A paradox is a statement that apparently contradicts itself and yet might be true. Here, I am looking at a paradox of a person who, during one period of his life, was so different from what he is reported to have become at another certain point. Were there two Richards? A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Did he have a split personality? But then, where was Mr. Hyde during his early life? Herein we examine Richard's life and how, and if, he became what he was accused of by the Tudors after his death.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Paradox of Richard III

The End of the Plantagenets

By Helle Rink

AuthorHouse

1. The Yorks in Splendour, 1, 
2. George of Clarence, 33, 
3. Edward IV, 64, 
4. The Lord Protector, 80, 
5. Edward V, 89, 
6. Richard for king!, 138, 
7. Interlude – Tea ... and sympathy?, 161, 
8. Richard III, 171, 
9. Interlude at the Tower, 182, 
10. Disaster strikes, 186, 
11. Interlude in Brittany, 212, 
12. Rebellion!, 213, 
13. Richard's Agenda, 219, 
14. Richard's Parliament, 224, 
15. Interlude in Paris, 241, 
16. When Sorrows Come, 244, 
17. A Proposal, 250, 
18. Bosworth, 260, 
19. The Battle, 268, 
20. Aftermath, 272, 
21. The three comrades, 273, 
22. The Richard Paradox, 277,

CHAPTER 1

The Yorks in Splendour

1.1 Glorious Summer

I found myself lying in my most elegant sphinx position on the balustrade of a terrace at the corner where it turned and sloped downwards following a series of steps leading to a rather shopworn stone lion wearing a crown and holding a shield.

For a few moments, a mist seemed to hang over the landscape but, as I took a closer look, it slowly dissolved. I saw a blue sky with a few fluffy clouds floating lazily around; the air was cool but not unpleasantly so.

As I took in the sights, I saw a garden with all the glorious colors of late spring or early summer. Flowers bloomed, their heads waving gently in the breeze, irresistible to cute yellow and black bees and rainbow colored butterflies. The hedges were neatly trimmed and superbly verdant, the grass mown to perfection. Bushes did what bushes do best in summer: blossom, their flowers filling the air with sweet scents. Birds, too, where out and about, showing off their brilliant summer plumage and doing whatever it is birds do; singing and warbling fit to beat the band. Mating season, what?

Further away, set up beaneath great trees a gold and silver pavillion had been erected under which large tables had been set up, groaning beneath the best of viands and wine. Gaily dressed children ran around everywhere, screaming and shouting merrily. The grownups ignored the ruckus, giving their attention to eating and drinking and laughing and arguing. One was a gorgeously dressed man, wearing an enormous amount of jewellery, his cap gay with more feathers than anyone else. He was huge, whiskered and with the whitest teeth of anyone, blond hair and, as far as I could see, blue eyes. Next to him was a lady, beautifully dressed in summer green with matching emeralds here, there and everywhere, flowing sleeves and train, a gausemous veil flowing over her golden hair held there by a splendid tiara encrusted with precious stones. The lady of the manor.

Ladies and gentlemen flitted and flirted and a good time was being had by all. A band of sorts, violas, pipes and whatnot, played in the background. Lords and ladies danced; little girls went `ring a'round the roses' as fast as ever they could, until the lot collided, tripped over each other and collapsed on the grass amid shrieks of laughter.

I sniffed the air and closed my eyes to test the energy levels. Cats can `see' energy; I see it in shades of white all the way through to black. White, go to sleep. Black, go somewhere else. But here the energy was positive and I saw it all white and fluffy, like clouds. Peace! Love! Flower power! I ignored the darker edges.

Lulled by the warmth, I closed my eyes and something made me murmur:

"Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York."

"What, what?" queried a voice behind me. I looked around, quite upset at having my mellow mood disturbed. A fellow of medium height was leaning against the balustrade a few steps up from my perch. I measured the distance but decided he was too far away to scratch. So I repeated the lines, swishing my tail which, in cat language, means `we have not been introduced. Why are you asking me questions? Bugger off.' Of course he couldn't read cat body language so instead he put a finger to his chin and thought for a bit. Then he said:

"This is most wonderful bit poetry and I really like it. It has flow and resonance ... But forgive me if I find the meaning somewhat perplexing. Would you be so good as to explain exactly what is meant by the `sun of York'? Even a royal family doesn't have its own sun." I sighed, cat fashion. However, I now knew where I was. Somewhere in the 15th century. I felt pleased. I had planned my vacation well. The time of the War of the Roses, after the last battle and way before the next one. However, my new friend was still waiting for my answer: he seemed to need everything explained in two letter words.

"My Lord," I said, he must be a lord since he was dressed like one, "in poetic language, the meaning is: after a hard [discontented] winter, the sun [son] of York is shinning. It has a double meaning, you see? A pun, you might say." After a few moment, his face cleared and he said with a loud laugh:

"I see, the sun," pointing upwards, "and the son of York, my brother Edward over there. How very clever!" So the gentleman all dolled up was Edward IV and the lady his queen ... offhand, I couldn't remember her name. My new friend slapped his thighs. I look at him inquiringly. Was he the king's brother? There were a couple. George or ... Richard? He seemed to read my mind as he continued:

"But I should introduce myself: I am Richard of Gloucester, king Edward IV's youngest brother." I may say I was surprised. The name brought up visions of someone along the lines of Quasimodo, hunchback, one blind eye and a heart of gold, see Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris. Fooled again by Will Shakespeare. However, I let it slide.

"And I," said I, "am Gaius Marius, the cat." Richard beamed.

"Now that we have been introduced, may I ask if you are the author of those wonderful lines?" Well, I could have lied and swanked but decided not to.

"Friend of mine." Short and sweet. Richard bit his thumb.

"He must be some poet. Is there more?" Well, there was of course, lots, lots more but I hoped not to have to go through all of it; as well as being as long as the old Testament some of it would be plain embarrassing in present company. So I gave him the two next lines:

"And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

He scratched his head. "How can clouds be buried in the ocean?" I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I said:

"It's a metaphor, my Lord of Gloucester. It means that yesterday's problems have all gone away. The ocean is by way of poetic license." Will Shakespeare, the king of poetic license.

Richard's face lightened up.

"Of course, metaphors. I see now. Good, good, what comes next?" I continued:

"Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures."

He lifted his fingers in the air as if checking off a list:

"We are victorious, hence the wreaths, our armour and weapons, worn and cracked from long use, have been put away as we don't need them anymore and instead of battles we have social gatherings and dancing." He looked at me delighted. I nodded.

"That's it exactly." I wanted to pat him on the back but this wasn't possible, given the differences in our specifications....

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