A suit of armour sold last week for £1,850 is believed to have been worn by King Richard III. It had been tailor-made for a man 5ft 4ins tall with a curvature of the spine and one shoulder lower than the other.
Sunday Express
Although, on the morning of April 6, 1471, the bright spring sun may have been warming the narrow London streets and cheering the spirits of the teeming citizens, its heartening rays unfortunately penetrated neither the dank and tatty premises of Master Sam Rappaport (Bespoke Metal Tailoring Since 1216) Ltd, nor the sunken soul of its hapless proprietor.
Master Rappaport had staff shortages. True, Rappaport’s had had staff shortages ever since that fateful day in 1290, but this week was particularly bad: his vambrace cutter was off sick, his hauberk finisher was in labour, and the heads of his two best riveters were currently shrivelling on the north gate of London Bridge for dishonestly handling a church roof which they had hoped to turn into a natty spring range of lead leisurewear.
‘So ask me where I’m getting gauntlets from!’ he demanded bitterly of his senior assistant, as he walked through the door.
The senior assistant sighed; but it was what he was paid for, mainly, so he said:
‘Okay, Sam, so where are you getting gauntlets from?’
‘Don’t ask!’ snapped his master.
The senior assistant summoned his dutiful laugh, for the thousandth time.
‘Gauntlets I’m buying off the peg, thank God my poor father never lived to see it,’ muttered Master Rappaport. ‘A man walks out of here in what he thinks are genuine hand-forged Rappaport gauntlets, he goes into a tavern for a glass of sherry wine, he bangs his fist on the table, and what is he looking at?’
‘What?’
‘Flat fingers, is what he’s looking at. A webbed hand, is what he’s looking at. Tin is all they are. Time was, a man in a Rappaport gauntlet, he wanted to shake hands, he needed two other people to help him lift.’
The shop-bell jangled.
A tall good-looking young man filled the doorway.
‘Good morrow,’ he said. ‘I am the Duke of Gloucester.’
Master Rappaport turned bitterly to his senior assistant.
‘See?’ he snapped. ‘I ask for underpressers, they send me dukes!’
‘I think he’s a customer, Sam,’ murmured the senior assistant.
The grey preoccupation ebbed from Master Rappaport’s face. He smacked his forehead. He banged his breast. He bowed.
‘Forgive me, Your Grace!’ he cried. ‘How may we assist you?’
‘I should like,’ said the Duke of Gloucester, ‘a suit of armour. Nothing flash, and plenty of room in the seat.’
The master tailor beamed.
‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘Formal, but also informal, smart for day wear, but if God forbid you should suddenly have to kill somebody at night, you don’t want to be embarrassed, am I right?’
‘You read my mind, sir!’ cried the young Duke.
‘I have been in this game a long time,’ said Master Rappaport. ‘Nat, the swatches!’
The senior assistant bustled across with a number of clanking plates gathered on a loop of chain. Master Rappaport flicked over them.
‘Not the toledo,’ he murmured, mostly to himself, ‘toledo is all right on an older man, it’s a heavyweight, it’s fine if you don’t have to run around too much, also the sheffield, personally I got nothing against sheffield, it has a smart glint, but you have to be short, there’s nothing worse than a long glint, believe me; likewise, the cast-iron, a tall man in cast-iron, he can look like a walking stove. For my money, I see you in the non-iron.’
‘Non-iron?’
‘It’s a synthetic, 20% copper, a bit of this, a bit of that; a lightweight, wonderful for summer battles. A lot of people couldn’t get away with it, but you’re young, you got broad shoulders, a nice figure, you can carry a thinner metal. It’s flexible, it’s cool, it don’t creak suddenly when you’re with – hem! hem! – a young lady, you should forgive my presumption. Also got a lightweight fly, just a little snap catch, very convenient; the cast-iron, for example, it’s got a big bolt it can take you all day, first thing you know you’re rusting from the inside, am I right, Nat?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the senior assistant.
The young nobleman smiled generously.
‘I shall be guided entirely by you,’ he said. ‘I have just returned from exile with His Majesty Edward IV, and have in consequence little notion of current fashion trends.’
‘With Edward IV you’ve been?’ cried Master Rappaport. ‘So Saturday week you’re fighting at Barnet?’
The Duke nodded.
‘Problems, Sam?’ enquired Nat, catching his master’s sudden furrow.
‘Eight days,’ murmured his master. ‘It’s not long. At least three fittings he’ll need.’
‘Perhaps, in that case,’ said the Duke, ‘I ought to try—’
‘We’ll manage!’ cried Sam Rappaport hastily,‘We’ll manage! Nat, the tape!’
And, lowering his eyes respectfully, the master tailor, tape in hand, approached the comely crotch.
The senior assistant looked at the morning delivery. He shook his head.
‘We shouldn’t send the greaves out for making,’ he said. ‘They’re a good two inches short. Also the cuisses.’
Master Rappaport stared dismally out of the little window.
‘Maybe he’ll agree to crouch a bit,’ he said, at last. ‘Look, Nat, he’s been abroad, you heard him say he was out of touch. So we’ll tell him all the smart crowd are crouching a bit this season. Who knows, maybe we could set a whole new—’
The bell jangled. The two tailors bowed.
‘I can’t get on the leg pieces without crouching,’ said the young Duke, after a while, panting.
‘Wonderful!’ cried Sam Rappaport. ‘Look at His Grace, Nat!’
‘Perfect!’ shouted the senior assistant. ‘It fits you like the paper on the wall. This year, everybody’s crouching.’
‘You’re sure?’ enquired the anxious young man, hobbling uncomfortably before the pier-glass.
‘Would I lie?’ said Sam Rappaport. ‘Tuesday, please God, we’ll have the breastplate and pauldrons.’
‘Tuesdays,’ muttered the senior assistant, ‘I never liked.’
They stared at the breastplate, for the tenth time. Then they measured the two shoulder pieces again.
‘So we’ll tell him everybody’s wearing one shoulder lower this year,’ said the master tailor. ‘He’s young, he’s green, what does he know?’
‘Here he is,’ said Nat.
‘It hurts my shoulder,’ complained the Duke of Gloucester, after a minute or two. His left hand hung six inches lower than his right, his neck was strangely twisted, his legs crouched in the agonizing constrictions of the ill-made greaves and cuisses.
‘Listen,’ said Master Rappaport gently. ‘To be fashionable, you have to suffer a bit. Is His Grace smart, Nat, or is he smart!’
‘Fantastic!’ cried the senior assistant, looking at the wall. ‘Take my word for it, he’ll be the envy of the Court.’
‘When will the backplate and gorget be ready?’ gasped the Duke.
‘Friday,’ said Master Rappaport. ‘On Friday, you get the whole deal.’
‘On second thoughts,’ murmured the senior assistant, ‘Tuesdays are a lot better than Fridays.’
‘We’re working under pressure!’ shouted his master. ‘Miracles you expect suddenly?’
He held up the backplate. It was strangely bowed, like a turtle’s carapace.
‘Well, gentlemen?’
They spun around. The door having been open, they had not heard the Duke come in.
‘We were just admiring the backplate!’ cried Master Rappaport. ‘What cutting! What burnishing!’
‘And what a wonderful curvature!’ exclaimed Nat.
‘Curvature?’ enquired the Duke of Gloucester.
‘It’s what everybody’s talking about,’ said Sam.
‘This time next month,’ said Nat, ‘everybody will be bent. I promise.’
The Duke took the finished suit to the fitting room.
Time passed. The two tailors looked at their shoes, arranged their patterns silently, cleared their throats, looked at the ceiling.
After a few minutes, the fitting-room curtains parted, and the Duke of Gloucester slouched through, dragging his leg, swinging his long left arm, his head screwed round and pointing diagonally up.
‘It looks – as though – I have – a – hump,’ he managed to croak, at last, through his tortured neck.
‘Thank God for that!’ cried Master Rappaport. ‘We were worrying, weren’t we, Nat?’
‘Definitely,’ said the senior assistant. ‘We said to ourselves: suppose the suit comes out without a fashionable hump?’
‘It’s killing me!’ cried the Duke.
‘Good!’ shouted Sam.
‘Wonderful!’ shouted Nat.
‘You’re sure it’s fashionable?’ gasped the Duke.
‘You could be a––a––a king!’ cried Master Rappaport.
So the young Duke of Gloucester paid his bill, and, wearing his new armour, lurched horribly out into the street. And, as he walked, so the pain burned through his body; and, before very long, an unfamiliar darkness spread across his sunny face, and a new sourness entered his disposition, and angers he had never known, and rages he had never believed possible, racked the flesh beneath the steel.
And, suddenly, strangely, the world began to look a different place altogether; until, penetrating to the very innermost recesses of his soul, there fell across him on that soft spring day, a deep, black discontent, like winter.