A scene with Richard III

November 2nd is a significant date on the Yorkist calendar. On this day in 1483, the rebel Duke of Buckingham was executed for treason. It is also important for another reason, which you’ll discover when you read the following scene. Buckingham had been brought to Salisbury the day before, given a trial, albeit one where the verdict was a foregone conclusion, and sentenced to die. He’d pleaded to speak with Richard, who refused to see him. In this scene, Francis Lovell and Richard’s nephew, Jack de la Pole, have sought him out to tell him the execution has been carried out. I chose the cloisters of Salisbury Cathedral because it is such a lovely setting and I had it in mind to contrast the tranquil peace of his surroundings with Richard’s inner turmoil.
Sunne, pages 1037-1039
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Shaded by cedar trees, bathed in blinding sunlight, the cloisters of St Mary offered a refuge of awesome beauty, an almost unearthly quiet. Richard was seated on a bench in the south walkway; he looked up as they approached, rose to his feet.
By common consent, they all moved up the east walkway, sought the greater privacy of the Chapter House. Richard waited until Francis had closed the door and then said only, “It’s done?”
Francis nodded, waited for questions that didn’t come. Richard had begun to wander aimlessly about the chamber, gazing up at the soaring ceiling, the lofty tinted windows that splashed vivid violet and ruby shades of sunlight upon the floor, upon the faces of the two men watching him.
“Will Hastings tried to warn me,” he said at last, not looking at either man as he spoke. “He told me I was a fool to trust Buckingham. ‘Ned made more than his share of mistakes,’ he said, ‘but Buckingham was not one of them.’ Buckingham, he said, was mine.”
Omitted passages where Francis and Jack try to convince Richard that “You cannot blame yourself because you trusted the man. He’d given you reason for trust, after all.”
“Yes,” Richard said tonelessly. “I trusted him. And because I did, my brother’s sons are dead.” He turned to face them both, saw that neither one knew how to answer him. “Tell me,” he said abruptly. “Tell me how he died, Francis.”
They tell him that Buckingham died badly, begging for an audience with Richard right up until the time he was taken out to the block.
“I told him there was no way on God’s earth you’d ever consent to see him and he….well, he forgot all pride, all dignity.” A shadow of distaste crossed Francis’s face, bordering on revulsion. “I’ve never seen a man show his fear so nakedly,” he said slowly.
“Does that surprise you so much, Francis? After all, the man knew he was facing eternal damnation. Would you not be fearful to go before the Throne of God with so great a sin upon your soul?”
Francis was shaking his head. “No, Jack,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not think it was that sort of fear. It seemed to be purely physical, a fear of the axe, of death itself. When he saw there was no hope, he began to plead for time, for a day’s grace. He reminded the priests that it was All Soul’s Day, entreated them to intercede with you, Dickon, to persuade you to postpone the execution until the morrow.”
“Did he, by God?” Richard was staring at Francis. “And that’s all today did mean to him…that it is All Soul’s Day?”
Francis was at a loss. “Dickon?”
Richard turned away. He could feel it starting to slip, the rigid self-control he’d been clinging to these past three weeks, and he bit down now on his lower lip until he tasted blood.
“Today,” he said unevenly, “would have been Edward’s thirteenth birthday.”
* * *
We’ll most likely never know the fate of the “princes in the Tower.” But I remain just as convinced today as I was while researching and writing Sunne so many years ago that the Duke of Buckingham remains the prime suspect.