This week brought the news that the remains discovered last August, under a car park in Leicester, did indeed belong to one of the most infamous of British rulers, Richard III. There was something oddly satisfying about this story. First and foremost, that he was found under a car park in Leicester. There are few places more mundane than a car park in Leicester and the thought that he had been lying underneath one for a significant period of time lends new meaning to the phrase 'from the sublime to the ridiculous'. The second satisfying aspect to this story is that, unlike a parade of other deceased monarchs interred in more decorous surroundings, his discovery literally gives us an opportunity to pick over his bones. And there is nothing we Brits like more than a good rummage through someone else's unfortunate demise, especially when that person happens to have royal connections.
Like the majority of not particularly academic English people, my relationship with our rich and varied history is distant at best. Having been born and raised in Canterbury, I guess I should have at least some kind of passing acquaintance with Medieval history. However, as they say, familiarity breeds contempt and there are only so many school trips to the Cathedral that one kid can take. Were it not for Terry Jones of Monty Python fame publishing a book called 'Medieval Lives' a few years ago, I would barely have any interest in it at all. History at school didn't exactly bring the past to life for me either. I remember long, dull hours, staring at badly photocopied church records, trying (well, not really trying) to ascertain whether they were a 'primary' or 'secondary' source (whatever that was). This situation wasn't helped by a brilliant but clearly disenchanted history teacher, who's main teaching method seemed to consist of giving us some pages from a text book to read, while he chatted to colleagues in another room.
Given the above, why did I consider my history teacher brilliant? It all comes down to one particular afternoon, when after one of his customary jaunts, he returned to a particularly noisy chorus of Paul Hardcastle's 1985 hit '19' (not massively surprising, following his earlier instruction to read pages 132 - 139 on the Vietnam War). It was at this point that he finally threw in the towel, went completely off curriculum and decided to talk to us about something that he had clearly wanted to talk to us about all along: the story of the princes in the tower. The majority of us were already familiar with the story by then, of course. Most of us, I suspect, had been to Madam Tussauds and seen the forlorn little waxworks in the Chamber of Horrors, frozen in terror as they awaited their impending doom. We had all at least heard of Richard III and his part in their probable death. What we hadn't been exposed to before, however, was the subtlety and subtext of the story. Unfortunately, with the passage of time, I have forgotten most of what he said, but it did leave me with the lasting impression that history is never what we think it is.
Although I didn't realise it at the time, Mr Schuter (for that was his name) also taught me the importance of the primary source. Which brings me back to the bones. We have a fascination with old bones in this country. This really took off some years ago, when a television programme called 'Meet the Ancestors' started a vogue for uncovering ancient remains, painstakingly researching them and reconstructing them out of modelling clay, so that we all had a chance to come face to face with 'Saxon Pete' or whatever ridiculous moniker the producers had decided upon that week. I also recall that, towards the end of the series, the programme makers appeared to run out of ideas and started digging up bones that were much closer to home; both in terms of historical distance and, finally, familial connection, as they dug up a disused cemetery which, at least according to my mother, almost certainly contained my own ancestors. The memory of this made me empathise with Micheal Ibsen, the Canadian-born furniture maker who also happens to be Richard III's last living relative, when he was reported as saying he felt 'thrilled, stunned and downright weird' at his DNA being matched with that of the lost king.
I think there was probably a part of all of us, however, that felt a little weird on first viewing these particular old bones. Richard III is an icon, after all. He is also one of the country's favourite pantomime villains. Of course, anyone with half a brain and an internet connection now knows that Shakespeare's version of Richard as evil, twisted and bitterly ambitious is, at least, a bit prejudiced in favour of the House of Tudor. Speaking personally, when I first saw those bones, it was hard not to feel a mixture of sympathy and a small measure of awe.
A couple of things struck me, in particular. Firstly, the scoliosis of his spine was really quite pronounced. I have worked with and know people with this condition and I honestly can't imagine how he would have gone into battle or ridden a horse with any degree of competency or without a great deal of pain. Nevertheless, he did it, which just goes to show how hard-arse our aristocracy was at one time. Difficult to imagine now, regardless of how many documentaries of Prince Harry running about in military fatigues they choose to show.
What really captured my imagination, however, was how the bone structure of the skull seemed to fit with the square-jawed, angular portraits of him that I was familiar with. I find old portraits fascinating, especially those of historically significant figures. I am mainly interested in whether they are, indeed, a true likeness. After all, if I was Queen before the invention of photography, I would be demanding the equivalent of some pretty heavy airbrushing. Even more intriguing is the fact that none of the surviving portraits of Richard III have been commissioned in his lifetime. The earliest of these (shown above) apparently dates from 1520 - 35 years after his death in the Battle of Bosworth. It is, at least, based on a lost original, but suffice to say, it is difficult to know how reliable our image of him is.
I was both interested, therefore, and gently amused to see a BBC report a day or two later, on Richard III's 'facial reconstruction'. It seems that no one, not even a Plantagenet king, is safe from the 'Meet the Ancestors' effect. The funniest thing in the report, however, was the quote from Pippa Langley, Richard III Society member and originator of the search for his remains. According to the report, Langley has gone on record as saying that the reconstruction doesn't 'look like the face of tyrant...I'm sorry but it doesn't', going on to add that in her view he was 'very handsome' and that she could picture herself 'having a conversation with him right now'. I'm sorry, Ms Langley, but something tells me you have lost your objectivity. Stalin, for instance, was also quite handsome in his youth and, anyway, I have seen the photos of Richard III's reconstructed face and I can't say he has me weak at the knees.
I shouldn't be too hard on Pippa Langley and her apparent love affair with a long-dead monarch, however. At least it got us talking for a while and has helped the public at large to reconsider and revise their knowledge of a historical figure they thought they knew only too well. I already did this some years ago courtesy of Terry Jones, who explored the negative 'spin' attached to Richard III's reputation in 'Medieval Lives'. This discovery has called even one of the great Terry Jones' assertions into question, however. In the TV series that accompanied his book, Jones points to forensic evidence that another well-known portrait of Richard was doctored after it was originally completed, to show him sporting his now famous hunchback. Certainly, it seems true that the portrait was changed. However, Jones uses this fact to suggest that Richard never had a hunchback in the first place. The discovery of his skeleton puts paid to all that. He may not have had had a hunchback as such, but such severe scoliosis would certainly have given him the appearance of one. The fact that the original portrait did not include it, just goes to show that we were the same bunch of toadying royalists then as we are today. Nevertheless, I am quietly glad that he is at least getting a proper send off this time. He deserves it no more or less than any of his bloodthirsty predecessors or successors. As we have probably been saying since time immemorial - The King is dead. Long live the King!
