The New Murrey and Blue blog

By Susan Lamb

Richard was feeling very bored and restless.

A medieval ghost-king in a cathedral is never a good thing, especially when he’s bored.

The congregation left their coats and hats neatly on the pews while they were rehearsing songs for an event in the local home for the bewildered and lost.

Richard drifted past them, his  eyes narrowing with the curiosity of a church cat and also, with the entitlement of a medieval monarch.

“Oh, well,” he muttered. “If they will leave their garments unattended…this purple hat is just perfect for me. It’s the colour of royalty.”

The hat belonged to Mrs. Pemberton, the schoolteacher. It was an enormous purple brimmed hat, complete with fake turquoise peacock feathers. Over it, he had perched Mr Shelby’s peaky cap. And for reasons known only to him, he had Miss Pepper’s pink, plush pashmina.

He admired himself in the polished brass of the lectern.

“Magnificent,” he declared. “A kind of hennin for men. I’ll call it a Mennin.”

Then he tried on all the coats. He layered them, then he swapped them. He grabbed a cherry-red, maxi coat and a fake fur ocelot print poncho.

“Oh, this is splendid! Royal robes!”

By the time the congregation returned, the coat rack looked like a battlefield after the fight, and Richard looked like a walking lost‑property department.

Still wearing his ‘outfit’, he suddenly espied the coffee machine, and on the same table stood six bottles of cabernet, a red wine, used for holy communion.

He quietly emptied the water tank into the dried flower arrangement and made the switch.

He made a fatal decision, that will go down in the history of the cathedral for all eternity.

His second fatal decision. The first one had brought him eventually to this place.

A few minutes later, the machine was gurgling away, producing what can only be described as Cabberccino.

The first person to try it was the vicar, who took a sip, paused, blinked, and said: “Good Lord!” as his wire-rimmed glasses flew off his nose.

Then the choir, all feeling very thirsty, had several mugs of this Plantagenet production plonk.

The bell ringers too, and the entire congregation. Within half an hour, the entire cathedral staff was rosy‑cheeked, giggly, and singing hymns at twice the normal tempo, using the wrong, and often inappropriate, words.

The vicar was attempting to bless the lectern, as his glasses were hanging off the top of the organ pipe.

Richard, swaying slightly, beamed with pride.

“I, Richard Planker…Plonkogenet, no Plankagent have restored, hic, merriment to the entire realm.”

Uh oh…he could sense trouble.

Oh no, it felt like ‘The Neville Nip’, and that could only mean one thing: the arrival of Anne.

A cool breeze swept through the nave.

“Ah, Hello Anne, I, hic, I could feel your wind, er, your breeze..er…your arrival.”

Anne Neville materialised beside him, arms folded.

“Richard,” she said, in the tone of a woman who had absolutely had more than enough.

He turned around, wearing two hats, a pashmina, a red maxi coat, and a fake fur poncho. With the pom-poms tied under his chin.

Anne’s eyes widened in horror.

“Richard Plantagenet, what have you been up to?”

He gestured very proudly at the drunken vicar, who was now trying to perform an exorcism on the coffee machine.

“I have improved morale, didn’t you hear the choir singing merrily?”

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You put all that wine in the coffee machine.”

“It seemed the right thing to do, Anne, they all sounded so miserable.”

“You are wearing clothing belonging to six people.”

“I was…only experimenting with er, with fashion.”

“You look,” she said, voice trembling with utter disbelief. “Like you fought a medieval battle in a charity shop, and lost! Come here, you pesky Plantagenet. Who do these hats belong to?”

She spent the next half an hour putting everything back onto the seats where they were left.

Richard, chastened, but still very slightly tipsy, muttered:

“We didn’t have all this palaver when I was the king.”

“No dear, but then you wore a crown and not Mr Shelby’s cap!”

When the last of the congregation had staggered home, and after the vicar had been gently steered away from blessing the hat stand for the third time, and the cathedral had finally settled into a gentle wine‑scented quiet, Anne stood beside Richard in the shadow of the north aisle.

He looked slightly improved. Only slightly though. Hatless. Coatless. Dishevelled, his boots on the wrong feet. But still unmistakably the architect of the day’s utter chaos.

Anne folded her hands, the very picture of spectral dignity.

“Oh Richard,” she began. “I have known you in triumph and seen you in ruin. We were crowned together, and we shared happiness and grief.” She gestured at the coffee machine, which was still gurgling ominously. “But never did I imagine I would witness you intoxicate an entire parish church before noon.”

Richard winced. “It was an accident, Anne.”

“You poured six bottles of wine into the tank of a machine labelled ‘WATER ONLY’ ”

He opened his mouth, then he closed it again, thinking better of arguing with Anne.

Anne stepped closer, her voice softening despite herself.

“You are a wonderful king, my beloved Richard. Yes, my love, even now. And kings do not wear three hats, nor do they drape themselves in strangers’ attire like a wandering minstrel with a crisis of coats.”

He grumbled: “I was only experimenting with modern fashions.”

He sighed, huffed and puffed. Anne’s expression softened. She reached out, her hand passing through his arm.

“I know you mean well, husband. I know you are a restless spirit.”

“Yes, Anne, all I want is for people to see the truth!”

“Yes dear,” said Anne. “The truth about you, your innocence and your good character, and then you can join me in eternity. I know this. But this place is not a battlefield, nor a royal court. It is a sanctuary, my love.”

Richard nodded, chastened.

“And,” she added, “If you ever put wine in that machine again, I shall personally see to it that you haunt the crypt for a month.”

“Oh, Anne, I don’t like the crypt, it smells nasty, and there’s no one to talk to: it’s boring.”

He wrinkled his nose and waved his arms around to stress the point.

Then Anne was unable to stay cross with him and she kissed him.

“Come along, husband. Let us leave these poor souls to recover. You can tell me all about your um, fashion experiments, on the way.”

“Yes, Anne, I promise. Loyalty binds me and all that.”

He made a sweeping gesture.

They drifted toward the west door, side by side, the last of the afternoon light catching them like a hazy shadow.

Behind them, the vicar hiccuppef and blessed a mop.

Anne did not turn around and walked on with the nobility of a Neville.

Richard did. Only once. And guffawed like a Gloucester.