This poem is about an historic injustice. The victors get to rewrite history, and that’s what happened when the founder of the Tudor dynasty defeated and killed the last Plantagenet king of England. To justify the Tudor claim to the throne, Richard III had to be painted as a villain, a brutish husband, an usurper and a murderer, as has been memorialized by one of Shakespeare’s greatest tragedies.
Records and letters recovered from that time show a different picture, a devoted family man much loved by his subjects in the northern part of the realm, and by no means the most promising suspect in the murder of the two princes, though he certainly did steal the throne on the flimsiest justification. I wrote this poem to show that other side.
In April of 1485, while staying at Nottingham Castle, Richard III and his wife Anne learned that their only child had died, and according to tradition, it was at that point that he started referring to the site as “the Castle of His Care”. A year later, when he’d lost his wife as well and was now facing the invasion that would take his life and crown, he returned to Nottingham, to:
THE CASTLE OF HIS CARE
By Bev Kaufman
[vc_row][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_column_text] At Nottingham above the town,Where castle holds both king and crown,
A sad and silent man looks down
From a dark and troubled lair;
Thin lips clench to block the groan
As Richard leaves his slippery throne
To walk the corridors alone
In the castle of his care.
The place is like him – barren, bleak;
The guards salute but do not speak;
Unwilling doors give with a creak
As he passes up the stair;
A somber tower on a rock,
With dark green moss on every block,
A fitting place for taking stock
Of a life that’s past repair.
The Tudor sounds his regal goal;
The nephews whisper in his soul;
He still can hear the queen’s bell toll –
‘Tis the last he cannot bear;
Still he mourns his fragile son,
Gnaws at wrongs he’s felt and done,
And now he’s lost the only one
Who made his foul world fair.
Yorkshire yeoman, strong and loyal,
Untainted by ambitions royal,
With courage yet to spare;
Instead there’s those whose smiles hide
The plans to leave him with the tide;
Traitors only at his side
In the castle of his care.
Richard writhes at slander’s sting;
Poisoned words are given wing
And yet his foe still fears to bring
The battle to the bear.
Did he then see his fate ill-starred?
Know that History would be hard?
Feel the venom of the Bard?
Did he no longer care?
Joy is gone, but not his will;
He may repair his fortunes still;
He’ll soon put paid to Henry’s bill,
So let the lad beware!
A bout at Bosworth ought to purge
The nation of rebellious urge;
One final time he will emerge
From the castle of his care.