Richard III was finally laid to rest last week in Leicester after 500 years, a fair amount of time spent underneath a parking lot. But what if Henry Tudor hadn't slain the last Plantagenet king that fateful day in August of 1485? Surely Richard would have devoted a few lines about the experience to his journal. Following are those lines, and all misspellings are deliberate on my part.
If Richard III Had Survived Bosworth Field...
(mid-aftornoone)
Gak! Battel did not goe at alle as planned thise mornynge. After We felle off Our horse, it was Oure pleasure to be escort’d backe to the White Boare Inne at Leicestre for a welle-deservede lye-downe on the Royalle Bedd We hadde broughte there fromme Nottinghame. Whenne We complaned of headacke, Our servante sad unto Us, “Smalle wonder, Majestie! Henrie Tudor hath driven a sledgehammyr into Thy Brain! Looke now how It bleedes into the Royal Pillowe!” And so did We summon a freshe Pillowe and a bandagge frome the innkeepere. Then We order’d the arreste of Henrie Tudor fore treasone, butte Our servant mumbled somethinge aboute a Yorkist Loss, a newe Kinge-- thisse Henrie Tudor, Our owne pea-brained cousyn-- and Our Banishmente to ande Imprisonmente at the Whyte Boar Inne! Gak! We reelie must get thisse troubel sorted as sone as We eat Our Sopper. We thinke tonighte it Shal be-- clams!!!!
(aftere Sopper)
We tryed to arreste the Innkepere when he refusede to serve Us Oure clams, butte Our servante remind’d Us thate We arre nowe a Royalle Prisonere. Sopper tonighte wasse brede ande waterre. Gak!
(laterre)
Nothinge ells to doe, so We bid Ourr servent bringe the Royall Mirror that We mighte gaze uponne Our spoilt Visagge. Yikes!
We are reminded of the descriptione Our Kingly Fathere used to entertaine his friendes withe of Our Appearancce at Birthe. We Strongley argue thate We wer moste def. NOT born with teeth!!! Yea, We enter’d this Earthly Worlde with a crook back, wattles, and a tail, but It was a short tail. Furthermore, some scales. Oh, and teethe.
Haffing tormentted Ourselve to a Boilinge point on thatte score, We muste divest Ourselve on anotherre: We did NOT poison Our wife with 300 grammes of Arsenik!!! It tooke 400!!!
We mustte saye, Juste becausse We wer borne withe two tiny Horns, morre like largish Carbunkles, reallie...
Withe alle the aspersionns cast upon the Roaylle Selfe, You’d thinkke We’d sloghtered not two, but three, nephewes!
Shite andde Pissell! You! Servent! Whatte is it O’Clocke? Cock-shutte time, indeede. We cannot sleepe, Servent. Bringe Us ink ande papper.
No clammes, Ourre Royall Arse. We will not Sup tonighte. Ahh! Ourre servent reminds Us thatt We did. Ande, furtharmor, that alreadie hav We inkke and pappere, opon which We are at Present writing.
However, We hav nott That alakritie of Spirit, norre Cheere of mind, thatt We were wont to havve.
Ourre Conscience hathe a thousend severall Tongues, andde everie tongue brings inn a severall tale. Butte not a Guitie one! Thatte We most assuredly are Not. Yett there is no creeture lovves Us. Prabloby because offe the Hornes or the Taile. Bah! We cannot Sleepe.
Once there werre as many Plantagennets as starres ablaze in the sky, ande Alle as nimbel as sand Crabbes, popping Inn and out of Bubbels on the beech. No morre. It is as if twere Alle Oure Familie, exept Ourselve, hav beene flung by catapulte into the depthes of Hades.
We arre alone, ande alle Our Subjecks hat Us.
You’d think We'd Bludgeonned Our wive, Rather than poisonn’d herre slowlie o’er the corse of fifteene monthes.
Our enemys calle Us a Snake, notte a Hansome diamond-Backked Ratelsnake, nor yet a powerfulle Burmese pythone, but a rear-fanged Molukkan flying Snak, if that Species hath yet beene discover’d.
Hold! Oure servent doth bringe news. Gak! We havve beene Told the rear-fanged Molukan Fying snake (one of the lesser fying snaks) willle notte be discover’d till the nyneteenthe centurie, whiche Proves jusst how wronge Our enemys arre.
You! Servent! Bringe Us a butte of Malmsey Wyne. Iffe We cannotte hav Ourr Clammes, thenn at leest We shalle gette drunke. Uponne the morrowe shalle We deale withe Henrie. Gak! Ourre heade doth ache. Our Kingdomme for thirty milligrams of OxyContin! (Or, preforably, a fentanyl patche.)
If Richard III Had Survived Bosworth Field...
(mid-aftornoone)
Gak! Battel did not goe at alle as planned thise mornynge. After We felle off Our horse, it was Oure pleasure to be escort’d backe to the White Boare Inne at Leicestre for a welle-deservede lye-downe on the Royalle Bedd We hadde broughte there fromme Nottinghame. Whenne We complaned of headacke, Our servante sad unto Us, “Smalle wonder, Majestie! Henrie Tudor hath driven a sledgehammyr into Thy Brain! Looke now how It bleedes into the Royal Pillowe!” And so did We summon a freshe Pillowe and a bandagge frome the innkeepere. Then We order’d the arreste of Henrie Tudor fore treasone, butte Our servant mumbled somethinge aboute a Yorkist Loss, a newe Kinge-- thisse Henrie Tudor, Our owne pea-brained cousyn-- and Our Banishmente to ande Imprisonmente at the Whyte Boar Inne! Gak! We reelie must get thisse troubel sorted as sone as We eat Our Sopper. We thinke tonighte it Shal be-- clams!!!!
(aftere Sopper)
We tryed to arreste the Innkepere when he refusede to serve Us Oure clams, butte Our servante remind’d Us thate We arre nowe a Royalle Prisonere. Sopper tonighte wasse brede ande waterre. Gak!
(laterre)
Nothinge ells to doe, so We bid Ourr servent bringe the Royall Mirror that We mighte gaze uponne Our spoilt Visagge. Yikes!
We are reminded of the descriptione Our Kingly Fathere used to entertaine his friendes withe of Our Appearancce at Birthe. We Strongley argue thate We wer moste def. NOT born with teeth!!! Yea, We enter’d this Earthly Worlde with a crook back, wattles, and a tail, but It was a short tail. Furthermore, some scales. Oh, and teethe.
Haffing tormentted Ourselve to a Boilinge point on thatte score, We muste divest Ourselve on anotherre: We did NOT poison Our wife with 300 grammes of Arsenik!!! It tooke 400!!!
We mustte saye, Juste becausse We wer borne withe two tiny Horns, morre like largish Carbunkles, reallie...
Withe alle the aspersionns cast upon the Roaylle Selfe, You’d thinkke We’d sloghtered not two, but three, nephewes!
Shite andde Pissell! You! Servent! Whatte is it O’Clocke? Cock-shutte time, indeede. We cannot sleepe, Servent. Bringe Us ink ande papper.
No clammes, Ourre Royall Arse. We will not Sup tonighte. Ahh! Ourre servent reminds Us thatt We did. Ande, furtharmor, that alreadie hav We inkke and pappere, opon which We are at Present writing.
However, We hav nott That alakritie of Spirit, norre Cheere of mind, thatt We were wont to havve.
Ourre Conscience hathe a thousend severall Tongues, andde everie tongue brings inn a severall tale. Butte not a Guitie one! Thatte We most assuredly are Not. Yett there is no creeture lovves Us. Prabloby because offe the Hornes or the Taile. Bah! We cannot Sleepe.
Once there werre as many Plantagennets as starres ablaze in the sky, ande Alle as nimbel as sand Crabbes, popping Inn and out of Bubbels on the beech. No morre. It is as if twere Alle Oure Familie, exept Ourselve, hav beene flung by catapulte into the depthes of Hades.
We arre alone, ande alle Our Subjecks hat Us.
You’d think We'd Bludgeonned Our wive, Rather than poisonn’d herre slowlie o’er the corse of fifteene monthes.
Our enemys calle Us a Snake, notte a Hansome diamond-Backked Ratelsnake, nor yet a powerfulle Burmese pythone, but a rear-fanged Molukkan flying Snak, if that Species hath yet beene discover’d.
Hold! Oure servent doth bringe news. Gak! We havve beene Told the rear-fanged Molukan Fying snake (one of the lesser fying snaks) willle notte be discover’d till the nyneteenthe centurie, whiche Proves jusst how wronge Our enemys arre.
You! Servent! Bringe Us a butte of Malmsey Wyne. Iffe We cannotte hav Ourr Clammes, thenn at leest We shalle gette drunke. Uponne the morrowe shalle We deale withe Henrie. Gak! Ourre heade doth ache. Our Kingdomme for thirty milligrams of OxyContin! (Or, preforably, a fentanyl patche.)