Past McDonald’s and KFC, last of the Plantagenets makes his final journey...
The sense of history was electrifying
FIVE centuries after supposedly uttering the most famous last wish in the English language, Richard III was finally rewarded yesterday evening. ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!’ he is said to have cried in his dying moments. Last night, watched by tens of thousands of onlookers and millions of television viewers, the most vilified monarch in our history was carried to his last resting place on a gun carriage hauled by two dark mares and a pair of handsome geldings called Egor and Hagrid.
You wait 529 years for a horse and four come at once.
This was, surely, one of the strangest royal processions in history, the mortal remains of the last of the Plantagenets making slow, stately progress through central Leicester’s pedestrian precincts, led by a pair of mounted knights in armour. As the city’s bells tolled his passing, the ex-king made his way past KFC, McDonald’s and the rest.
And lo, His Majesty came to TK Maxx – where the management had loyally draped a Richard III banner from a gantry.
Colossal crowds – ten deep in places, from all faiths and backgrounds – packed the centre of Britain’s most multi-cultural city as his mortal remains made their way to Leicester Cathedral where Richard will henceforth spend eternity.
Last night, at a royal service of Compline, the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster delivered the homily, reflecting the fact that Richard had died a (pre-Reformation) Catholic. The Archbishop of Canterbury will preside later in the week.
The Blue Boar Inn, where Richard spent his last night alive (he slept little, despite bringing his own bed), is long gone, replaced by a Travelodge. Leicester’s medieval heart now sports the livery of Subway, Poundland, Greggs and umpteen bookmakers. It’s also home to the very first Thomas Cook travel agency. But the sense of history here last night was electrifying.
The idea of mourning a pantomime villain who died nearly 530 years ago, having very possibly ordered the murder of his two young nephews, might seem utterly absurd. Yet there was a genuine poignancy to the respectful hush.
Some threw Yorkist white roses on the passing coffin. Strange shades of the funeral procession of Princess Diana in 1997. The atmosphere was, of course, wholly different. And yet, this was an event which could not fail to remind us of the unique, mysterious visceral hold which royalty has on our affections.
At one point, mounted police had to join in and clear a path through the streets. It would be hard to imagine greater crowds should Leicester City ever get round to winning the FA Cup.
Earlier, around the Bosworth battlefield where Richard came to a violent end in August 1485, he was greeted with periodic applause from thousands who had lined the roads, many of them carrying white roses.
Half a millennium on, the War of the Roses still evokes strong emotions. There remain many who believe passionately that Richard should have been buried in York – in the heart of his old northern powerbase – rather than Leicester. Leeds taxi driver Shaun Dixon had not only come to pay his respects yesterday but had even gone to the trouble of commissioning and unfurling a banner proclaiming: ‘If the King can’t come to Yorkshire, Yorkshire will come to the King.’ It was shortly before 11am that the infamous son of York emerged into the sunshine through the front door of the University of Leicester for his seven- hour procession around the county (there’s another four days of this post-medieval mayhem before Richard is actually buried).
Among the crowd, I found North- amptonshire teacher Barbara Crowther carrying a Richard III royal standard and retired publisher John Richardson wearing the first Richard III sweatshirt I have ever seen. ‘God save King Richard,’ cried a male voice as the coffin passed.
Ever since he had been unearthed beneath a local social services car park in 2012, Richard’s remains had been held in the custody of the university. The whole point of yesterday was to hand him over to the Church authorities ahead of Thursday’s formal reinterment.
It was the university’s archaeology department which had dug him up and its co-director, Dr Rich-
‘Misplaced trust in treacherous allies’
ard Buckley, found himself in the position of chief mourner yesterday. No one had been entirely sure of the dress code. This was neither a funeral nor a celebration.
Dr Buckley’s colleague, Mathew Morris – the man who had actually stumbled across King Richard’s leg bone in the soil – had wanted to wear his favourite archaeological T- shirt, featuring a Dalek saying ‘Excavate!’ In the end, he had dug out his only suit, along with a tie.
‘If I had drilled down a few inches either side, we’d never have found him,’ Mathew admitted. ‘It was that lucky.’ Like most people involved in the hunt for Richard, he had never held out much hope of finding the missing king. But he had been persuaded to have a go by Philippa Langley, the indefatigable historian who had been on a quest to find Richard’s missing grave for years.
Driving her on had been a nagging inner voice telling her that Richard was under a ‘reserved’ sign in the car park where, she was convinced, he had been buried by the monks of Greyfriars.
This week’s ceremonies in and around Leicester represent a monumental ‘I told you so’ for the Edinburgh-based author. Yesterday she was dressed in a dark blue velvet suit, a broad-brimmed hat over her long blonde hair, and a white rose brooch, matching her white rose ring, on her jacket.
Yet there was no gloating as Philippa joined the front of the funeral cortege for the tour of Leicestershire.
‘It’s the end of an extraordinary journey,’ she said at Fenn Lane Farm, now believed to be the actual spot where Richard died.
In Dadlington (population 300), where many of the Bosworth dead are buried, there were 5,000 people (plus Morris dancers to lighten the mood) at the village green. In Sutton Cheney, where Richard heard his last Mass, funeral director Jenny Gilbert stopped the hearse – a brand new converted Jaguar – for a short service.
In the limousine behind came Miss Langley, along with two direct lineal descendants of Richard’s sister, Australia- born Wendy Duldig and London cabinet maker Michael Ibsen.
The two of them had provided the crucial DNA which confirmed, beyond doubt, that the skeleteon in the car park was Richard’s. A great niece 18 times removed and a great nephew 16 times removed, they were the nearest he had to family yesterday.
Michael had been invited to build the coffin and had even been to Herefordshire to source the finest oak from a Duchy of Cornwall forest. He had kept things simple. ‘I wanted a very simple design with straight lines to emphasise the English oak.’
At the Bosworth visitor centre, his handiwork was loaded on to a bier. Army cadets pulled the small cart up to the battle memorial where more than 2,000 people filled marquees.
Among them, I met several Richard supporters who had travelled from America.
‘We’re righting a wrong,’ said Kelly Fitzgerald, 52, from Loredo, Texas, who claims kinship with Richard through a medieval nobleman, Ralph, Baron Greystoke.
‘I’m not related to anyone. I’m just here to salute a great scientific achievement,’ said Erik Michaelson, a doctor from Philadelphia.
To the side of the memorial, a band of Yorkist enthusiasts had pitched camp in full costume. Among them was Peter Griffiths of Barnsley, part of a group dressed as followers of Sir John Savile, a staunch Richard III ally.
This, he said, was the biggest day in 20 years of re-enacting the War of the Roses. So how are relations with the House of Lancaster? ‘They fight reasonably well, but we usually win,’ he laughed.
Out in force were members of the Richard III Society, many wearing the badge of the boar (Richard’s emblem). Its chairman, Dr Phil Stone, delivered a eulogy to ‘a man of integrity’ who had done much for his people and who had only lost due to ‘bad luck and misplaced trust in his more treacherous allies’.
He concluded: ‘Let us remember Richard III – the good king; the warrior king.’ Not a day to be caught wearing a red rose.