handle a tube of glue.

Chances were good that he'd already pa.s.sed out onto the model car. It was Sat.u.r.day and he was supposed to work at St. James Church, preparing it for Sunday's service. But poor old Bernie'd have no idea of the day until Betsy returned, slammed the minced beef onto the table next to his ear, and frightened him out of his sodden slumber.

When his head flew up, Betsy would see the imprint of the car's name on his flesh, and she'd be suitably disgusted. Malcolm fresh in her mind, she'd feel the injustice of her position.

"You been to the church yet?" she'd ask Bernie. It was his only job, as no Perryman had farmed the family's land in at least eight generations. "Father Naughton's not like the others, Bernie. He's not about to put up with you just because you're a Perryman, you know. You got the church and and the graveyard to see to today. And it's time you were about it." the graveyard to see to today. And it's time you were about it."

Bernie had never been a belligerent drunk, and he wouldn't be one now. He'd say, "I'm going, sweet Mama. But I got the most G.o.dawful thirst. Throat feels like a sandpit, Mama girl."

He'd smile the same affable smile that had won Betsy's heart in Blackpool where they'd met. And the smile would remind his wife of her duty, despite Malcolm's ministrations to her earlier. But that was fine, because the last thing that Malcolm Cousins wanted was Betsy Perryman forgetting her duty.

So she'd ask him if he'd taken his medicine, and since Bernie Perryman never did anything-save pour himself a Black Bush- without having been reminded a dozen times, the answer would be no. So Betsy would seek out the pills and shake the dosage into her palm. And Bernie would take it obediently and then stagger out of the house-sans jacket as usual-and head to St. James Church to do his duty.

Betsy would call after him to take his jacket, but Bernie would wave off the suggestion. His wife would shout, "Bernie! You'll catch your death-" and then stop herself at the sudden thought that entered her mind. Bernie's death, after all, was what she needed in order to be with her Beloved.

So her glance would drop to the bottle of pills in her hand and she would read the label: Digitoxin. Do not exceed one tablet per day without consulting physician. Digitoxin. Do not exceed one tablet per day without consulting physician.

Perhaps at that point, she would also hear the doctor's explanation to her: "It's like digitalis. You've heard of that. An overdose would kill him, Mrs. Perryman, so you must be vigilant and see to it that he never takes more than one tablet."

More than one tablet would ring in her ears. Her morning bonk with Malcolm would live in her memory. She'd shake a pill from the bottle and examine it. She'd finally start to think of a way that the future could be ma.s.saged into place. would ring in her ears. Her morning bonk with Malcolm would live in her memory. She'd shake a pill from the bottle and examine it. She'd finally start to think of a way that the future could be ma.s.saged into place.

Happily, Malcolm turned from the farmhouse to his budding Ricardians. All was going according to plan.

"From this location," Malcolm told his audience of eager but elderly seekers of Love on the Battlefield, "we can see the village of Sutton Cheney to our northeast." All heads swivelled in that direction. They may have been freezing their antique pudenda, but at least they were a cooperative group. Save for Sludgecur who, if she had a pudendum, it was no doubt swathed in long underwear. Her expression challenged him to concoct a Romance out of the Battle of Bosworth. Very well, he thought, and picked up the gauntlet. He'd give them Romance. He'd also give them a piece of history that would change their lives. Perhaps this group of Aussie oldies hadn't been Ricardians when they'd arrived at Bosworth Field, but they'd d.a.m.n well be neophyte Ricardians when they left. And And they'd return Down Under and tell their grandchildren that it was Malcolm Cousins- they'd return Down Under and tell their grandchildren that it was Malcolm Cousins-the Malcolm Cousins, they would say-who had first made them aware of the gross injustice that had been perpetrated upon the memory of a decent King. Malcolm Cousins, they would say-who had first made them aware of the gross injustice that had been perpetrated upon the memory of a decent King.

"It was there in the village of Sutton Cheney, in St. James Church, that King Richard prayed on the night before the battle," Malcolm told them. "Picture what the night must have been like."

From there, he went onto automatic pilot. He'd told the story hundreds of times over the years that he'd served as Special Guide for Groups at Bosworth Field. All he had to do was to milk it for its Romantic Qualities, which wasn't a problem.

The King's forces-12,000 strong-were encamped on the summit of Ambion Hill where Malcolm Cousins and his band of s.h.i.+vering neo-Ricardians were standing. The King knew that the morrow would decide his fate: whether he would continue to reign as Richard III or whether his crown would be taken by conquest and worn by an upstart who'd lived most of his life on the continent, safely tucked away and coddled by those whose ambitions had long been to destroy the York dynasty. The King would have been well aware that his fate rested in the hands of the Stanley brothers: Sir William and Thomas, Lord Stanley. They had arrived at Bosworth with a large army and were encamped to the north, not far from the King, but also-and ominously-not far from the King's pernicious adversary, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, who also happened to be Lord Stanley's stepson. To secure the father's loyalty, King Richard had taken one of Lord Stanley's blood sons as a hostage, the young man's life being the forfeit if his father betrayed England's anointed King by joining Tudor's forces in the upcoming battle. The Stanleys, however, were a wily lot and had shown themselves dedicated to nothing but their own self-interest, so-holding George Stanley hostage or not-the King must have known how great was the risk of entrusting the security of his throne to the whimsies of men whose devotion to self was their most notable quality.

The night before the battle, Richard would have seen the Stanleys camped to the north, in the direction of Market Bosworth. He would have sent a messenger to remind them that, as George Stanley was still being held hostage and as he was being held hostage right there in the King's encampment, the wise course would be to throw their lot in with the King on the morrow.

He would have been restless, Richard. He would have been torn. Having lost first his son and heir and then his wife during his brief reign, having been faced with the treachery of once-close friends, can there be any doubt that he would have wondered-if only fleetingly-how much longer he was meant to go on? And, schooled in the religion of his time, can there be any doubt that he knew how great a sin was despair? And, having established this fact, can there be any question about what the King would have chosen to do on the night before the battle?

Malcolm glanced over his group. Yes, there was a satisfactorily misty eye or two among them. They saw the inherent Romance in a widowed King who'd lost not only his wife but his heir and was hours away from losing his life as well.

Malcolm directed a victorious glance at Sludgecur. Her expression said, Don't press your luck.

It wasn't luck at all, Malcolm wanted to tell her. It was the Great Romance of Hearing the Truth. The wind had picked up velocity and lost another three or four degrees of temperature, but his little band of Antique Aussies were caught in the thrall of that August night in 1485.

The night before the battle, Malcolm told them, knowing that if he lost, he would die, Richard would have sought to be shriven. History tells us that there were no priests or chaplains available among Richard's forces, so what better place to find a confessor than in St. James Church. The church would have been quiet as Richard entered. A votive candle or rushlight would have burned in the nave, but nothing more. The only sound inside the building would have come from Richard himself as he moved from the doorway to kneel before the altar: the rustle of his fustian doublet (satin-lined, Malcolm informed his scholars, knowing the importance of detail to the Romantic Minded), the creak of leather from his heavy-soled battle shoes and from his scabbard, the clank of his sword and dagger as he- "Oh my goodness," a Romantic neo-Ricardian chirruped. "What sort of man would take swords and daggers into a church?"

Malcolm smiled winsomely He thought, A man who had a b.l.o.o.d.y good use for them, just the very things needed for a bloke who wanted to prise loose a stone. But what he said was, "Unusual, of course. One doesn't think of someone carrying weapons into a church, does one? But this was the night before the battle. Richard's enemies were everywhere. He wouldn't have walked into the darkness unprotected."

Whether the King wore his crown that night into the church, no one can say, Malcolm continued. But if there was a priest in the church to hear his confession, that same priest left Richard to his prayers soon after giving him absolution. And there in the darkness, lit only by the small rushlight in the nave, Richard made peace with his Lord G.o.d and prepared to meet the fate that the next day's battle promised him.

Malcolm eyed his audience, gauging their reactions and their attentiveness. They were entirely with him. They were, he hoped, thinking about how much they should tip him for giving a bravura performance in the deadly wind.

His prayers finished, Malcolm informed them, the King unsheathed his sword and dagger, set them on the rough wooden bench, and sat next to them. And there in the church, King Richard laid his plans to ruin Henry Tudor should the upstart be the victor in the morrow's battle. Because Richard knew that he held-and had always held-the whip hand over Henry Tudor.

He held it in life as a proven and victorious battle commander. He would hold it in death as the single force who could destroy the usurper.

"Goodness me," someone murmured appreciatively. Yes, Malcolm's listeners were fully atuned to the Romance of the Moment. Thank G.o.d.

Richard, he told them, wasn't oblivious of the scheming that had been going on between Henry Tudor and Elizabeth Woodville- widow of his brother Edward IV and mother of the two young Princes whom he had earlier placed in the Tower of London.

"The Princes in the Tower," another voice remarked. "That's the two little boys who-"

"The very ones," Malcolm said solemnly. "Richard's own nephews."

The King would have known that, holding true to her propensity for b.u.t.tering her bread not only on both sides but along the crust as well, Elizabeth Woodville had promised the hand of her eldest daughter to Tudor should he obtain the crown of England. But should Tudor obtain the crown of England on the morrow, Richard also knew that every man, woman, and child with a drop of York blood stood in grave danger of being eliminated- permanently-as a claimant to the throne. And this included Elizabeth Woodville's children.

He himself ruled by right of succession and by law. Descended directly-and more important legitimately-from Edward III he had come to the throne after the death of his brother Edward IV, upon the revelation of the licentious Edward's secret pledge of marriage to another woman long before his marriage to Elizabeth Woodville. This pledged contract of marriage had been made before a bishop of the church. As such, it was as good as a marriage performed with pomp and circ.u.mstance before a thousand onlookers, and it effectively made Edward's later marriage to Elizabeth Woodville bigamous at the same time as it b.a.s.t.a.r.dised all of their children.

Henry Tudor would have known that the children had been declared illegitimate by an Act of Parliament. He would also have known that, should he be victorious in his confrontation with Richard III, his tenuous claim to the throne of England would not be sh.o.r.ed up by marriage to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d daughter of a dead King. So he would have to do something about her illegitimacy.