How I Came to Lose the Battle of Bosworth and the Throne of England
(Not to Mention My Life)

As told to me by Richard Plantagenet
© July 2005 - HDKingsbury


Summary: After watching Shakespeare's play, Richard III gets a chance to respond to his critics. This story pre-supposes a knowledge of William Shakespeare's Tragedy of King Richard the Third, a history of the real Richard III, or both.

Rating: PG/Teen for instances of mild profanity, as well as non-graphic references (direct and indirect) to murders, beheadings, battles and other assorted acts of mayhem.

Genre: Parody/Humor

Author's Notes: I am a long-time Ricardian, yet still find myself enjoying Shakespeare's Richard III (a secret vice I share with other Ricardians). I also have an irreverent sense of humor when it comes to both history and literature. This little story is a result of those personality quirks of mine. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

--HDKingsbury

O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth,
The true succeeders of each royal house,
By God's fair ordinance conjoin together!
And let their heirs (God, if thy will be so)
Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace,
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again
And make poor England weep in streams of blood!
Let them not live to taste this land's increase
That would with treason wound this fair land's peace!
Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again:
That she may long live here, God say Amen!

-- Richmond, Act V, Scene V
The Tragedy of King Richard the Third
By William Shakespeare

The lights were coming up; the final curtain calls were being made. My companion sat next to me, grumbling under his breath, "Bloody bastard! Traitors indeed! He's the only person I know who ever marked the beginning of his reign before the battle was fought, much less won."

It was late at night; my friend and I had just finished watching a production of William Shakespeare's Tragedy of King Richard III, and I was getting the distinct impression that he wasn't too pleased with the evening's entertainment. I turned to my companion and asked, "So, Dickon, what did you think of the production?" Though others may address him as "Your Grace," Richard and I have known each other for such a long time that we've dropped such formalities and are on much more casual terms.

Dickon sat quietly for a moment, slowly shaking his head back and forth as if in utter disbelief. "Sweet Jesu! No matter how many times I've seen this…farce, I never cease to be amazed at the shameless way Master Shakespeare has rewritten history. His reputation as one of the greatest playwrights to have ever graced this planet is surely well deserved, but when it comes to history…" He didn't finish the sentence, and there was a long pause before he continued. "You would think that just once, someone would get it right," he finally said.

An idea occurred to me. "You know, there are a lot of us out there who don't believe the Tudor propaganda mill. We've even organized, with societies on several continents, and websites on the Internet, all of us dedicated to getting to the truth and clearing your good name. And I can't think of anything better than having you tell your side of the story. Perhaps you'd like to take this opportunity to set the record straight?" I asked.

Dickon turned to look at me with eyebrows raised and face lit up. It was like seeing the proverbial light bulb popping on above his head. Pointing a finger at me to help emphasize his point, he replied, "Mayhap I should do just that!"

Eagerly, I pulled out the pen and notebook I always carry with me, and prepared to take down his every word. Here, then, is what Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester and King of England, told me that night.

It's not an easy thing to do, discussing one's personal failures. And it becomes even more so when you're king of England with the grand name of Plantagenet to live up to, and your failures cost you your throne and your life. There are so many half-truths, distortions, and downright lies continually perpetuated about me, Richard the Third. I've been accused of just about every foul deed imaginable.

It is said that I was born a monstrous, hunched-back creature. "Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time into this breathing world scarce half made up, and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them…" as the Bard so eloquently describes me. I may have been slight in stature, not perfectly proportioned, and dark where my brothers were fair, but I suspect that my good mother, the Lady Cicely, would have thrown me out with the rest of the trash had I been born so grotesque a thing!

I've been accused of so many murders – of my beloved wife, Anne, so that I could lust after my brother Edward's daughter, Elizabeth; of batty old King Henry VI, of saintly renown, who has surely received his reward in Heaven; of my brother George, Duke of Clarence, who was forever scheming, and never knew when to keep his mouth shut; and a host of others – that it seems a score card is needed just to keep track of my alleged victims!

And then there is that fateful day, the 22nd of August, in the year of Our Lord One Thousand, Four Hundred and Eighty-Five, when my army met the invading host of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, on the field of Redemore, near Market Bosworth.

It is time to set the record straight. At the very least, I shall attempt to give my point of view on what transpired. Contrary to popular myth, my ultimate failure was due, not to some exaggerated moral depravity of mine, but rather because I, too, am human, and unfortunately made some rather fundamental mistakes. You see, I put too much trust in the wrong people, and made some questionable decisions during the height of the battle. But let me explain.

You would think that growing up during what historians today refer to as "The Wars of the Roses," I would have learned to use a little more discretion when it came to trusting others, particularly the nobility. All I had to do was remember how my uncle Warwick, called "The Kingmaker," had turned against my brother, His Grace, King Edward IV, after first helping Ned gain the throne.

It seems that Warwick became disenchanted with Ned's casual attitude towards dynastic plans. Not that Ned was any saint. Far from it! He was, in fact, a profligate womanizer who cared more for his hormonal needs than those of the country over which God had chosen him to reign. As for that woman he married (and I use that term loosely), Elizabeth Woodville! Well, the less said of her, the better. But no matter. Did I learn anything from Warwick's betrayal of my royal brother? Apparently not. I continued to hear only what I wanted to hear, and believe only what I wanted to believe.

Then there was my good friend, cousin and "loyal" adherent, the Duke of Buckingham. Can you imagine what a shock it was to me, when I discovered that all Buckingham's pledges of loyalty were in truth just so much hogwash? That all the time, he had been scheming to usurp the throne, to take it for himself. He seemed to believe that he had just as good a claim as I did! It is true that I rushed the trial through a bit, but he deserved the beheading he got!

And that business with those two spoiled brats, my nephews, the ones modern historians sentimentally refer to as "The Princes in the Tower"? Those "sweet babes"? Pah! Have you ever had to take over the guardianship of two young teen-aged boys, ill-mannered and spoiled? They were deserving of a good thrashing, their tantrums enough try the patience of a saint. And I have never made any claims to sainthood. Though the thought crossed my mind more than once as I listened to their unseemly behavior, I wasn't the one who "offed" them. Quite the contrary. When I had them removed to the Tower of London, it was for their own safety and well-being (as well as to keep them out of my sight). We lived in dangerous times, and besides, people today forget that the Tower housed royal apartments, which were really quite nice.

I never mistreated those boys, but you would never know it by listening to what people were saying about me after I was gone. "Wicked Uncle" indeed! If you want to know what really happened to their royal highnesses, why don't you ask Henry Tudor? He had much more to gain from their demise than I did. But,your pardon, I am straying again. I want to return to what happened at Bosworth.

Ever since that fateful confrontation in 1485, I have been asked, "Why did you leave half your forces under the command of Lord Stanley, when you knew he was Henry Tudor's step-father?" So, kick me in the head and call me stupid (if I may use one of your modern phrases). There I was again, accepting Stanley's protestations of loyalty when I should have been taking a closer look at the man's motives. But how was I to know he was planning to see which way the battle was going before he threw his troops into the fray? Like a fool, I believed Stanley when he reassured me, "Sure, Dickon, you can count on me and my men. You needn't question my loyalty." (A sure signal that I should have questioned his loyalty! I knew I should have executed his son, George!) "Yes, Henry's my step-son, but I never liked the little bastard from the start."

So what happened when things started getting a little hot out there? When my battle plans started going awry? That's right. Stanley threw in his lot with his step-son, Tudor. I should have known better. Did I really think he could go home to his wife after the battle, and tell her, "Sorry, Margaret, but you see, I was fighting for Richard and my troops beat up on your son Henry's troops"?

But Stanley's defection didn't have to mean the end of my reign – or my life. As the battle progressed, the fighting grew more furious. I could see that things were beginning to go badly for me. So, you may ask, why did I not just take what men I had remaining, and leave? Something about, "He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day"? The truth of the matter is that it never occurred to me to do such a thing. I had that "code of chivalry" business to live up to, even if everybody else conveniently forgot about it. Leaving the field to Tudor would be the same as admitting to cowardice, and I could never have brought myself to do such a thing. What would my people have said then? How could I have faced myself in the morning?

I know. You're saying that at least I would have still been alive, and able to challenge that Tudor upstart once more. But I don't think I could have lived with myself if I had. Besides, I kept hoping I was mistaken, that Stanley and his men were trying to come to my aid.

But I guess the worst decision I made, the one that lost it all for me, was when I determined to take on Tudor in single combat. After all, I was a pretty good fighter, and had one heck of a reputation for skill at arms and bravery in battle. Tudor himself admitted as much, in spite of all the lies he spread about me after my death. Even that hack, Polydore Virgil, later wrote of my "fighting manfully in the press" of my enemies.

The way I figured it, if Tudor were eliminated, there would be no more battle. Regardless of the flow of the battle, the reason for fighting would cease to exist. The war would be over, the invaders defeated. Finis. So, I decided to challenge Henry to a fight, just the two of us, one-on-one, mano a mano. Sadly, I forgot that the other side does not always play by the same rules. That and those foreign pikemen with their strange maneuvers that broke the charge of our horses. Where was I? Ah, yes… As about twenty of the upstart's retainers bore down upon me, I remembered too late that other bit of wisdom. You know, the one about discretion being the better part of valor?

So there you have it. I did not lose at Bosworth because I was some inhuman monster, struck down by a vengeful God. I did not lose because of my supposed immorality. I lost because, quite frankly, I made some stupid mistakes. I trusted the wrong people, and made some poor decisions. I guess, like so many of us, I never really thought I would lose.

But before I finish this little confession, there is one last, minor detail I would like to clear up. It's this business of what I said during the fight, my final words as it were. William Shakespeare has me running around the battlefield shouting, "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" Very dramatic, but hardly accurate. As I remember it, what I really said was, "Damn you, Stanley! Your ass is going to rot in hell for this!"

Ricardus Rex Tertius
Loyaultie me lie