The New Murrey and Blue blog

By Sue Lamb

Richard was doing his very best to look dignified and regal as usual.

He was standing near his tomb, his arms folded, trying to project an air of ‘Plantagenet power’ in case any tourists with cameras wandered by. He’d been practising his ‘look’ in front of the mirror in the Gents conveniences all week…

It wasn’t his fault that a bald man was adjusting his toupee. As he stood in front of the mirror, Richard just had to try it on, and the man, seeing his hairpiece floating in the air ran, the wig following… Richard only wanted to give it back. He left it on the altar where it would be seen, desperately hoping HE wasn’t seen – by Anne.

He stepped from behind the door, cleared his throat: “Ahem!” And took up his pose at the head of his tomb, his bonnet set at a jaunty angle. Then the air behind him went cold in a very, very specific way.

Not the usual ‘Neville nip’ he associated with Anne. Ooh, he had better not let that one slip out when talking to her!

“She wouldn’t approve…no, not at all,” he muttered, shaking his head.

No. This was…he thought he could smell sour wine.

“Oh no…It’s Clammy old Clarence, will he never put a cork in it!” Richard closed his eyes. “Please no, not George!”

A voice boomed, echoing off the stone pillars: “Oi!! RICHARD! Lovely place you’ve got here!”

Richard turned around slowly, a look of utter despair on his face. George was standing there. Dripping, hiccuping, looking around with the delighted curiosity of a tourist who had just discovered an interesting little gift shop.

Richard hissed: “George! You can’t be here!”

George spread his arms. “Why not? It’s a cathedral. Open to all. Even the… slightly drowned and inebriated.”

A passing verger walked straight through George, shivered violently, and muttered: “I say, Canon Phil, drafty today eh?”

George beamed. “See? I blend in easily.”

“You do not blend in,” Richard said. “You look like a Tudor crime scene, standing there dripping all over the floor. Just look at you, you smell like old grapes and you look like one too: all…” he waved his hand twice. “Sour and shriveled!”

George ignored this. He wandered over to Richard’s tomb, peered at the inscription, and said: “Ooh, they gave you a nice one. Very tasteful. Mine’s… well. Mine’s more of a rumour in Tewkesbury Abbey really. Isobel hates it.”

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “George, why are you here? Just why?”

George leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve come to pay my respects of course.”

Richard blinked. “To me?”

“Yes! You’re very respectable now, you’re the main man! The Cathedral, a choir, the whole kit and caboodle. I thought I’d drop by and say ‘well done’.”

“Thank you, George… Now you can go, you are dismissed.” Richard held up a ghostly hand. “Hang on, so, you came from the afterlife to… what? Compliment my burial arrangements?”

George shrugged. “And to ask if the gift shop sells anything with my name on it. They’ve got plenty of stuff with your pig, er, Boar .”

Richard groaned. “George, you were dunked several times in a butt of Malmsey wine. They won’t put that on tea towels, it’s enough to put anyone off their tea! Won’t they do anything like that at your place? Tewkesbury Abbey, isn’t it?”

“Nah, plenty of T-shirts with the pig – er, boar though. You’re very popular Dickon, especially with the ladies… Hahaha!!” George laughed raucously. “Dickon you’re blushing, aren’t you, brother?”

Richard rubbed his face. “George, please leave before someone notices you.”

George looked offended. “Ooh, that was a bit rude, I’m your brother!”

“Yes,” Richard said. “And that is precisely why I’m asking.”

George sighed dramatically, as only a Plantagenet could. “Richard, you’re such a spoilsport!”

“Please leave!”

“OK, Fine. But I’m coming back on choir practice night. I want to hear the acoustics.”

Richard muttered: “I’m haunting the wrong place.”

George grinned. “You always did say that.” And with a faint splashing noise, he was gone.

Richard’s birthday celebrations. October the second, and the Richard III Society had gone all‑out. There were banners bearing the legend “Loyaulte me lie”. There was a huge cake shaped like a white boar.  

There was a popular historian giving a heartfelt talk, titled ‘Richard III: A Good King, Misunderstood.’

Richard was standing discreetly near his tomb, trying to look modest and kingly at the same time. He was  enjoying himself, in his own quiet, ghostly way. Then the temperature dropped.

Not the usual ‘ghost in the nave’ chill.  

No… Oh no… it’s clammy old Clarence again. 

With the ‘This is your older brother and he’s about to embarrass you’ air about him, as well as the sour wine smell.

Richard muttered: “Oh no. Not today.”

A splash echoed behind him. George appeared, dripping again, looking delighted.

“RICHARD! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Richard winced. “George, keep your voice down. That nice lady there is in the middle of a poem, about me.”

George looked around at the gathered Society members. “Oh! A party? For you? How lovely. Did they invite me? Is there any wine? I like Malmsey but I’ll have a beer, or five.”

“No, and no,” Richard said firmly. “They did not, and there is none.”

George beamed. “Well, never mind, I’m here anyway.”

A choirboy walked straight through George, shivered violently, and whispered: “Blimey, It’s code, ay it?”

George waved cheerfully. “Hello! Lovely singing! Can you do requests?!”

Richard hissed: “George, you can’t just appear at my birthday celebration.”

“Why not? I’m your family. I’m the funny one. I always was.”

“You were drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine, George.”

George sighed. “You make ONE chivalric charge and no one lets you forget it.”

He wandered over to the refreshments table, peered at the cake, and said: “Is that supposed to be your boar? It looks like a disgruntled pig with wind.”

Richard groaned. “Please don’t touch anything.”

“I can’t touch anything, I’m harmless, I am,” George said cheerfully. “I’ll go straight through it. Watch this.”

He attempted to pat the cake. His hand passed through it and knocked over a stack of paper serviettes instead. A historian frowned at the sudden gust of cold air.

George leaned in. “Do they know you didn’t actually have a hunchback?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Richard said, nodding his head. “That’s why they’re here: they know the truth about me.”

George nodded approvingly. “Good. I’d hate for them to be misinformed about you. Should I give them a speech?”

“No.”

“Not a short one?”

“No.”

“A toast? How about that?”

“Absolutely not.”

George brightened. “I know, I could sing with the choir!”

Richard booked horrified. “But, you can’t sing.”

“I can! I sang beautifully before the wine incident.”

“You sang loudly,” Richard corrected. “There is a difference.”

The choir began a solemn anthem. George joined in enthusiastically, several notes behind, echoing weirdly, like someone singing from the bottom of a well.

Two Clergymen passed by. “I say father Colin, the plumbing is playing up again. Did you hear that noise? It sounds like there is an elephant in the pipes!”

A Society member whispered: “Do you feel…a bit damp, Matthew?”

Richard buried his face in his hands. 

“George, George, please. You’re ruining my posthumous popularity party.”

George grinned. “Nonsense. I’m enhancing it. I’m the life and soul of parties I am, everyone agrees!”

“You drowned in a barrel of Malmsey wine for the umpteenth time.”

George said: “Oh, do change your hurdy gurdy, Dickon!” 

Finally, the anthem ended. The historian stepped up to the lectern to begin a talk titled ‘Richard III: Loyalty Binds Me.’

George whispered loudly: “Oh, I like this bit. Do they mention me?”

“No,” Richard said. “They never, ever mention you.”

George looked offended. “Well, that’s a bit rude. I was very important.”

Richard sighed. “George, if you promise to leave quietly, I’ll… I’ll get you something nice from the gift shop. Would you like that?”

George brightened instantly. “Ooh! Can I have a snow globe?”

Richard winced. “Yes of course, a snow globe it is.”

“With the white horse in it, and the knight that looks a bit like me?”

“Yes, George. The one with the horse.”

George beamed. “Happy birthday, little brother.”

And with a faint splash, he vanished.

A moment later, a confused Society member said: “Did anyone else hear… water?”

A passing clergyman said: “It’s the pipes.”

Richard pretended he had no idea what they were talking about, as he put his index finger on his chin and feigned looking confused.

The Richard III Society had reached the highlight of the evening: the ceremonial cutting of Richard’s birthday cake.

It was a magnificent creation: white boar icing, delicate white sugar roses, a raspberry jam centre and a banner reading ‘LOYALTY BINDS ME’ in elegant script. Richard hovered nearby, trying to look cool, regal and unobtrusive.

Then the temperature dropped.

Richard muttered: “Not again.”

With a noisy splash, George materialised beside him, dripping cheerfully.

“Yay! Cake time! Excellent. I’m very good with cake-cutting knives.”

Richard closed his eyes. “George, no.”

But George was already drifting towards the table.

A Society member announced: “We will now cut the cake in honour of King Richard III, who—”

George beamed. “Allow me!”

He reached for the ceremonial cake knife. His hand went straight through it. The knife clattered to the floor. Everyone jumped.

Richard hissed: “George! Stop touching things!”

“But, I’m helping!” George insisted, bending down to retrieve the knife. His ghostly hand passed through it again, knocking over a stack of paper plates.

A historian frowned. “Is there a draught in here…And what’s that smell? Has that sherry gone off? It was only bought two, no, three Christmases ago.”

Richard muttered: “I’ll get you for this, George!”

Enter Anne Neville. A soft, cool breeze swept through the nave — the refined, controlled kind of chill that meant Anne had arrived.

Or as Richard said, it was the Neville nip.

She materialised beside Richard with the serene expression of a woman who had dealt with both brothers before and was already tired.

“Richard,” she said, calmly. “Why is George here?”

“I didn’t invite him.”

George waved enthusiastically. “Hello, Anne! You’re looking radiant. Slightly translucent, but radiant, despite the Neville nip. Oh, sorry Dickon, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s his secret nickname for you, my lady.”

Anne gave him a look that could curdle milk.

“George,” she said. “Step away from the cake now.”

“I’m helping!”

“You are not helping.”

George attempted to demonstrate his helpfulness by picking up the knife again. His hand went through it. The knife flew upward. It somersaulted through the air in a graceful arc.

Everyone gasped. Richard lunged. Anne winced.

The knife landed point down in the cake, skewering the sugar boar right between the eyes.

A horrified silence.

A Society member whispered: “Is… is that sort of, symbolic?”

Richard groaned. “Oh George…”

George looked delighted. “Yay! Perfect aim! I’ve still got it!”

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“You’ve impaled the boar, George.”

“It looks dramatic,” George said, proudly. “Very… er…dynastic.”

Richard muttered: “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

George, feeling slightly guilty, (only slightly though), decided to retrieve the situation, and removed the knife.

He grabbed at it. His hand went right through it. He tried again. And again. And again.

Each messy attempt sent splodges of icing flying across the table. A historian was smacked in the face with a blob of buttercream. A choirboy slipped on a glob of sugar frosting. Someone screamed: “OH NO! THE KING IS ANGRY!”

Richard shouted back: “I AM NOT ANGRY—”

But George, in a final heroic effort, leant in too far. His ghostly form passed straight through the cake. The entire confection collapsed. Half of the boar cake slid right off the table. The banner flopped sadly onto the floor.

George popped out the other side, covered in spectral cake crumbs, looking very pleased with himself.

“Well, that didn’t go too badly.”

Anne said: “George, you have just completely ruined your brother’s birthday cake and his party, too.”

George beamed. “But, I made it truly memorable!”

Richard put his face in his hands. “Oh Anne, I want to haunt a different cathedral.”

Anne patted his arm. “You say that every year, my love.”

The cathedral was silent. The cake was not so much ‘cut’ as ‘obliterated.’ The banner was stuck to a member’s shoe. And, George was glowing with pride.  

Anne looked furious.

A Society member whispered: “Ooh This must be a message from King Richard… The cake is ruined but the sausage rolls are fine.”

Richard groaned. “It is not a message.”

Another whispered: “Perhaps he didn’t like the icing, some people don’t, I always pick it off, then I pull all the raisins out, then eat it.”

“I am NOT displeased with the icing!!.”

A third, trembling, said: “Maybe he wants us to… bake a new cake, in murrey and blue?”

George perked up. “Ooh yes! Bake another cake! I’ll help!”

Richard and Anne shouted in unison, “NOOO!!!”

The choirboy who’d slipped on the icing was still sitting on the floor, very dazed and confused.

He whispered: “I felt… something pass through me.”

George beamed. “It was only me! Hello!”

The boy screamed.

Anne sighed. “George, do stop traumatising children.”

“I was only being friendly!”

“You were being you, as usual,” Richard muttered.

The historian tried to make sense of it. The one with buttercream on his glasses cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen… clearly, it seems that the king is communicating with us.”

Richard: “I am doing NO such thing!!.”

Historian: “The impaled boar symbolises… um…err… renewal?”

Anne: “It symbolises George “Clammy Clarence’s’ behaviour.”

George: “I thank you!”

Historian: “And the collapse of the cake represents… the fall of the house of York on that day in 1485…”

Richard: “It represents my brother, falling through a table.”

Historian: “It is a metaphor!”

Richard: “It is a PEST!”

Trying to “fix” this messy situation, George decided to tidy up. He bent down to pick up the fallen half of the cake. His hand went through it. He tried again. And again. And again. Each attempt sent more icing flying and everyone was getting it in the face, the hair, the hat.

Finally, in a moment of ghostly determination, he leant in too far and he passed straight through the table. The table flipped over. The remaining cake, plates, napkins and a bowl of commemorative Plantagenet rum punch all went flying. The punch landed directly on the vicar.

He gasped, dripping red liquid, looking like he’d spent half an hour at the battle of Barnet .

George popped out the other side of the table, covered in spectral crumbs, and said, brightly: “I’ve  tidied up”

Anne covered her face. “Oh George, you have just christened the clergy.”

Richard whispered: “I’m going to get exorcised for this.”

A Society member gasped: “The king is angry with the vicar!”

Another said: “No, no no,  he’s blessing him with wine!”

A third said: “It’s a sign! A sign of…er, something!”

Richard shouted: “IT IS NOT A SIGN.”

George waved. “Happy birthday, little brother!”

Anne grabbed George by the ear. “We are leaving.”

George pouted. “Oh, but I didn’t get any cake.”

“You destroyed the whole cake,” Richard said.

George shrugged. “Well, then it’s partly my birthday, too.”

Anne dragged him away, furious. Richard sighed, straightened his doublet, and said to the stunned Society: “Pray continue.”

And vanished.

The vicar, still dripping punch, whispered: “ Well, this is the best birthday celebration we’ve ever had, burrp!”

Official Statement from the Richard III Society, published in the Ricardian Bulletin, Spring Issue.

A Note Regarding the Events of the Richard III Birthday Commemoration

The Society wishes to extend its sincere thanks to all its members, guests, clergy, and choir participants who attended the Birthday Celebration for King Richard III at Leicester Cathedral. The evening was, on the whole, a great success, marked by thoughtful lectures, beautiful choral performances, and a convivial atmosphere.

However, several attendees have contacted the Society with questions regarding certain… unanticipated phenomena that occurred during the ceremonial cutting of the birthday cake.

The Society would like to reassure all members of the following:

The sudden drop in temperature during the cake‑cutting was due to the historic stone architecture and perfectly normal air currents, and not, as some have suggested: ‘A medieval presence entering the nave.’

The strange noises heard were due to air in the pipes.

The movement of the ceremonial knife, including its unexpected ascent, rotation, and subsequent descent into the cake, was the result of air pressure, gravity, and possibly a loose table leg, which is a possibility as the table is very old.  It was not—as one enthusiastic attendee claimed: ‘A direct intervention by His Late Majesty to demonstrate his prowess in battle and chivalry.’

The collapse of the cake, whilst very dramatic, was caused by structural instability in the raspberry jam in the centre of the sponge, and not, as rumoured: ‘A spectral figure passing through it at speed.’

The bowl of commemorative Plantagenet punch that overturned onto the Vicar, was an unfortunate accident. The Society wishes to emphasise that the Vicar remains in excellent spirits and has confirmed that he does not believe he was ‘ritually anointed by the king.’

Reports of ‘a dripping gentleman in Plantagenet attire’ seen near the refreshments table have been thoroughly investigated. The Society has concluded that this was most likely just a trick of the light, or only a misinterpretation of shadows – possibly a reflection from the stained glass windows.

The choirboy who slipped on the icing is recovering very well and has asked that we clarify he did not feel ‘a pesky Plantagenet’ pass through him. He simply lost his footing.

The Society appreciates the enthusiasm of those who interpreted the evening’s events as ‘A sign of Richard’s continued engagement with his loyal supporters, however, we gently remind members that the Society is a historical organisation, and does not endorse supernatural explanations for sponge cake-related incidents, or Plantagenet punch profusions, icing incidents, or boar trauma.

We thank everyone for their understanding and look forward to next year’s celebration, during which we will be implementing a more robust cake, in the shape of a murrey and blue shield, and a chocolate fountain in the shape of a knight.

Loyaulte me lie.

The Committee

Richard: “Anne, don’t tell George about the chocolate fountain!”

Anne: “Don’t tell him ANYTHING!!”