Richard of Eastwell

By Mark J.T. Griffin

August 1485, a young boy sees his friends slaughtered at the Battle of Bosworth. Sixty-five years later in the village of Eastwell the parish church records the death of a stone mason. The name recorded: Richard Plantagenet Who was the old man Was he one of Richard III's illegitimate children Was he an impostor taking on royal airs and graces Or was the old man Richard, son of Edward IV and one of the princes in the tower. Richard of Eastwell tells the remarkable story of talented master mason who survived turbulent times and kept an extraordinary secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447636427

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Muse of Fire

The book Desiderata Curiosa,published in 1735, states that in the parish register of Eastwell in Kent there is a notice of burial.

Nothing unusual in that, one might say.

However, it documents the burial of one Rychard Plantagenet, a man of noble birth, who died in 1550..."

In Leicestershire on an August morning over five centuries ago, in the year of 1485, the armies of King Richard III of England and Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, faced each other at Ambion Hill near the town of Market Bosworth.

The battle which followed was one of the three most important in the country's history, on a par with the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and the Battle of Britain over the skies of London in 1940.

Neither of the two main characters, King Richard III, a Yorkist, nor Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a Lancastrian, had a particularly strong claim to the throne. Richard, it is said, had usurped the crown from his nephew. Henry was merely the son of one of the more obscure noble houses of England and at the time that Richard became king in 1483, Henry was in exile in France.

Now, imagine, if you would, a 13-year old boy, standing nervously in the tree line on a wooded hillside and looking down on to a vast plain where two armies form to face each other in the gathering sunshine.

There is little sound to be heard except the distant jangling of steel against steel, horses whinnying and the barely audible strains of a bawdy song to keep spirits high.

Noble armoured warriors, hot and afraid in chain mail and breastplate, gripping tightly to reins, say a prayer under their breaths for victory, while their horses chomp impatiently at the bit and pound the ground with impatient hooves.

Archers draw out their arrows from the quiver and stab them in a semi-circle in the marshy ground at their feet and stretch their bows to check tension and aim. Their action will be the first.

Lesser men are marshalled by weary captains and are stood in ragged rank and file leaning on their pikes ready for the order to march forward against the not so distant enemy prepared against the tree line. They bite their lips in anticipation for sharp steel awaiting them across the meadows.

Ripped and tattered banners with the wild boar on one side of the field and the Welsh dragon on the other flutter gently in the breeze.

Suddenly the calm is broken by a battle cry, the king, a golden circlet on his helm, draws his sword and raises it into the air. The weapon has seen many a fight and the sight of it as it glints in the sunlight brings a roar of recognition from his men.

The king's army begins to move towards the Welsh pretender. Arrows fly, and bury themselves into flesh. Men fall. The single shot sound of cannon and musket crack tests the will of opponents. Blinding smoke fills the air adding to the confusion and fear.

The boy watches it all. He removes himself and sees the battle as an out-of-body experience. Part of it but apart. Safe but too close for security. He watches the murder, the bodies falling, maimed, killed and dead. Over on the hill below Cotam village a small force waits. An old man, armoured and on a black warhorse watches the plain intensely, choosing his moment and on which side to bring his forces. His decision will be simple. For king and honour or for stepson, riches and treachery. 

Through the smoke the boy sees the king take decisive action. He leads a band of brothers, which includes the boy’s uncle carrying the king’s banner, towards the enemy standard. With the king at its head the wedge hacks a way through towards the standard and the small group of traitors at its foot.

Away on the hill the old man spurs his small force into the fray and rides down towards the melee.

Meanwhile, the king and his men move inextricably towards the inner circle spurring their horses through the tangle of broken men. Suddenly there is a wall tightly packed between them and their target. Horses tumble and fall. Men struggle for survival. The king's horse falls. The king falls. He rises again. From potential glory, chaos now reigns.

He falls again. He stands to swing his blade in an arc and some too close to him fall. He swings it again and a wide circle has opened up around the swirling blade, soldiers now wary of its edge. Then, a pike pushes at the king's back. And another. And another. The king falls again in a hail of blows.

For a moment he is lost from view. Around him his friends are fallen too, no one to rescue him now as they drown in a sea of steel butchery tools.

Then in the moment of defeat there is an eerie silence and a cry that seems to rise above the noise.

Treason! the voice cries, Treason!! again it screams, then, Treason!!! And the hated voice is silenced.

The boy is struck dumb with terror, not knowing whether to run or hide. Tears stream down his cheeks and he drops to his knees cowering in the grass, covering his eyes and ears from the sights and sounds. He rocks for comfort and sobs uncontrollably into his lap.

Then the voice comes into his head, …fly my boy…fly….FLY!!!

He looks up afraid and wary. He is still alone. He stands shakily, looks towards the smoke and action. He takes a hesitant step backward then he turns and runs. Some yards on he stops again in panic - surely he did not see what he saw?

And the voice cries again, Fly my boy, run! RUN! Run for your life!!!

Then, the boy runs as if death is close at his heels. He runs through bush, brook and spinney, jumping fences and hedge, jumping ditch and dyke until he is far, far away from the sorrowful butchery of Bosworth Field, which is now etched painfully on his heart.

Chapter 2: Eastwell Manor Hotel

Jon looked down at the clock on the dashboard. All being well they should be off the M25 and at the hotel by seven at the latest.

It’s a nice place. You’ll like it! Jon said reassuring his wife.

I hate these ‘channel tunnel’ hotels – they tend to be just like every other chain hotel - cold, impersonal and all the rooms seem to reek of cigarette smoke.

Precisely why I chose this one, sweetheart. Here, he said and delved in the car door panel pocket and handed her the hotel leaflet.

Eastwell Manor, she read, now a luxury hotel, was built in the early 1500’s and still has much of its character and former glory. A sumptuous welcome awaits you! Does sound good. Where is it?

I think just a few miles from Ashford. We should be there just in time for dinner.

Great! Wake me when we get there! his wife said, hastily converting Jon’s jacket into a pillow. 

Jon smiled. This was pretty much par for the course – her sister was just the same. They could sleep through a nuclear attack or the arrival of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Within minutes, with the gentle hum of the road and some chill out music on the CD, she was fast asleep.

They had both had a busy week and the family gathering in Haarlem over the weekend would be fun but exhausting as socialising can sometimes be. At just turned seven Jon turned into the gravel drive of Eastwell Manor Hotel.

Els, sweetheart, we’re here…. Jon said gently stirring his wife.

A little wearily they unloaded the car and the doorman helped them with what seemed like an awful lot of bags for a long weekend.

For such an old place the building was light and airy. Jon stepped up to the reception and began filling in the registration card. 

Sir, if you could sign there and I’ll just take an imprint of your credit card.

With that they were handed the key and shown to the room. It was spacious with a view over the formal Elizabethan gardens.

Els flopped onto the bed, Ah! This is the life eh?

Yes and you ought to get your skates on or we’ll miss dinner.

Well, give me an hour and I’ll be pristine! I have to have a quick bath.

Within a few minutes Jon had washed, shaved and dressed. Rather than watch TV he browsed through a small library on the dresser. Wedged between a book on Gardens of Kent and Thai Cookery he found a rather battered copy of a booklet called Eastwell – A Short History. It was a cheaply-made pamphlet, having been written and produced by a group of local historians. He found a piece about the hotel.

Eastwell Manor, now a hotel, was built to order by Sir Thomas Moyle, once Speaker of the House of Commons and advisor to the Tudor King Henry VII….was built by a local tradesman, including one purported to be the illegitimate son of Richard III, last Plantagenet king of England and killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485……the grave of Richard Plantagenet is in the grave yard of Eastwell Church, now disused.

Jon closed the book. He liked a good mystery and this struck him as having potential. At that moment Els opened the bathroom door wrapped in bath towels and glowing.

You look great but I think a dress and shoes are probably more appropriate for the restaurant, Jon said smirking.

Very funny! Are you ready?

Sure, Jon said reluctantly putting down the book on the pillow, …what do you know about Richard the Third?

Oh, King with the hunchback, wicked and evil. Killed his nephews in the tower.

"I know. Has it ever struck you that he’s too evil? Too wicked? Almost pantomime bad."

I guess, but then most of what we know is the picture painted by Shakespeare. Remember that production at the RSC in Stratford, with Antony Sher – 1984 was it?

Yeah, I know. Superb, but Bill’s account is based on Thomas More's accounts written during the reign of Henry the Seventh, which was based on hearsay, Tudor propaganda and many years after Richards death.

What’s brought all this on? The Richard thing?

Oh, just this book I’ve been reading. He picked up the booklet and flicked through it again.

Come on Jon, Els said chivvying her husband along, we can talk more over dinner – though I hope the conversation’s going to be a little more romantic. She twirled in front of the mirror.

You look fantastic, and he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on her shoulders, …mmm best tasting thing to come out of Holland, well ‘cept for Oude Gouda and Calve Pindakaas!

I can see you’re back to your usual self, she smirked, come on, I’m starved.

Dinner was elegant and fine with an excellent range. Jon even treated himself to the plate of English cheeses and not driving added the obligatory glass of vintage Calem port.

Els and Jon sat in the lounge after dinner and took coffee and petit fours. This was certainly a little more civilised than an over night at one of those motorway lodges.

With an early morning and a long day ahead of them, at around ten thirty they went back to their room and to a bed which they sunk into as soon as their heads hit the pillow.

That night Jon dreamt. He dreamt of castles and kings, princes and knights, Tudor gardens and manor houses. He dreamt of silk robes and velvet cloaks, ornate tapestries and sumptuous banquets, bitter battles and twisted plots.

Then a boy entered his dreams, almost a man, but not quite yet an adolescent. The boy looked proud and regal but was dressed in plain attire. A prince amongst men but perhaps not a prince. At his side, tucked under his leather buff coat was a black silk purse. The boy guards the purse carefully. It is a gift from someone that was once close to him and holds the boy’s future. 

Chapter 3: Forest of Arden- 1485

Richard awoke with a start in the chill-gathering dawn. It was bitter cold and he wrapped his woollen cloak around himself for warmth. With his head on the turf of earth amongst the bracken his bones ached and he tried to gather his thoughts.

The night before he had met his friend and in an exchange of clothes, food and chattels he was now heading south towardss Warwick and his confederate east towardss the port of Hull and a ship; perhaps escape to a new life in the Low Countries.

He tried to work out where he was. He had run for at least an hour and then walked the rest of the afternoon with the sun always in front of him, until dusk made it too dark to walk in safety.

By his reckoning he had probably covered 25 miles from the village of Atherstone and the battlefield which put him a little to the north of Warwick.

Well, perhaps he would find a friend in Warwick – his nurse’s family had had friends in the town – he could seek them out. He would consider his next move as he walked.

His provisions and belongings were few, other than what he stood up in; he had an apple and a little bread in his cloth knapsack together with his treasured pocket books including The Tales of Ovid. On his person he had his money pouch, which he elected to hide in his breaches in case of robbers. He still didn’t know how much was in the pouch but it seemed a sizeable sum. He also had the dagger, the prayer book and the signet ring that his late regal benefactor had given him.

All in all he wasn’t badly off – he was alive, though a little stiff and he had a purpose. The sun was now rising weakly on the horizon and he decided he should get on his way making as much time as possible before he could be spotted. He decided to continue his journey through the woodland – it would be quieter, though slower, but he was not convinced that he could trust anyone he met.

Occasionally he stopped and picked the late blackberries, which clung to the thorn bushes. They were almost inedible but filled a hole in his rumbling stomach. The thorns pricked and scratched his hands as he picked them and the berries turned his fingers purple but he was glad of the meagre sustenance all the same.

As he walked he took deep breaths of fresh air, which filled his lungs and gave him a spring in his step. Within an hour or so, through the trees, he could see the tower of Warwick church on the horizon. He looked at the sky. It was inky black and leadened – a storm was brewing. Suddenly, some yards to the right of his path he heard a noise. Instinctively he slunk behind a tree and, with his heart in his