Was the downfall of Richard III caused by a strawberry?

The king's actions in the summer of 1483, when he unexpectedly put aside his twelve-year-old nephew and became King of England, are considered to be out of character. Could a food allergy have triggered the series of events that lead to the fall of the Ho

Thanks to the efforts of two famous Philippas, one of England’s most controversial medieval kings has been catapulted to the forefront of discussion. Ricardian Philippa Langley, who campaigned to exhume her hero’s bones from a Leicester car park and novelist Philippa Gregory, author behind The White Queen TV adaptation, have brought the events of the Battle of Bosworth into homes across the nation. With Richard III’s sympathetic portrayal by Welsh actor Aneurin Barnard and Langley’s forthcoming book on the dig, co-authored with Michael Jones, this fresh interest gives no sign of waning. Yet despite the debates, burning questions about the man remain unanswered.

Many theories have been offered to explain Richard’s actions in the late spring and early summer of 1483, when he unexpectedly put aside his twelve-year-old nephew and became King of England. Even his devotees will admit that there are several areas in which he appeared to act out of character. One of the most contentious is the fate of the Princes in the Tower, with some unable to accept that a man bound by the motto “loyaulte me lie” could order the murders of his brother’s young sons. Viewers of The White Queen recently saw Gregory’s own personal theory about the substitution of the younger boy and the culpability of Henry VII’s mother Lady Margaret Beaufort. When it comes to understanding Richard’s actions, there will never be as dramatic an answer as that which the discovery of his body provided about his scoliosis. We are not about to unearth the lost Richard III diaries, so his true motives can only be guessed at, across a divide of five centuries.

It is possible, though, to map various interpretations over the known facts of the events of 1483. Following the premature death of his brother, Edward IV, Richard intercepted the young Edward V en route to London, imprisoned and executed the boy’s guardians, rounded on his friends, declared his uncrowned nephew illegitimate and accepted the throne himself. This may have been the actions of a man whose ambitions drove him from the start or reactions to perceived threats by those he considered his enemies. One of the turning points came in mid June, when a Council meeting at the Tower ended in the impromptu execution of the staunchly loyal Yorkist Lord Hastings. This scene, in fact, the entire character of Hastings, was omitted from The White Queen TV series, which is perhaps indicative of the ambiguity of his role and incompatible with a sympathetic portrayal of the king. Perhaps though, there was a very simple explanation indeed, which only hindsight and modern medical understanding can unravel.

The initial account of the meeting comes from chronicler Thomas More, whose bias against Richard is known, but who was active in the household of John Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, present at the meeting. William, Lord Hastings, had been a close friend of Edward IV; he was loyal to the family and in particular, to the next generation. As late as 20 May, Hastings had been appointed Master of the Mint and Richard confirmed him in his role as Chancellor. When he attended the Council meeting of 13 June then, it appears to have come as a complete surprise to all present when Richard turned against him. It may not have been something Richard himself planned.

At this point, Richard had the reins of power in his hands, but only temporarily. After Edward V had been crowned, he would take more of a backseat and the boy’s maternal Wydeville relations would come to the fore. The dowager Queen Elizabeth, the “White Queen”, was safe in sanctuary at this point, her brother Anthony in prison at Pontefract and the coronation set to go ahead on 22 June. But something that day happened which changed everything. According to More, Richard entered the Council meeting smiling and remarked that he would like some strawberries from Archbishop Morton’s garden. He then left, to return around 90 minutes later a changed man, fretting, frowning and chewing his lips. Into his mouth, Shakespeare places the accusation of witchcraft, with his arm “like a blasted sapling, wither'd up” at the bidding of the ex-Queen and Hasting’s mistress. He then turned dramatically on the Lord, ordering his immediate execution. Traditionally, the “bewitched” arm has been seen as an excuse for the removal of someone who would have opposed Richard’s ambition but this owes a lot to hindsight. Remembering that we can never fully understand the workings of the medieval mind, Richard may have genuinely believed himself to be the victim of witchcraft and that his life was in danger. Whatever the Protector’s intentions were at that time, the culprit may actually have been his own breakfast.

More’s account may hold the key. It is possible that the dish of strawberries produced a genuine allergic reaction which caused Richard’s arm to wither and other physical symptoms to develop. Food allergies and intolerances have only been understood in recent years, with increasing recognition of the erratic way these can develop and their dramatic results. The allergic reactions caused by the proteins in strawberries can produce tingling limbs, breathing difficulties and red, puffy, itchy skin. These symptoms usually occur within two hours of eating the fruit, which is compatible with the timescale of the meeting. Symptoms begin with swelling of the lips and tingling in the mouth and More’s account has Richard fretting, frowning and “knawing at his lips”. Internal distress, breathing difficulties following the closing of bronchial tubes and congestion can follow. Sufferers also experience itching, with limbs becoming red, puffy and blighted. According to NHS information, this can affect one side of the body and is consistent with Richard being afflicted in one arm only. Nor may he have experienced any previous adverse reactions to strawberries. Food allergies can emerge even after an individual has eaten a particular dish for years but when the body’s tolerance level is reached, the symptoms are triggered. Before the advent of modern production and storage, fruit was seasonal and therefore, a rare treat, even for the rich. It is quite possible that Richard had a latent allergy to strawberries which emerged with the first crop that June, causing the sudden physical responses in his body.

How would a medieval mind have explained this sudden dramatic affliction? Fifteenth century people of all classes were deeply superstitious and believed that magic could be used to good and evil ends. Elizabeth Wydeville and her mother Jacquetta had both been accused and cleared of sorcery in 1469-70 although Richard’s own brother Clarence also claimed that they conspiring against him through the medium of magic in the 1470s. It cannot be ruled out that, anticipating attacks from the Wydeville clan, Richard believed himself to have fallen victim to poison or enchantment. He stated that witchcraft had “wasted his body”. Perhaps he genuinely believed it had.

The fear Richard appears to have felt on 13 June was a decisive turning point. It changed the tone of his Protectorship and upped the ante in terms of violence. At this point, Anthony Wydeville and his fellow prisoners Grey and Vaughan were still alive. If Richard had not consumed the fruit and suffered the reaction he did, believing himself the victim of a conspiracy, he may not have believed their deaths were necessary. Edward V’s coronation was still planned to go ahead on June 22 and the Princes in the Tower were seen playing in the Castle grounds around this time.

This Council meeting may, in fact, have been the beginning of the end for Edward V. As Hastings is dragged away in Shakespeare’s version of the scene, he foresees the doom of Richard’s regime: “miserable England! I prophesy the fearful'st time to thee, that ever wretched age hath look'd upon.” The seeds of discord were sown as a result of Richard’s misinterpretation and treatment of Hastings. Buckingham and Stanley witnessed the event and the latter may have even suffered minor injuries whilst attempting to defend his friend. Buckingham would rebel in autumn 1483 and Stanley’s troops turned against the King decisively at Bosworth. Historian and author David Pilling suggests that the execution of Hastings may well have caused Richard’s previously loyal adherents to see him in a new light and fear for their own safety. If nothing else, the meeting sealed the fate of Edward V and of his Wydeville uncle Anthony. Michael Hicks, author of several books about the period, states that this meeting was the point where the crisis broke. Richard’s interpretation of witchcraft caused him to react with a level of violence that transformed a tense situation into a crisis.

The truth of this matter will never be known. With so much of Richard’s motivation and action seeming inconsistent during this volatile time, the possibility of an allergic reaction could explain the sudden escalation in fear and violence that Hasting’s death represents. That in turn, led Richard to act brutally against his relatives, incurring the mistrust of his friends. Could it be that the humble strawberry was the catalyst that brought down the House of York?

Aneurin Barnard as Richard III in the recent BBC adaptation of Philippa Gregory's novel "The White Queen". Photo: BBC

Amy Licence is a late medieval and early Tudor historian focusing on women's lives. She is the author of the forthcoming biography Anne Neville, Richard III’s Tragic Queen and her blog can be found here.

Getty
Show Hide image

We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge