The King's Grave: The Discovery of Richard III's Lost Burial Place and the Clues It Holds (36 page)

If the princes were at this stage still alive, Richard III could have quashed this conspiracy by parading them through the streets of London, a course undertaken by Henry VII in 1487 when the pretender Lambert Simnel announced that he was the Earl of Warwick, the Duke of Clarence’s son and heir. Henry immediately produced the real Earl of Warwick – held in custody in the Tower of London – and publicly displayed him. It is telling that Richard never undertook such an action.

Richard III’s responsibility for the deaths of the princes was not fabricated by the Tudors. It was the belief of many contemporary or near-contemporary sources. It is important to say that this verdict is not unanimous – a few sources implicated the Duke of Buckingham, or confessed that the ultimate fate of the princes was not known. But the majority believed that Richard was responsible for their deaths, including Dominic Mancini, our earliest source, along with the
Croyland Chronicler
and other near-contemporary London or foreign chronicles. And when new accounts are unearthed they tend to substantiate the same conclusion.

Such a survey needs to be nuanced. In his main narrative, the Croyland Chronicler was circumspect, reporting the general belief by September 1483 that the princes were dead, but also making clear that no one knew exactly what had happened to them. But elsewhere the chronicler revealed his own suspicion that Richard had ‘suppressed his brother’s progeny’.

Dominic Mancini was present in London in the summer of 1483 and vividly reported the fear of many ordinary citizens for Edward V’s fate. He recalled that the subject was so distressing that some would burst into tears when considering it. Mancini gave us a remarkable window on these events and caught the contemporary mood in the capital. He also had access to one of the closest attendants of Edward V, his physician John Argentine, who was dismissed from his service in July. Argentine poignantly reported how Edward now believed his death was approaching, and had received mass and confession every day in imminent expectation of such a fate. It was a chilling testimony. Mancini was honest enough to say that when he left London at the end of July 1483 the actual fate of the princes was not known. But his clear inference that they were either dead or in immediate danger of death is all the more convincing as a result.

Mancini provides us with a contemporary account. It was based on events of the summer of 1483 he personally witnessed or reported on and thus predated the Tudor tradition. So too was the accusation that Richard had done away with his nephews, made by the French chancellor Guillaume de Rochefort to the French Estates General at Tours in January 1484. This was a remarkable comment for de Rochefort to make. He has been described as a learned and rather staid personality, and his testimony cannot be dismissed merely as an anti-English diatribe. It may have been based on specific intelligence. When the German Nicolas von Poppelau visited Richard’s court in 1484 he was also interested in the fate of the princes. Some told him candidly that they had been done away with; others that they were still being held in some safe and secret place. Poppelau chose to believe the latter – unsurprisingly perhaps, since he dined regularly with the king. But it is striking that others had been so open with him.

Then there is the behaviour of the princes’ mother, the dowager queen Elizabeth Woodville. At the beginning of March 1484 she had come to an agreement with Richard III where she emerged from sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, and chose to deliver her daughters to the king’s safe-keeping. At first glance such an agreement seems incomprehensible if Elizabeth felt that Richard was guilty of her sons’ deaths. But we have to look carefully at the broader political context.

In the autumn of 1483 Elizabeth had chosen to support a rebellion against Richard III that sought to place Henry Tudor on the throne, on condition that he married her eldest daughter, Elizabeth of York. It is hard to countenance her embarking upon such a course – which would automatically disinherit her sons by Edward IV – unless she believed the princes already dead. The rebellion failed, and in its aftermath the dowager queen had to consider her political future. Richard had crushed the uprising with ease and Henry Tudor’s attempted invasion in its support had proved abortive. In its immediate aftermath, it must have seemed unlikely to Elizabeth that Tudor or anyone else would challenge Richard for the throne.

Nor was she secure in sanctuary at Westminster. The Yorkists had broken the rights of sanctuary before, when political necessity demanded it. Richard’s father, Richard, Duke of York, had forcibly taken Henry, Duke of Exeter from sanctuary at Westminster in 1454; Edward IV had done the same to those Lancastrians sheltering in Tewkesbury Abbey in 1471. And in the event, she only left Westminster Abbey on the security of the most solemn and public promise that Richard could provide. Placing his hands on the relics of the Holy Evangelists, the king swore in the presence of the lords and bishops of the realm, and the mayor and aldermen of London, that he would fully protect her and her daughters.

We may be surprised or repelled by such realpolitik. But these were violent and ruthless times, and we need to remember that Margaret of Anjou had made a similar deal in 1470, when she came to terms with her arch-enemy Warwick the Kingmaker, the man who had done so much to bring about her husband Henry VI’s deposition and the deaths of so many of her kinsmen and friends. Margaret was now a penniless exile in France, and in the hope of a return to political influence she agreed to the marriage of her son, the Lancastrian Prince Edward, to Warwick’s daughter Anne (who would subsequently – after Edward’s death at Tewkesbury – become Richard’s wife). This was an act of cynical realism that surprised even the hardened contemporary observer Philippe de Commynes.

By December 1484 relations between Elizabeth Woodville and Richard had thawed. Elizabeth sent her daughters to Richard’s court for Christmas and in February 1485 tried to persuade her son by her first marriage, Thomas, Marquis of Dorset, to abandon the cause of Henry Tudor and return to England. Again, the political context is all-important. A month earlier Tudor had fled from the protection of the Duke of Brittany to the French court of Charles VIII, and – on French encouragement – had subsequently proclaimed his right to the crown of England, styling himself as if he were already king. This proclamation reneged on Tudor’s earlier agreement with the Woodvilles that his right to the English throne rested solely on his marriage to Elizabeth of York. Again, this was realpolitik in action, and however remarkable it may seem, Tudor’s proclamation probably drove the Woodvilles closer to Richard III.

In the Middle Ages, English monarchs would publicly display the dead body of a rival adult claimant or political opponent to scotch all further insurrection on their behalf. Henry Tudor himself, lacking a legitimate claim of his own, went to great pains after Bosworth to display the remains of Richard III. But the princes were not adult rivals – they were innocent children. If Richard had decided to kill them, even with the greatest reluctance, it is hard to imagine him advertising the fact. King John was widely suspected of killing his young nephew Arthur of Brittany and Henry VIII of disposing of his young dynastic rival Henry Pole; neither monarch then chose to exhibit their bodies.

The Tudors portrayed Richard III as a merciless killer. I do not think he was. He was remarkably lenient to Margaret Beaufort, who organized the rebellion of 1483; Henry VIII had Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, executed for far less. And Richard did not harm his other nephew, Edward, Earl of Warwick. But Richard saw Clarence’s son and heir as part of the legitimate Yorkist family and even, according to John Rous, considered vesting the succession on him after the death of his own son, Edward of Middleham. Once the marriage between Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville had been declared invalid, their two sons – the Princes in the Tower – were cast from its ranks and Richard regarded their claims to the throne, which would nevertheless have commanded support, as illegitimate and damaging.

I do not believe Richard wished to kill the princes. But after the failed attempt of July 1483 to rescue them from the Tower of London – an attempt that was recorded by the contemporary chronicler Thomas Basin and confirmed by the later researches of the antiquary John Stow in the early seventeenth century – what other choice did he have? Leaving them alive imperilled the future of his dynasty.

Some contemporary chroniclers implicated the Duke of Buckingham in the decision. That Richard took the decision on the advice of the duke, perhaps some time in early August 1483, is entirely plausible. For Buckingham to have done the deed on his own authority is far less so. It is widely accepted that even if Richard were present in the Tower on the night Henry VI was murdered, in 1471, the responsibility for that decision rested with the reigning monarch, Edward IV. A similar logic must be applied to the events of 1483.

It is important to look for historical parallels. We need to remember that when Henry IV deposed Richard II in 1399, Richard’s subsequent murder took place not after the deposition itself, but after the first attempt to rescue him, made around Christmas of that year. Faced with a rebellion against his rule, one that sought to put Richard back on the throne, Henry took the decision to kill an anointed king – cruel though it was – to safeguard the future of his own Lancastrian dynasty.

The argument here is based on probability not certainty. And there is much about Buckingham’s behaviour in the summer of 1483 that we do not fully understand. But the historical evidence as it stands indicates the likelihood of Richard taking the decision to kill the princes, however reluctantly. It is important that the debate continues and we continue to think and enquire openly about the issue. Here the evaluations of graphology or psychological profiling can add to our broader thinking about the man and his times. But on this crucial issue they can never be a substitute for historical methodology. At present, that methodology points to Richard’s guilt.

APPENDIX 2

Richard III: A Psychological Portrait

Historical debate and psychological profiling

I
T IS THE
intention of this book to open out the debate about Richard III. As such, the commissioning of a psychological analysis of Richard is of real interest. A précis or short summary of this is offered in this appendix. The intention is to offer a fresh perspective on Richard’s life and allow the reader a different way of engaging with him. It is not being offered as a substitute for historical argument, rather to complement some of the ideas in this book.

Psychological profiling of historical figures is still in its infancy. Professor Mark Lansdale and Julian Boon do not bring a preconceived agenda to their assessment – and the openness of their approach breaks some of the moulding of Richard’s life and personality that took place under the hostile Tudor dynasty. But they have also acknowledged that their approach has its limitations as well as its strengths.

We can find much common ground with figures from the medieval past, but in a number of important respects they were also very different from us. They had a far stronger collective sense of family and saw themselves as actors on this family stage, rather than individuals operating independently from it. Psychological profiling is a system that we in the twenty-first century can easily identify with – and it offers us a bridge to the past. Its values would be more alien to a medieval audience and we need to be aware of this.

Late medieval society operated under a different belief system to our own. It was a far more violent era, where life expectancy was shorter and much more fraught with risks. And yet it also had its own certainties: a way of seeing the world – whether through the lens of a Catholic religion yet to be challenged by the Reformation, or the warrior code of chivalry – that allowed an individual a sense of destiny and the possibility of redemption that we in our modern era would struggle to comprehend.

We ask the reader to remember this. And once again, the précis of the profile is not being offered as a replacement for a historical assessment of Richard’s life and death. However, it is hoped that its fresh frame of reference and insights will be stimulating and thought-provoking.

The following is a précis by a member of the Richard III Society of an article published in the
Ricardian Bulletin
in March 2013.

In 2011, as part of the Looking for Richard project, Philippa Langley commissioned two leading psychologists, one specializing in forensic psychology, to use their science in an experiment to see if we could learn anything new about Richard III and the kind of human being he really was.

They first explored one crucial issue: was he a murderous psychopath? For him to be so, he would be likely to exhibit a number of traits. The first of these is narcissism, a characteristic which manifests itself in extreme egotism combined with indifference to the feelings of others. Richard, however, appeared to be appropriate in his dress and was a natural leader of his people. Secondly there is cowardice, a quality conspicuous by its absence in the battles in which he fought. If Richard had displayed this characteristic, no doubt the Tudor historians would have seized upon it to denigrate him further. Machiavellianism, the use of cunning and duplicity in political dealings, was also considered. Richard’s open disapproval of his brother’s dealings with the French in 1475 was not in keeping with such an attitude. Finally, Richard’s interpersonal relationships were studied. A psychopath has no conscience in exploiting and manipulating people, yet Richard was able to form trusting and positive relationships.

A number of psychological approaches were then considered that might lead us to the ‘real’ Richard. In medieval times a physical disability might be seen as an outward manifestation of inner wickedness. The extent of Richard’s scoliosis was severe and, despite possible attempts at concealment, they conjectured that it was probably visible. Richard could have believed his condition was a failing within himself and therefore may have had feelings of guilt which could have made him defensive and behave with caution. He might have accepted it as the will of God; alternatively he could have felt rage and defiance, but Richard was known for his piety. His condition may have affected his dealings with others though, as we have already seen, he had no difficulty in forging strong relationships with others, a characteristic that continued during his reign as king.