By Isabella Summitt
April 9, 2024 marks 611 years since Henry V was crowned king of England.
Henry V followed the solemn procession. It was the second funeral he had attended in the past two months. Funerary rights were becoming a regular routine in his kingly duties, and he had stayed strictly solemn to accommodate them. He knew how to keep pace with the priest and the pallbearers behind the coffin, taking a step every time the incense shakers swung back and forth. The smoke swirled like ghosts among the drapes and black vestments worn by the deacons. The bells were ringing at slow intervals up in the tower at the abbey. They called all the citizens of London to come and view the procession. A very sparse crowd had answered them and gathered by the side of the road, held back by the soldiers. Their eyes followed the living king, not the coffin of the dead one. Henry kept his eyes low, and his expression neutral, but he couldn’t help but wonder what they thought of this spectacle.
Richard II had been dead for over ten years, so the coffin was closed. Their procession entered the abbey through the main gate at the west side. The large doors swung wide open to welcome Richard to the vault that was the final resting place of so many other English kings. The choir began chanting Dies Irae when they passed the arcanex, their voices reverberating off the ancient stone walls. They descended into the vault beneath the shrine of Saint Edward. The candle flames bobbed up and down with every stone step.
They came down into a latticed area, the lavish tomb where Richard’s first wife and true love had been years before buried. Richard had planned for the two of them to be buried together, but then he had also planned to live out the rest of his days as the King of England. The pallbearers carefully lifted the coffin over the stone niche prepared for it, and then laid the bronze effigy lid over it. It fell into place with a final resounding thud. The priest knelt in prayer, and Henry followed suit.
“In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritui sancti…”
What, did he think he could bribe God by doing this? It was a bit late to give the crown back to Richard. Henry tried to shake that thought out of his head as he prayed for the repose of the deposed Richard II. Thank God Henry’s father had requested to be buried at Canterbury instead of here, putting him next to the liege he had betrayed would not have pleased his soul. Yet, if his father had not taken up arms against him and become Henry IV, Bolingbroke the Usurper, Henry would not be here now, the king and lord of this storied isle.
“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace, Amen.”
The priest concluded the funeral prayer with the sign of the cross and then rose and processed out. Henry waved the rest of the funeral party to follow the priest and to leave him there alone. When they had left him all alone in the candlelight, he got up and came closer to the tomb. The lid was a bronze effigy of Richard as he had been in life, and from Henry’s memories, it captured his likeness fairly well. He had narrow delicate features, curly hair, and his beard was always sparse, his eyes sparkling as though he was always looking at a horde of jewels. He still had a crown on his head in the effigy, even though he had not died a king. That crown was now on Henry’s head, the troublesome thing…
“…within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps death his court…”
Richard had said this upon learning of his father’s successful coup against him. Henry, as his young hostage, had watched the king giving into despair. They traveled eastward through north Wales and only got a little way before they met Bolingbroke the Usurper and his army and had to hold up in an old Norman fort. He remembered seeing sad Richard looking wistfully at the crown he had thrown off in shame. His bronze effigy carried the same wistful look, as if the whole defining moment of his life, his defeat, was forever immortalized on his tomb. Hal couldn’t have done anything as a child to prevent it.
“More will I do:
Though all I can do is nothing worth;
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.” said Henry.
He heard faint footsteps approach him in the echoing vault. Only then did he notice how wet his eyes were.
“So, Richard is buried again,” said his visitor.
Henry turned; the visitor was none other than Coris, the Storyteller: the narrator of tales and speaker of prologues with the golden voice that had the power to catch people up in his words and transport them to faraway realms.
“Where I soon shall follow,” said Henry.
Henry looked over at the empty slabs and alcoves in the vault. Coris came closer and saw his tear-stained face in the candlelight. His heavy eyes were moved with pity. He made the sign of the cross and knelt on the other side of the tomb with the king.
“Richard’s death was not your fault.” said the Storyteller.
“Yet I have all the glory of his overthrow. It is the original sin of my father visited upon me… and it will be revenged upon my people.” said Henry.
“You would not be king, Henry, if it were not God’s will.”
Henry smirked. God’s will? Had it been His will before the Bard wrote about it? Was it the Bard’s will or His? It must have been since He created the Bard. The way they spoke of the Bard made him seem like the all-powerful one, but it was a comforting thought that it was not the case. He looked back sadly at the effigy of Richard’s face.
“It is time, my king.” said the Storyteller.
Henry stood up in surprise.
“So soon?”
The Storyteller nodded. Henry posed himself, his heart racing, over the tomb of Richard II.
“Then begin it; the tomb of a king is a fitting place to begin where it shall end as well.” said Henry.
The Storyteller came up to the candles lit beside the coffin and spread his arms wide like a conjurer.
“O for a muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention…”
This piece previously appeared in the Fellowship & Fairydust issue Happy & Glorious: A Royal Celebration.