King Under the Carpark

How often in a lifetime does it happen that one of the world’s baffling mysteries is solved? We wait for centuries sometimes to discover answers to the most titillating intrigues. What really happened to Amelia Earhart? Who precisely was Jack the Ripper? What did happen to Jimmy Hoffa? We play with these questions; delighting in turning over the facts and wondering if perhaps we could unlock the answers given half the chance.

When the news of the discovery of a skeleton in a carpark reached me in the US two years ago, I didn’t dare hope that perhaps one of those mysteries would be answered. Could the skeleton with the severe scoliosis actually be the remains of King Richard III? The thought ignited my imagination not least of which because I had only just applied to the University of Leicester to do my Master’s in Museum Studies. I am a daydreamer by trade and my mind began to weave fantastic scenarios in which I somehow got the chance to be involved in the Richard III project. Those dreams were dashed when I wasn’t accepted into the programme. Rather, I wound up in a small city in the north of England where I had one of the most exciting and fulfilling years I have ever known. I soon forgot my dreams about Richard III, though never my enthusiasm. When it was announced that the DNA results were conclusive, I was beyond thrilled. It was truly an amazing time to be in an archaeology department even one not directly involved with the project. I had resigned myself to reading about Richard III and watching television programmes about the remarkable King under the Carpark. I never thought my path would intersect with it. Then, one day, I received an email saying I had been accepted to the University of Leicester for a PhD.

The currents of life are strange indeed. We can sometimes manoeuvre ourselves to the shores we most desire but other times, we seem to be but travellers bound for hidden destinations. It just happened that one of those currents would lead me to be in Leicester during the reinterment of the long lost King of England.

In the weeks leading up the festivities, workmen were busy repainting bollards, cleaning the streets, and hanging banners. Leicester was determined to put her best foot forward when the world turned its eyes on her. Abandoned store fronts on the processional route were spruced up and even the weather had seemed to improve just for the occasion.

I was in the midst of the busiest month yet since starting my degree. I had two major papers due within two weeks of each other and I had fallen behind on my reading. I had thankfully finished my first paper for my supervisor three days ahead of schedule and decided to give myself a few days respite before plunging back into the fray. The upcoming weekend would be full of once in a lifetime events. There was a solar eclipse on Friday and Sunday the remains of the King would be processed through Leicestershire and the city.

I began planning my strategy for the day. In the morning, the University was holding a ceremony and the coffin would begin its final journey through the countryside before ending up at the cathedral. I decided to attend in the morning and then return to the High Street by 17.00 to claim a spot along the procession route.

The whole day would prove to be one of the most surreal I have ever passed.

That morning I woke later than usual. I took my time getting ready and had a leisurely breakfast of an omelette and veggie sausages. I had to forgo my morning tea as I had run out of milk the day before. Around 10.30 I began my now familiar walk to the university. The streets were quiet. Leicester herself seemed to be having a lazy morning as well.

It wasn't until I neared the university that I began to see hordes of people gathering for their glimpse of history.

As I neared the university, I began to see more and more people. They were gathering along the roads near the Charles Wilson building and along past the Student’s Union to the Fielding Johnson Building where the ceremony would take place. I decided against trying to push in close enough to see and hear the proceedings. It seemed better to get a front row view of the procession than to see the back of hundreds of people in the vain hope of hearing speeches.

As the time to the start of the procession neared, more and more people began to line up behind the metal barriers. There were students and townies and out-of-townies. There were families and children dressed as knights. There were people carrying the flag of England and others carrying cups of tea. Finally, the first of the police motorcyclists rounded the corner. Everyone pushed to the barriers and as the hearse came into view, there was an odd hush that came over us all. The only sounds were the sounds of hundreds of cameras and phones snapping photographs.

After the procession had passed, a tide of humanity began to follow. It was as though we were being pulled after that vehicle with its mesmerising cargo. I passed the entrance to Victoria Park and turned homeward. On the way home I picked up some milk at the Tesco on the corner. It seemed on odd thing to do after one had just seen the coffin of a king, though I’m not entirely sure what one should do after an experience like that.

I returned to my flat and made myself a cup of Earl Gray. Though I had been wearing gloves, I was chilled and I wrapped my hands around the cup and let my blood thaw. I had four and a half hours before I had to head out again for the end of the procession. It somehow didn’t seem quite right watching a film and I knew I couldn’t concentrate on work so I picked up The Picture of Dorian Gray which I had started a few weeks ago and settled in. I read continuously and let Wilde’s word pour over me in a decadent cascade. I had quite lost myself when the alarm on my phone went off.

I grabbed my coat, hat, and gloves and tucked my camera into my bag. I had decided to make for the High Street which was one of the first places the procession would pass after a brief stop at St. Nicholas’s Church. As I headed down some back streets, I came to Gray Friars Lane. There were already a great horde of people standing along the route leading to the cathedral. I decided once again that it was better to stand and wait at the front of a barrier than to risk not having a good view at all.

It was still early on when I chose my spot on Gray Friar's. By the time the procession reached us, we were standing two or three deep in some places.

The atmosphere was different from the morning. It had the air of a parade or a carnival. People were carrying shopping bags and had brought their dogs. Children ate ice cream and waved flags. In the buildings along the road, residents poked their heads out thrilled for such a great view and warm surroundings to boot. More tiny knights were peppered through the crowd and parents with strollers tucked into the available spots. I wondered if the youngest ones would remember the day they saw the funeral procession of a long dead king. Many people were carrying white roses and I wished I had had the foresight to bring one.

As the crowd thickened, people began to stand in the windows of the shops to see over the crowds. Bobbies passed up and down the street and event staff with fingers in ear walked by. It seemed ages that we all waited.

Then there was a flash of sun across armour plating. The procession was nearing.

Mounted police were followed by two knights in full plate mail on horseback. Then four black horses came into view drawing the cart with King Richard III’s coffin. It is a strange thing the coffin of a king. I’m not sure what I thought it would look like. Dark mahogany maybe with intricate gold clasps. Something exquisite marking the wealth and power of the man who had once ruled over England. Instead it was simple and wooden. In death, does a king still need riches?

The procession carried on and people tossed their roses and snapped their photos. I stood and watched them turn the corner and pass out of sight.

I slowly walked the ten minutes back to my flat, my thoughts were a perfect whirl and I could make little sense of them. This man had been dead for five centuries. He was much maligned and even now I think it likely he was responsible for the deaths of the princes in the Tower. Yet, he was oddly compelling, this king. But then, we spend too much time on kings, royals, those in power. We trace history through the wars they have made others fight rather than through the stories of those like ourselves. Why do we continue to venerate them? Still, I felt it important to be there. I felt it a good thing to be there. This odd king with the crooked back who had lain under a carpark for centuries had captured my imagination two years ago. At some point he had ceased to be a figure on the page of a history book and had himself become just a man to me. Maybe that is the real lesson from history. These men, far from being worshiped, should be thought of just as men. Take them from our currency, remove the exaggerated monuments erected in their memory. Look on them simply as flawed, complicated, and human.

I made myself another cup of tea and settled in to finish my book.