The Murders of Richard III Read Online Free PDF Page B

It was inevitable that the merchant’s son should be named Richard, but far less likely that Old Crouchback’s namesake should have reacted so positively to his father’s obsession. Instead of rejecting it, as a healthily antagonistic offspring issupposed to do, the boy had embraced it with even greater fervor. The Weldon fortune having survived war, post war inflation, and death duties, Sir Richard was a member of that increasingly rare breed, a gentleman of wealth. He lived with, for, and among his collection of Ricardiana.
    Jacqueline and Thomas were received at the door by a member of that equally rare breed, a genuine butler. As he took their suitcases, a door at the far end of the hall opened, and from the shadow of the arch the original of the portrait at the National Gallery came walking out of time to greet them.
    Weldon wore his brown hair at shoulder length. His head was covered with a black velvet hat pinned with a jeweled brooch—copied from the portrait, as was his long fur-trimmed gown. The pleated garment was belted in at the waist. The neck was open, showing the high-necked undertunic, or paltock.
    Thomas heard Jacqueline’s breath catch at the first sight of this fantastic figure; as it moved out into the light he heard another sound, which was one of courteously suppressed amusement. He smiled to himself. Whatever Jacqueline’s prejudices, they would soon be dispelled. No one could dislike a man as cheerful and gentle as Richard Weldon.
    The resemblance to Richard of Gloucester was cultivated and not really very close. Weldon’s short, slight figure suited the image, but his snub-nosed face had no resemblance to Gloucester’s somber countenance. It was pathetic to watch Weldon struggle with his facial muscles; he tried to keep his face as sober as that of its painted prototype, but his features were not designed for melancholy.
    He was beaming as he marched forward, both hands extended. After greeting Jacqueline warmly, he turned to Thomas.
    â€œBrother!” he exclaimed, and flung both arms around Thomas. “Noble Clarence! God wit ye well!”
    â€œNow, now,” said Thomas, disentangling himself from yards of loose velvet sleeve. “Hadn’t we better stick to our own names? It’s confusing enough as it is.”
    â€œOh, dear,” said Weldon, looking chagrined. “Of course you’re right. Do come into the drawing room and meet the others.”
    The drawing room was a lovely Georgian chamber, but its fine lines and discreet ornament were obscured by an outré collection of bric-a-brac and furniture, an overflow from the famous Weldon collection of Ricardiana. A mammoth carved chest, black with age, loomed threateninglyover a little ormolu table. An ivory sofa was disfigured by a plush cushion with the legend “Souvenir of Middleham Castle.” Clearly Weldon could not bear to throw anything away if it had the slightest connection with Richard of Gloucester.
    All the people present were wearing medieval costume. Some were sweating inelegantly under the muffling folds of velvet and the heavy fur trim. The feminine garb of the period, romantic and graceful as it was, only suited the slim. The woman who strode forward to meet them, with the air of one who knows her rights of precedence, was far too massive for the dress. The full skirts were supposed to be belted in just under the breasts, but in this case it was hard to tell where that area was located. Her massive bosom went out and out and further out; from its extremity the crimson cloth of gold billowed instead of falling in graceful folds. The neckline and skirt of the dress were trimmed with bands of ermine. Against the white fur the woman’s neck was scarlet, streaked with runnels of perspiration. She had a visible moustache, and her iron-gray hair was almost concealed under a velvet-banded hennin—the tall pointed hat popular with assorted fairy princesses. From its