By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (30 page)

As James watched the two men eye one another he wondered to which king Percy was loyal. They had been Lancastrian supporters once and James knew that the man was jealous that Richard had appointed his nephew, the Earl of Lincoln, as the head of the Council of the North rather than himself.

Richard slammed his jewelled eating knife, blade down, into the table, but his face remained outwardly calm. “We march out from here at sunrise,” he told Percy.

“But it is a Sunday. My men and horses are exhausted and need to rest.” He met Richard’s glare with a steady gaze. “March out if you must. I will follow in the afternoon as a rear guard,” he said at last, breaking the tense silence.

“That would seem sensible,” broached James, attempting to bring some reason to their debate. “Tired men and horses will be of no use to us.”

After a moment Richard nodded his assent and dismissed the earl. “I still do not quite trust him,” he said as he pulled the knife from the table where it had scourged the surface of the scrubbed wood. James did not reply. There was nothing to say and they all knew from past experience that allegiances changed as quickly as the tides.

They rode out early the next morning, even before the church bells had begun to call the people to mass. “And bid the men keep to the roads,” Richard said as James turned to leave. “The crops are ripening in the fields ready for harvest and I will not see them destroyed beneath our feet.”

Although the men from York had not come, the numbers who appeared to support the king far outweighed the enemy and, if what their spies and lookouts had reported was true, there seemed little need to wait. As noon passed and the heat of the day rendered it unsafe to touch his armour with an ungloved hand for fear of burning, James turned awkwardly in his saddle and, shielding his eyes from the sun, was relieved to see the shimmering column of Northumberland’s men following in their wake as promised. The king’s army appeared invincible and James prayed that Henry Tudor would flee at the very sight of them.

The sun traversed westwards ahead of them and as its shadows began to lengthen, the long line of men and horses approached the village of Sutton Cheney. Richard ordered them to make camp there and as soon as his tent was pitched and the cooks at the fires had their supper ready, he called his knights to join him to eat and discuss their tactics for the morrow. He had sent an advance party to a high knoll called Ambion Hill about a half a mile away with orders to hold and occupy it during the night against the enemy. Beyond it, in the flat valley, was the meadow where they planned to engage the enemy.

“The Duke of Norfolk will lead the vanguard. We will follow and Northumberland’s men will bring up the rear,” he told them. “And I have ordered them to turn their weapons on Stanley should he look like deserting us for the other side. Where is Lord Strange?” he asked.

“He is within the company,” replied James. “Would you speak with him?”

“No. But guard him well,” he said. “And ride to Lord Stanley for me. Ask him to confirm that he will fight on our side tomorrow and remind him that his son is my hostage.”

Stanley had made his camp some distance away and James mounted a fresh horse rather than the one he had ridden all day and trotted out towards the huddle of tents where the eagle’s claw banner was striking at the soft evening air. Men came forward with hands poised on their weapons as he approached but allowed the swords to slide back into their sheaths at the sight of his royal colours.

“I come with a message from the king,” he told Stanley as he looked down on his old enemy from his saddle. “He bids me ask you to reassure him that you will fight for him, and reminds you that your son is in our company.”

Thomas Stanley stood and stroked his meagre beard in the fading light without replying. “Lord Strange will face the axe if you betray the king,” James warned him.

“I have other sons,” replied Stanley with a shrug and ducked back under the flap of his tent without another word, leaving James to sit and stare after him. Angrily he turned the horse and spurred it back up the incline. He knew that Stanley was prepared to take the risk that Richard would not have the stomach to harm his son, but his answer also confirmed his fear that Stanley would not fight for them – unless he saw that they were sure to win.

When he reported the encounter to Richard he agreed. “It is no more than I expected of him,” he remarked with contempt.

“And Lord Strange?” asked James.

“It will do no good to kill him,” admitted Richard shaking his head, “and I would not execute him for my own amusement. Walk with me,” he said to James. “Let us go and speak to the men and bid them have courage.”

Wearing only his padded gambeson and bareheaded, Richard walked amongst the tents of the camp, exchanging words of encouragement and thanks with the men who were sitting in the welcome cool of the evening, giving their weapons one last polish before covering their fires and preparing themselves for sleep.

They walked as far as Ambion Hill where Richard bade the guard be watchful and where he paused for a moment to watch the twinkling fires of the camps below, not knowing for certain which ones contained his allies and which his enemies. “I suppose we should to bed,” he sighed at last. “The sun will rise early, and tomorrow will be a difficult day.”

James lay on a pallet near the entrance to the king’s tent and saw that Richard also tossed and turned on his mattress, as if plagued by bad dreams. It was always so on the eve of a battle, reflected James, although it seemed that men were never tired in the morning, but fought with the desire for survival.

At last, they gave up any attempt to sleep as the new day faded the stars. Even before it was fully light their squires assisted them on with their armour and every man knelt in the dew-moist grass to hear the priest say mass and give them his blessing and absolution. Then the horses were brought from the lines where they had been left to graze and rest overnight and were saddled up and harnessed in their protective plate and royal colours. Once his men were gathered Richard mounted his favourite stallion, White Surrey, and standing in his stirrups he addressed them all.

“Dismiss all fear,” he told them, “and ride like valiant champions. If every one of you gives but one sure stroke, then the day will be ours.”

Across the valley, where the red dragon standards blew on the wind, trumpets sounded and James could see men manning the heavy French guns that the Tudor army had brought. His stomach fluttered with apprehension and excitement as he saw men bracing their bows and he knew that within minutes the battle would begin.

Suddenly there was a deafening roar as the guns were fired and under a hail of shot the gunfire was returned. Trumpets sounded the advance and as men came within bowshot of each other a volley of arrows shrieked through the air with an ear splitting whine. James saw the Earl of Oxford begin a charge down the far hillside, but this was no melee of undisciplined men. The Scots and French mercenaries had closed into a solid advancing mass, and Norfolk’s men were shut out, only able to attack those on the outer edges. Beside him Richard shifted in his saddle. James saw that his eyes were not on the main arena of the battle at all, but on a small party of men who were riding around the edge of the fighting towards the line of the Stanley army.

“Tudor!” he spat above the roar. He glanced sideways at James. “He’s mine!” he said.

“My lord! It is too risky!” called James as the king gathered his reins into one hand.

“I will challenge him in mortal combat, and will live or die king of England!” shouted Richard, before slamming down the visor on his helm. He took his battle axe from his squire and, after weighing it for a moment in his hand, he spurred the eager stallion towards the flat plain to their right.

Before Tudor and his men could reach the safety of the Stanley camp, the king and his knights were upon them. Richard leaned from his saddle and struck at Sir William Brandon, Tudor’s standard bearer, and left him unhorsed and dead at his feet. Then, as Tudor and his men turned in horror at the unexpected attack, James saw the king unhorse Sir John Cheney, leaving him open to engage the invader. With his sword in his hand James followed Richard closely, his excitement mounting as he began to believe that they would prevail. If Tudor was killed Stanley would be sure to join their side and the enemy would be routed. He watched as Tudor urged his horse away from Richard, seeing that if he stayed he was a dead man. The king spurred his stallion on to give chase. Then he heard a muffled cry from behind and as he turned to look at what was happening he saw his brother Robert throw up his visor and shout “Diccon!” in the moment before Sir William Stanley and his army bore down on them from behind.

It was evening when Anne saw the dust rising on the road as a lone horseman galloped towards Hornby Castle. As the armour-clad rider turned to cross the bridge over the Wenning, Anne called to the nurse to watch the children and running down the winding stairs as fast as she dared she called to the guard to open the gates and raise the portcullis. It was the bay stallion she had recognised before her Uncle James.

He reined the horse in as he came under the archway to the courtyard. As Anne looked at the panting, sweating horse that stood with its nose to the ground and its flanks heaving with weariness, her mind whirled. Had Richard sent for her? Was he so impatient to see her again that he had told her uncle to spare no time to bring her? But when her uncle pulled off his helm and she met his eyes, she saw that something was very wrong.

“What...?” she began, seeing that her uncle was streaked with dirt and blood as if he had ridden straight from the battlefield. “No,” she whispered as her heart raced in fear and alarm. No, she thought. If anything had happened to Richard she would have known; she would have felt it. He must be safe. He had to be safe. It wasn’t the first time he had had to take refuge abroad. Twice before he had come back and been victorious. Even if the battle had been lost there would be another time, another chance. Perhaps he had sent Uncle James to bid her join him in Burgundy. She would go. She would go to him wherever he was.

“Anne,” said her uncle. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?” she asked. At least she thought she had spoken the words out loud. But her uncle didn’t answer. He ran a filthy hand across his eyes as if he were trying to wipe away the memory of a sight he would rather forget, and when he took his hand away she saw the tears amidst the dried mud on his cheeks. She had never seen her uncle cry. She would not have thought it possible and a bitter fear crept through her. Her teeth chattered against one another as the sun sank in the west.

“We did not prevail,” he said at last.

Silence hung between them for a moment until Anne managed to say, “Richard?” Her uncle was staring at the horse and Anne knew that he would have reassured her straight away if the king were safe. “No,” she whispered. “No.” She shook her head and all the happiness she had ever felt in her life flowed from her body like its life blood and she sank to the ground, to her knees, as if she could gather it all back and retrieve the life that Richard had promised her. “No.” She had a vision of her mother on her knees not far from the very spot. She had been too young then to comprehend her mother’s grief. But now she knew.

“I am sorry,” repeated her uncle.

“Are you sure?” she pleaded, looking up at him, silhouetted against the setting sun, turning blood red on the horizon. The light stung at her eyes. Edward had told her not to look. He said she would be blinded. Mistress Payne had told her not to touch. She said that she might die. Now Anne wished herself both blind and dead; she wished that she did not have to feel this pain, this anguish, this life that was beating and coursing through her veins and throbbing in her head. How could she live if he was dead?

“How?” she asked. She needed to know the details. Nothing her uncle told her could make it worse.

“Let us go inside,” said Uncle James. “Lower the portcullis! Close the gate!” he told the guards. “And post a lookout. Tell me at the first sight of anyone approaching. I cannot stay long,” he told Anne. “Do you have a fast, fresh horse that I may take?”

Through the dark mist of grief Anne realised that there was danger. “Do they pursue you?” she asked. He nodded and pulled her towards the hall. “But you are safe here,” she said. “You must rest. My husband...”

“Your husband is my enemy now. It was the Stanleys who turned on the king and killed him.”

“No.” But even as the word slipped from her lips Anne knew that what her uncle told her was true.

“Anne, I cannot stay here. Many were killed and many more caught and slain on the battlefield. I was fortunate to escape with my life.”

“Uncle Robert?”

“Alive when I last saw him. I think he made for the coast.”

“Bring food and hot water,” said Anne to Martha as she led her uncle to his chair near the hearth. “We were defeated,” she explained briefly. “The king is dead.”

Martha made the sign of the cross. “God have mercy on his soul.”

“Amen,” replied her uncle as he sat with his head resting between his hands.

“Tell me what happened,” said Anne.

Her uncle took the cup of wine she poured and drank down its contents in thirsty gulps before he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “It is better that you do not know,” he said.

“Tell me!”

He hesitated and then began to speak, slowly and unemotionally, as he described what had taken place on Bosworth Field. And as he described the treachery of William Stanley Anne recalled Sir William’s hostile face the last time she had spoken to him at Westminster, when he had told her that he would prove to her that he was twice the man that Richard was.

“He and his men began to surround us and I called to the king that we should get away whilst we could. But he still had his eye on Tudor. I could see he was determined to finish him there and then. He wouldn’t stop, and as the enemy surrounded him he struck out again and again with his axe. He caught an arrow in his back and was thrown to the ground. He struggled to his feet but before he could defend himself William Stanley struck him down, and all Stanley’s men surrounded him and they beat him down so fiercely that he couldn’t rise from his knees and his helmet split and I saw the blood. I pulled my horse around to try to help him and I heard him shout ‘Treason!’ at Stanley, and then he saw me and I think he knew it was over. ‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘Save yourself!’ But as I hesitated, I heard him say one last word. He called ‘Anne’ and people say he died with the name of his wife on his lips and that it was his guilt because he had poisoned her.” Her uncle paused. “He died calling for you.”