The New Murrey and Blue blog

Richard III had seen many things since haunting Leicester Cathedral — bishops fainting, tourists taking selfies with his tomb and one memorable incident involving a guide dog who could see him.

But nothing, absolutely nothing,  prepared him for the arrival of 4B from St. Margaret’s Primary School.

They came in just like a wave of noise, and elbows, clutching their clipboards, juice cartons, and an enthusiasm for history that Richard found both flattering and deeply alarming.

The teacher, a harassed-looking woman named Mrs. Pemberton, clapped her hands a few times making her look like an excitable seal at the local zoo

“Right, children! This is where King Richard III is buried. Please behave yourselves.”

Richard straightened proudly.  Finally, someone acknowledging his royal presence.

A boy immediately slouched, and stuck his finger up his nose, bored.

Richard sighed.

The tour guide began her speech.  

“King Richard was found under a car park…”

Richard groaned loudly.

“Oh no, not this again,” he said, loudly enough that three children turned around.

“…And he was the last king to die in battle.”

“Not exactly my finest moment,” Richard grumbled.

“…And he had a curved spine.”

Richard threw his hands up. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, must we really start with that?”

One girl gasped.  

“Miss! Miss! Someone’s whispering!”

Mrs. Pemberton didn’t even look up.  

“Oh, that’s just the acoustics of the cathedral, Chloe. Just the building settling dear.”

Richard bristled.  

“I’ll have you know I am not settling a building, madam.”

The children wandered off in little clusters, poking things they shouldn’t. Richard drifted after them, torn between correcting their historical inaccuracies and preventing them from climbing into the baptismal font.

A boy with glasses stopped in front of Richard’s tomb.  

“Do you think he’s really in there?”

Richard leaned down.  

“Yes, I am, who do you think it is? Mickey the mouse or whatever his name is?”

The boy nodded solemnly.  

“Cool.”

Mrs. Pemberton was valiantly trying to keep 4B from dismantling the cathedral, one artefact at a time. Richard, floating proudly beside her, decided she clearly needed royal assistance.

He cleared his ghostly throat.  

“Madam, if you require help maintaining order, I am—”

Mrs. Pemberton walked straight through him.

Richard blinked.  

“Well. That was very rude.”

He tried again, drifting in front of her.  

“Allow me to address the children. I was the king, you know.”

She shivered, rubbing her arms.  

“Ooh, strange draught in here… Should have worn my thermal knickers today.”

She removed her red shoes, reached into her massive bag, and put on a pair of thick socks. But…her red shoes were gone!

Richard huffed.  

“I am not a mere draught. I am a king, and I would rather not think about your, your thermal nether wear.”

He took her shoes and examined them.

“Size seven,” he muttered. “Pointy toes, a bit like poulaines…not as pointy as mine were…Oh they fit!!”

Meanwhile, a boy with glasses — the same solemn one from earlier — stared directly at Richard.

“Excuse me,” the boy said. “Are you the one from Horrible Histories on the telly?”

Richard froze.

“Absolutely not,” he said, deeply offended. “I am the original king. They are merely the… comedic interpretation, but in truth there is no comparison to my regal….”

The boy nodded thoughtfully.  

“You do sound like the one on the telly though.”

Richard spluttered.  

“I do not—”

But the boy had already wandered off, still picking his nose.

Richard turned back to Mrs. Pemberton, who was now trying to stop three children from climbing into the pulpit.

“This is chaos, total chaos,” she muttered.

Richard puffed out his chest.  

“Fear thee not madam, for I shall demonstrate proper medieval discipline.”

He spotted a mop leaning against a wall.

Perfect. He rubbed his ghostly hands together 

“Let’s see if you’ve still got it, Dickon,” he said to himself.

He seized it — or rather, he passed through it three times, before managing to nudge it upright with sheer ghostly determination and then launched into what he believed was a very dignified demonstration of fifteenth‑century swordsmanship.

“Observe, children!” he cried, swinging the mop in a wide arc. “This is how one parries a blow!”

The mop whooshed through the air.

Mrs. Pemberton shrieked as it flew sideways, narrowly missing her head and clattering onto the floor.

She spun around, eyes wide.  

“WHO THREW THAT MOP?!”

The children stared at her, wide‑eyed and innocent.

Richard, hovering proudly above the mop, announced: “A flawless execution of Medieval combat.”

Mrs. Pemberton backed away, pale.  

“This cathedral is haunted,” she whispered. “Never mind my thermal knickers…I wish I’d brought a spare pair.”

Richard was ecstatic.

Mrs. Pemberton was still staring at the mop on the floor, as if it might attack her again.  

Richard, however, was feeling triumphant.

“Now,” he announced to no one in particular. “A proper education for a medieval prince required culture, music, refinement. A demonstration of courtly elegance.”

He clapped his ghostly hands. Nothing happened. He clapped again, louder. A hymn book fell off a pew.

Close enough.

Richard straightened his doublet, slipped on the teacher’s red shoes and declared: “Children, behold! The Gavotte!”

He launched into a series of energetic hops, kicks, and flourishes that would have been impressive if he had had legs that touched the floor. Instead, he bobbed around erratically, like a medieval helium-filled balloon having a crisis.

The shoes appeared to dance by themselves.

A girl shrieked.  

“Miss! The air is dancing! And it’s got your shoes on.

Mrs. Pemberton spun around, horrified.  

“What do you mean the air is dancing?”

She froze.

Because the mop, the same mop that had very nearly decapitated her was now standing upright again, swaying back and forth in perfect time with Richard’s steps in her red shoes.

Richard twirled. The mop twirled, too. Plus the shoes.

Richard leapt. The mop leapt. The shoes leapt.

Richard attempted a complicated triple‑hop‑side‑kick flourish.

The mop flew sideways, skidded across the floor, and crashed into a stack of folding chairs, with a metallic avalanche that echoed through the cathedral like a divine judgement.

The shoes flew off and landed in Mrs Pemberton’s lap. Mrs. Pemberton screamed loudly. Half the children screamed along with her.The other half applauded.

Richard bowed deeply.  

“Thank you, thank you so much. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”

Mrs. Pemberton clutched her chest.  

“This place is definitely haunted.”

The folding chairs were still rattling from Richard’s enthusiastic mop‑dance when a sudden hush fell over the air: the kind of hush that only happens when a ghost with actual authority enters the room.

A soft shimmer drifted through the nave.

Anne Neville materialised.

She took one look at the mop lying in a heap, the terrified teacher clutching her clipboard like a shield, and Richard hovering mid‑twirl, with the proud grin of a man who believed he’d just performed at the finest royal court in Christendom.

Anne’s hands went straight to her hips.

“Richard,” she said, in the tone of a queen who has absolutely had enough. “What are you doing now?”

Richard froze mid‑bow.

“Anne! My love! I was merely providing these children with a cultural demonstration.”

Anne surveyed the scene.

A hymn book on the floor. A toppled chair stack. A traumatised mop. Mrs. Pemberton whispering prayers under her breath.

“Cultural, Richard?” Anne repeated flatly.

Richard nodded vigorously.  

“Yes! A gavotte. Very educational. They adored it.”

A small boy piped up: “Miss, the ghost is talking to his wife.”

Mrs. Pemberton took out her bottle of smelling salts. Anne pinched the bridge of her nose.  

“Richard, you promised, promised me no more ‘interactive history lessons’ without supervision.”

Richard puffed out his chest.  

“Well, Anne, I supervised myself.”

“That,” said Anne, “is the problem.”

Behind them, a child whispered: “Is she the queen?”  

Another whispered back: “I think she’s the boss.”

Anne ignored them and clapped her hands sharply.

The mop stood upright. The hymn book slid neatly back onto its pew. The chairs stacked themselves with a tidy metallic click.

Mrs. Pemberton nearly fainted, and took a swing from her bottled water, wishing it was brandy.

Anne turned to Richard with a pointed look.  

“We are leaving.”

Richard wilted.  

“But Anne, I was having fun.”

“I know,” Anne said, taking his spectral hand. “And that’s exactly why we’re leaving.”

As they drifted away, Richard glanced back at the children, who were staring at him with wide, delighted eyes.

He gave them a regal wave.

One boy whispered, awestruck, “Cor…Best school trip ever.”

Richard beamed.

Anne sighed.

And Leicester Cathedral settled back into something resembling peace, just for a little while.

S. Lamb