Were the boys indeed buried? And why should their white souls ride the winds on crimson clouds in the dead hours of the night?
To banish the spectres and quiet the shrieks in his ears he commanded the Tower chaplain to unearth the corpses and have them better placed, under the marble floor of some shrine or safe in a corner of the court-yard of the Tower. It was done. None ever knew when or with what holy rite they were buried the second time, because the priest soon afterward died, and with him went the knowledge of their resting-place.
Richard did not long enjoy his throne, but in his brief reign noble ladies and gallant gentlemen were imprisoned in grim strongholds, and marched from dungeons to death on the headsman's block. Sometimes he would have drums beat and trumpets sound, so that the last words of the dying could not be heard by the assembled crowds, for he feared an uprising of his subjects.
Only two years afterward he dashed into the thickest of the fight at Bosworth, and there lost his kingdom and his life. Under a hawthorn-bush Lord Stanley found the crown of England, which the tyrant had worn to the battle-field. It was badly bruised and trampled on, the jewels dim with dust and clouded with blood. Stanley placed it just as it was on the head of Henry, Earl of Richmond, and the soldiers of the royal army shouted with joy, "Long live King Henry VII."
Later in the day the body of the Hunchback was pulled out of the mire, stripped naked, tied across a horse's back like a sack of worthless clay (which indeed it was,), and taken to a near church-yard for burial. Nobody cared for the monster, nor minded how his blood ran down in the dust of the road on its way to the grave which had no mourners.
The new King marched in the splendor of banners and with triumphal music to the Tower, at that time used as a palace. He was attended by a princely escort, gentlemen on horseback wearing jewelled armor, and long trains of gilded coaches filled with ladies in brilliant robes, making altogether a brave show. Chambers tapestried in silk were set apart for the court, beds were canopied with velvet, soft carpets and rich hangings—gold, crimson, violet—covered the rough stones, and there was much high feasting and much merry-making. When the ceremonies were over, Henry thought of the murdered innocents, and made inquiry about them. Forrest and the priest were dead, and the other two accomplices—to whom was offered pardon on confession—knew nothing of the second burial. It was supposed the chaplain would, if possible, lay the Princes in consecrated ground. St. Peter's Cathedral was rummaged, many coffins were opened and stared into, and the near church-yard was upturned and searched for the precious relics, but none were discovered. Court flatterers pretended to believe the children had been sent out of the country, and were still alive somewhere in the provinces.
The ancient fortress grew grayer and drearier than ever, and portions of it began to crumble and rot. Then the murder came to light, proved by best evidence—the remains of the Princes themselves. Some workmen making a new stairway to the royal chapel found under the steps, hidden close to the wall and covered with earth, two skeletons answering exactly to the missing youths long sought.