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Back to life

 

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I can hear the clash of swords and halberds

I see him, he will be mine

I go straight towards my target

I need to do it for my people, my kingdom, myself

nothing is lost yet.

My horse runs, the drum in my chest beats fast

my breath warms my face under the helmet,

this is my moment.

The noises of the battle are roaring for me

my knights are ready

the White Boar will win.  Again.

Suddenly my horse stops, I fall down

I need to fight on my feet.

Soldiers  are waiting for me in the storm of the battle

They look at me, I look in their eyes

but hatred and rage burn

I can see the fire of treason.

Alone.  I feel alone

the clash of swords and halberds is upon me now.

I fight with all my strength against my assailants.

Something enters my body,

I feel the acute pain of metal in my flesh

I am falling, my helmet is lost, nothing can save me now.

All is lost.

The White Rose is losing his petals,

something warm and red is covering my face

I can taste blood in my mouth

the White Boar can’t win anymore

treachery is murdering him.

My crown is lost, my kingdom is lost, life is abandoning me.

Oh Lord, save my soul.

Silence and darkness.

The noises of battle are distant now.

I can’t hear them anymore.

I see my naked body viciously mistreated

but I don’t feel pain nor the blood in my mouth

just the bitter taste of loneliness.

Time goes by. Years, decades, centuries

but I am not ready to be found.

Slanders and hate on my name

I am a monster now, the most maligned monarch ever

Richard the murderer, the hunchbacked king.

I lay here in the darkness.

I can hear the monks’ choir, the horses’ hooves

the carriages’ wheels, the roar of iron lions upon me

but I am not ready yet.

Finally,  my day arises.

It’s the same day I was hidden to the world

the day they stopped looking at my abused body

and put an unnamed gravestone on what remained of me.

Today, I will rise again

I have chosen my rescuer who will bring me back to life.

No clash of swords and halberds

just the mercy  of all those who love me, who trust in me

who still fight on my side, the ones I chose for my rebirth.

The White Rose of the Boar will blossom once again for them.

the-rose-of-york.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written passing by Bosworth by Maria Grazia L. Leotta

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Colyngbourne was the rat….!

Colingbourne's buddies

The following passage is from The Darlington and Stockton Times

“The rat, the cat and Lovel our dog,
Rule all England under a hog.”

“This seemingly innocuous verse was in fact a searing criticism of those in power at the time it was written in 1484, and was found pinned to the door of St Paul’s Cathedral and other prominent places all over London. The rat was King Richard III’s confidante, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the cat was Speaker of the Commons William Catesby, and Lovel was Viscount Lovel, who had a reputation for being the king’s ‘lap dog’ or ‘yes man’. King Richard’s emblem was a white boar, hence the reference to a hog.

“The poet was ultimately unmasked and found to be wealthy landowner William Collingbourne, a fierce opponent of the king, and he paid a heavy price for writing those few words as he was put to death for treason.”

Oh well, yet another writer who doesn’t realise that it wasn’t the verse that got Colyngbourne executed, but the treasonous plotting in which he was involved!

Here is the truth. Colyngbourne set himself against Richard III from the outset. He seems to have been caught up in Buckingham’s rebellion, apparently in favour of Henry Tudor. Clearly the fellow preferred a Lancastrian with no claim at all to the throne, to a king who was legally and truly on the throne.  

On 10 July, 1483 or 1484, Colyngbourne contacted Richard’s enemies, including Henry Tudor, “to declare unto them that they should very well to return into England with all such power as they might get before the feast of St Luke the Evangelist” (which was 18 October) and “to advise the French king, that negotiations with Richard were useless as the new King meant to make war on France.” He urged Tudor to invade and land at Poole. (Which Tudor did indeed try to do—unsuccessfully—during Buckingham’s Rebellion in October 1483). 

Colyngbourne was certainly stirring up dangerous trouble against Richard. His motives aren’t really known. He could simply have been in a miff for having lost positions, including that of being steward of the Wiltshire lands of the king’s mother, the Duchess of York. This position went to Francis Lovell, which probably accounts for the latter’s inclusion in the infamous lampoon. 

Whatever Colyngbourne’s reasons, he paid the price of communicating with and encouraging the exiled Henry Tudor to invade Richard’s realm and land at Poole. No king could let this pass without punishment, so Colyngbourne was arrested, tried, (rightly) found guilty and executed on Tower Hill. 

Yet even today, writers repeat that it was the verse that cost him his duplicitous life. According to Tudor author Edward Hall, Colyngbourne was executed “for making a small rhyme”. This was a charge that was picked up on by later writers, until Charles Ross corrected it, saying that Hall had carefully suppressed “the fact that the real indictment against him was that he had been encouraging Henry Tudor to land at Poole”.  

If I’d been Richard, I’d have condemned such a traitor as well! 

Wikipedia gives a fair account of Colynbourne’s activities.

 

 

Something unexpected

After eleven revelatory history books in a decade, and two more forthcoming, this51ohY7c6V6L is very different. I wonder whether any of the subject matter is relevant to his research? There is only one way to find out.

A Weir(d) Myth-take: The Legend of Joan of York

After the time of long barrenness,

God first send Anne, which signifyth grace,

In token that at her heart’s heaviness,

He as for barrenness would from them chase.

Harry, Edward, Edmund, each in his place

Succeeded; and after twain daughter came

Elizabeth and Margaret, and afterwards William.

John after William next born was,

Which both be passed to God’s grace:

George was next, and after Thomas.

Born was, which son after did pace.

By the path of death into the heavenly place

Richard liveth yet; but the last of all

Was Ursula, to Him who God’s list call.

Above is the section of the famous Clare Roll where the children of Richard Duke of York and his wife Cecily Neville are all, quite clearly, listed.

 However, you could be forgiven in thinking that there was another York child who mysteriously got left off the list—a daughter called Joan. The eldest daughter of the Duke and his wife, no less.

A number of sites on the internet, both informational and genealogical,  firmly state Joan of York was Richard and Cecily’s firstborn child, a short-lived daughter named after her maternal grandmother, Joan Beaufort. Several books have appeared that mention Joan, mostly notably one by Alison Weir and a later one by Amy Licence. A birthdate of 1438 has appeared for the mysterious Joan, and York was posited as her birthplace.

 So what is the truth about this putative daughter? The truth is, it would seem—Joan of York never existed, and not only that, her ‘birth’ only took  place in the later 20th c!

The first mention of her was in Weir’s book Britain’s Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy. Now Alison Weir is a hugely well-known popular ‘historian’ and many of her acolytes believe her research is impeccable, and henceforth the misinformation about Joan passed, without being questioned,  into general ‘knowledge’ and remained undisputed for a considerable amount of time.

 Apparently, the unfortunate error occurred when erroneous information was gleaned from a 1960’s geneaology chart. I am quite stunned the author used the reference without any additional verification, since it is well-known that some compilers of family trees frequently hove in ‘ancestors’ such as King Arthur , Ivar the Boneless, Jabba the Hutt and any other number of unlikely figures. (In fairness to Alison Weir, she has now admitted that Joan’s existence is doubtful and will be removing her from future editions of the book. Whether Ms Licence will also remove references to Joan from her works is at present unknown.)

 It is quite mystifying why anyone would doubt the veracity of the  Clare Rolls (or the other medieval documents that published a similar list) especially when it was specifically stated that Anne was the first child, born after ‘long barrenness’, and all the other  short-lived York children such as Henry  and Thomas were accounted for.

 What is striking and of interest to me in particular is how such errors can be quickly accepted as canon without question. At least the odd myth that Richard III had seven, yes, seven, bastards, (also, I believe, included in an edition of Alison Weir’s Complete Genealogy book) including Tudor poet Stephen Hawes, whose only connection with Richard seems to be in a vintage novel, never seemed to gain much if any credence. (Richard surely has enough myth and rumour surrounding him without adding additional dubious stories.)

 So hopefully Joan of York, the girl who never existed, will finally be laid to rest, alongside many of the other myths  that have attached themselves to Richard and his family over the years…

 

mythnot-for-babies

The Last Plantagenet by Bob Ferdinand

Poet Bob Ferdinand wrote this sonnet about Richard and entered it into the Nebraska Shakespeare Sonnet Contest last summer, winning second prize (should have been first!)

Graham Turner painting of Richard III at Bosworth killing William Brandon

The Battle of Bosworth by artist Graham Turner, copyright Graham Turner. N.B. Prints and cards of this and many other Ricardian scenes are available – click on the picture above 

The Last Plantagenet

In August, at late Summer’s teeming height,
The last Plantagenet rode forth one day
Defying Fortune, rising to the fight
And risking all in battle’s bloodied fray.

He stood resolved which course he must pursue
To stem the sham of Richmond’s royal claim
A final thrust could see the battle through
To ride straight for The Tudor was his aim.

Surrounded by the pride of England’s might
With heart set high he charged the foe pell-mell
Within the deepest folds of battle’s fright
King Richard strove- he sought, he fought, he fell.

A King he lived and died, without regret-
On Bosworth Field the Sun in Splendor set.

© Bob Ferdinand

Would we understand Richard, if we were whisked back in time?

Photo of a parrot

I have often wondered what Richard’s voice sounded like. Did he have a low or high tone to his voice, was it rich, nasal, reedy, soft? What was his accent like? Would it be like a Midlands accent, as has been proposed, or would there be hints of Yorkshire? Did he have a good singing voice? And what about the manner of speech, sentence contruction and pronunciation of those times? Well, maybe the latter can be answered by listening to this 500-year-old poem about a parrot!

Click here to go to the poem on You Tube.

N.B. Sorry about the reference to H8!

 

Image credit: By Duncan Rawlinson from Vancouver, BC (flickr) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

THE WHITE ROSE: A POEM FOR RICHARD

Several years ago I was out at Bosworth to attend an author signing with one of my favourite Ricardian authors, Sharon Penman, who wrote the mighty epic The Sunne in Splendour. We were staying in the Royal Arms at Sutton Cheney, which has a public room filled with armour, memorabilia, paintings of the battle and of Richard and Tudor (I put the latter at my back!)

Our room was in an annexe that looked out over the fields. The light was grey, heavy; the soil of the field, newly ploughed, glistening after rain, looked red. Redemore. The Red Plain. In the distance the hedges wore little crowns of mist, and a single dark-winged crow sat on the fence, its shrill cry breaking a strange stillness. A haunting place.

We went to bed. In the night we heard rain drumming on the roof. We turned over,slept.  In the early hours of the morning,  I was woken by a ruckus overhead. There was crashes and bangs as if someone, or more like multiple someones, were streaming, charging over the roof of the building. I began to fancy them as hoofbeats and laughed at myself and my infamous imagination.  It must surely be the hotel staff doing something in a room above us…but why the heck were they doing it pre-dawn when they had guests?

The sounds clattered away into nothingess. I went back to sleep. Later, when  we got up and went to pack our things in the car, I looked back towards the building.

There was no upstairs room above ours.

This poem came out of that night….

THE WHITE ROSE

I walked upon Bosworth field,
the soil red beneath my feet
as rain pelted from a stormy sky
in a grey and stony sheet

Sutton Cheney’s stolid tower
was an upturned bucket in the mist
and the whole rolling landscape
a haunted vista twilight kissed.

Why do I feel such strangling sorrow
in that lonely, empty space
where amongst the bristling hedges
the small birds dart and race

soaring like souls into a sky
unchanged by the passing years,
still on this sullen summer’s day
pouring out its bitter tears.

I found a crooked, winding path
that crossed a farmer’s land…
so plain and oh so ordinary
you might dismiss it out of hand

But I knew that here was the place
where a banner once soared on high,
and a White Boar fighting rose and fell,
a betrayed man consigned to die

So history was written
and legends false and foul were born,
birthed out of blood and treachery
on a red-tinged summer’s morn

The victor writes the pages,
speechless dead cannot defend
but I swore I would speak for him
both now and till the end.

And when I returned later
to my little rented room
at midnight I heard thunder
like a banging drum of doom

or was it something greater
that tore across the brooding sky,
passing in flashes over Bosworth…
what does it really mean to die?

Westward like winter’s geese
I saw pale horsemen flying
while the echoes of ghostly horns,
drifted outward, fading, dying….

And on the rain-bright road
its petals teared with icy rain
lay a perfect snow-white rose…
King Richard rides again.

J.P. Reedman

 

Art by Frances Quinn

Treason from a Scottish perspective

This article tells the story of Scottish treason in the time of William Wallace, Robert I and afterwards, through the tradition of oral history. The image below is supposedly of Hugh le Despenser the Younger, although there must be some cases more relevant to Scotland.

execution-of-hugh-despenser-the-younger-1

THE LEGENDARY TEN SECONDS–RICARDIAN CHRISTMAS SONG OUT SOON

 

A new single by the LEGENDARY TEN SECONDS  is being released on iTunes and Amazon on December 1.

MIDDLEHAM CASTLE ON CHRISTMAS EVE was written by Ian Churchward and Frances Quinn, who also painted the cover art, showing a ghostly party riding through the snow towards the ruined castle.

Frances, who lives in Dublin, Ireland, had this to say on her participation in The Legendary Ten Seconds’ latest project:

“I did the painting first and then got the idea for the poem-I found a photo of the castle in the snow on the net & because I painted it on blue paper it looked like nightime,so I added the ghosts & then wrote the poem. Alcohol may have played a part in it too! (laughter)
 These ideas just pop into my head. Mead of inspiration,y’know…and all that!”
Frances had been doing Ricardian themed art for several years; she also does pagan, fantasy and animal subjects–especially dogs and horses. Her artwork has appeared in John Ashdown-Hill’s THE MYTHOLOGY OF RICHARD III,  and on the covers of I RICHARD PLANTAGENET I and II by  J.P. Reedman, and N. Rose’s BEARNSHAW series.

Bang on the nose….!

david_starkey3

I have just come upon the following couplet, concerning a historian’s mistakes:-

‘Others to some faint meaning make pretence
But (——–) never deviates into sense.’

Well, the original two-syllabled name fled from my mind, to be replaced by another of similar construction. Starkey! Yes, folks, a couplet entirely suited to him.

‘Others to some faint meaning make pretence
But Starkey never deviates into sense.’

A Loon strikes back!

 

 

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