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Richard III

(Encylopedia Britannica)

Richard was the last of the Plantagenet kings, defeated decisively at the Battle of Boswell Fields by Henry Tudor in 1485, ushering in the Tudor era. Elizabeth I of course was Henry VII's granddaughter. As Shakespeare's continued success as a play maker — the contemporary phrase —  it was perfectly reasonable to paint the vanquished king as more dreadful than he really was. Reasonable but also politically expedient to keep the queen happy. 

Both Shakespeare and Thomas More portrayed Richard as a dreadful man, conniving, cruel and physically malformed but history has softened its judgement. 

He was born with scoliosis which twisted his spine but was neither hideous nor a hunchback though he was small of stature.

He took shocking care of his minor nephews, the older of whom had a stronger claim to the throne than Richard. Their deaths were announced but never clarified though none of this matters to Shakespeare’s play.

Richard is a villain from the start. Toward the end of the play as he loses confidents and enemies through his own behaviour. his increasingly frightening justifications for his actions  and cruelty are delivered straight at the audience who become unwilling witnesses to an unravelling soul who explains his seduction of the widow of a good man whose death Richard has arranged to an audience both mesmerized and horrified.

Was ever in this humour woo’d? 

I’ll have her but I will not keep her long.

What, I that kill'ed her husband and his father,

To take her in her heart’s extremest hate,

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

The bleeding witness of her hatred by,

Having God her conscience, and these bars against me —

And I, no friends to back my suit at all,

But the plain devil and dissembling looks —

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

Ha!

Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

Edward, her lord, whom I some months since,

Stabb’ed in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,

Fram’ed in the prodigality of Nature,

Young, valiant, wise and no doubt, right royal,

The specious world cannot again  afford.

And will she yet debase her on me,

That cropp'd the golden prime of that sweet prince.

And made her widow to a woeful bed

On me whose allot equal Edward’s moiety?

That halts and am misshapen thus?

[I.ii.232 — 55]e4