Leicester Cathedral was glowing with anticipation. Candles flickered, banners rustled, and the Richard III Society had totally filled the place with faux‑medieval decorations that looked suspiciously like repurposed craft‑store purchases.
Richard drifted proudly through the nave, his cape shimmering: he was like a mischievous youth who had been waiting centuries for this moment.
Anne followed regally, already bracing herself.
“They have arranged a lovely concert for me, Anne,” he said, delighted. “A proper medieval one.”
Anne eyed a banner that was clearly made of polyester.
“Richard, my love, nothing about this is medieval.”
But Richard was already drifting towards the performers with the enthusiasm of a man who had never once in his lifetime managed to mind his own business.
The choir began to sing first.
Their opening piece was labelled ‘Cantus Regalis: A Tribute to King Richard III’, but it sounded more like a group of enthusiastic chickens.
Richard tilted his head, listening with polite confusion.
Anne whispered: “Be nice, Richard.”
Richard whispered back: “They are singing in weird Latin that has never existed.”
A high note made the stained‑glass windows tremble. Anne sighed. Then along came the organist. Poor Mr Hardwood, sitting there trembling behind the keys, had attempted a gentle accompaniment.
But the organ disagreed. It produced a sound like asthmatic bagpipes played by a heavy smoker.
“I’ve never had this much trouble with my organ,” he lamented.
Richard stepped forward. Anne stepped forward faster.
“Don’t you dare touch anything!” she warned.
Richard touched something.
The organ exploded into a manic, too-fast rendition of Toccata and Fugue.
Mr Hardwood’s wire-rimmed glasses shot off and landed in the font. He whispered shakily: “I think I’ll have to retire: my organ is being troublesome today…probably overuse.”
Anne closed her eyes as the second act stepped up.
A Ms Violet Endwhistle stepped forward wearily. She was dressed in crushed plum velvet which matched her long hair, and she was clutching her ancient medieval crumhorn with grim determination to match her grim expression. She’d practised for weeks and achieved nothing but emotional stress.
She raised it to her lips and she blew the first note. Well, it wasn’t a note, not really: it was a magnificent trumping noise that echoed through the cathedral.
4B shrieked with delight. Miss Pemberton tried, but failed, to look stern.
The bishop’s shoulders shook as he looked across at the vicar, who made a strangled snort whilst hiding behind his programme.
Members of the audience were hiding behind their programmes too, tears streaming, but not daring to laugh…yet.
Ms Endwhistle turned the colour of beetroot: she was crushed plum all over now.
She tried again. The crumhorn responded with a long, flappy honk like a bad tempered donkey.
4B collapsed into hysterics.
The bishop choked trying to maintain decorum.
The vicar wheezed with the effort of trying not to laugh.
Miss Pemberton mouthed: “Why me?” at the stained glass window. “I just don’t understand!”
Ms Endwhistle cried: “It was perfectly tuned this morning, I always maintain my horn!”
“You could have fooled me!” said Richard.
Anne murmured: “Perhaps the acoustics are a bit challenging, my dear.”
Richard beamed.
“It is expressive, Anne.”
The crumhorn produced a catastrophic raspberry that echoed magnificently through the nave.
At this, the bishop exploded into laughter, clutching the pew for support.
The vicar was bent double, his glasses half off.
4B were feral.
Miss Pemberton was defeated.
Ms Endwhistle was on the brink of collapse.
And then the crumhorn went absolutely rogue. She hadn’t touched it for ten seconds when it gave a curious little toot. Then it rose. It swayed. It danced like a snake‑charmer’s cobra.
4B screamed.
Miss Pemberton whimpered.
Anne whispered: “Richard… tell me you are not doing this.”
Richard glowed with pride.
“I recall a tune from 1480. ‘Bring Us No Brown Bread.’”
Anne stared.
“That cannot be real.”
“It was very popular.”
The crumhorn began playing — badly, loudly, enthusiastically — a sequence of parps and honks that almost resembled music.
It danced. It wiggled. It bowed.
Ms Endwhistle, shocked, nearly fainted.
The conductor, trembling, leaned towards her.
“Miss Endwhistle, for heaven’s sake, do stop messing about and play something else!”
She nodded nervously.
“OK, Dave, leave it with me.”
She launched into ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’. On a crumhorn. In a medieval concert. In a cathedral…
With clergy barely upright and 4B chanting like a crazy football crowd.
Anne lost it. The words were too much.
“How many roads must a man walk down…”
Anne wheezed.
“The irony…”
The crumhorn added a flappy honk in perfect rhythm.
And then Richard decided to join in. He did not know the exact words, so he improvised.
He belted out, proudly and loudly: “My answer is that I have the wind!”
The whole cathedral went quiet… then erupted!!
4B chanted: “HE’S GOT THE WIND!”
The bishop cried with laughter.
The vicar slid sideways into a pew.
Miss Pemberton hid her face in her hands.
Ms Endwhistle nearly dropped her crumhorn.
Anne covered her face.
“Richard… that is not something you announce in a cathedral.”
Richard lifted his chin, still singing.
“But, yes, I do indeed have the wind. Let everyone embrace the wind!”
The crumhorn gave a triumphant BRRRRP.
And that was it…
That moment when the chaos tipped into joy.
The bishop wiped his eyes, still laughing.
The vicar smiled through tears.
4B cheered like they’d witnessed the greatest school trip in history.
Miss Pemberton finally cracked a rueful grin.
The conductor sagged with relief.
And Ms Endwhistle — trembling, exhausted, clutching her misbehaving crumhorn — suddenly laughed.
A small, shaky laugh at first. Then a proper one. Then she doubled over, giggling at the absurdity of her haunted, flatulent instrument.
Richard floated beside Anne, watching the cathedral full of people laughing together, united by sheer ridiculousness.
“Anne,” he whispered, soft and proud. “Look. They are happy, aren’t they?”
Anne smiled. “Yes, Richard. They are.”
Richard beamed.
And even Ms Endwhistle, red‑faced and clutching her rebellious crumhorn, was laughing with everyone else.
“There should be more laughter in the world, Anne,” said Richard.
“I think you’re starting as you mean to go on, my dear,” said Anne.
“Oh, I just heard that next week there’s going to be a production of something called Withering Blights.”
“Wuthering Heights, Richard!”
“Oh, that couple chasing after one another on the moors?”
“Um, kind of.”
“Well, that’ll be fun won’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah…nothing Anne, err, fun for the er, actors, would you like to sit outside, my dear? Here, take my arm.”
He grinned as they drifted along the nave, winking at a young lady who had just announced she was going to be in that very production…if only she knew!
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