White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (55 page)

Tomorrow, we march to engage the enemy in battle, which will probably be the day after. This will be the most decisive battle of my life, as I have made up my mind there can only be one of two outcomes—either I win—or die in the attempt! If I meet my Maker in the battle, remember me with affection and know that whatever mistakes I have made—and I have made many—I set out to be king with the best of intentions. If given the chance in the future, I aim to build upon all the good works which I have initiated. No man can do more than that.

Your loving son,

Richard

Henry Tudor, Atherstone, Staffs Evening, 20 August 1485

I had barely caught up with my Uncle Jasper, the Earl of Oxford, and my gathering army at Tamworth, after my unpleasant night spent lost out in the fields, when I had an urgent message to go at once to Atherstone nearby, where both the Stanley brothers, my uncle Thomas and William, were waiting to see me. At last they had come! Surely this boded well now for my venture?

‘After all this time, we get to meet at last!! I have heard so much about you from my beloved mother, Uncle Thomas—I may call you Uncle? I hear that you have been grievous sick? I am glad that you seem to have recovered!’

‘Aye, well, I was one of the lucky ones! This sweating sickness has proved fatal in many. And, lad, it is good to meet you. I have heard a lot about you too—from Margaret! For months—nay years, I suppose, she has talked of little else!’

I must say, he did not look sick—not at all. Most men, after a near brush with death, would at least have looked pale; would have seemed tired, but not him. He seemed full of energy—very strange. I wondered—though I did not like to ask him outright—if his sickness had been a ploy to keep from joining the king, who had commanded his presence long ago. If it was such, then I suppose I could take heart from it, knowing that he had come to me instead, supposedly just after rising from his sick-bed. Surely that must mean he intended to give me his support?

But my mood of exhilaration did not last long. Neither of them had come to promise me that their hosts would join me at once; both would go no further than to keep reiterating that their intentions towards me were favourable, but there were no concrete promises made of immediate support, none at all. I was only able to assume, from what they said, that they would aid me, but only during the battle.

‘Uncle, I am anxious to know that you are both on my side! Is that why you have arranged this meeting—to assure me that you are about to instruct your armies to join mine at once? Without your men, I only have those I brought with me—many of them not trained soldiers at all—and the few picked up along the way! I did not get the overwhelming support I hoped for from the Welsh, and Rhys ap Thomas, whom I had assumed would join me the moment I landed, only came over to me because I bribed him with promises that he should be Lieutenant of All Wales if he did! I have heard that the king has named him traitor already and has issued a warrant for his arrest, if he can be caught—which I doubt! My numbers amount merely to about 5,000 men—not enough to face Richard’s mighty hosts! With your men, it would be about 10,000!’

‘Stop worrying! There is no basis for this extreme anxiety. As William told you a few days ago, we will join you when the time is ripe. We cannot show our hand at once. For a start, you know that my eldest son, Lord Strange, is in deadly peril in the hands of the king? He tried to escape once, so he is now in one of the deepest dungeons in Nottingham Castle—unless Richard has had him brought along to Leicester. As a hostage for my good intentions, he would be killed immediately if I declared for you before the battle! I have to think of his well-being—surely you can understand that? Have faith! Why do you think I have risked exposure to meet you here? It is an assurance of my future goodwill—our future goodwill—eh, William?’

‘Aye, it is that, lad. But we can do no more openly at this moment, as Thomas says. You will have to be content with what we do offer!’

‘I understand all you say. I realise the problems you face, especially with regard to the peril of Lord Strange. But it seems to me that what you are trying to say is that you must keep King Richard hanging on in the belief that you are loyal to him, when all the time you plan to defect to my cause at the very last minute?’

‘We must keep him happy, yes. In his supposed security lies our safety! He depends on our help too. He must not get an inkling of what we plan or we could lose everything—not only the life of my son, but all our estates, our very lives! He would not wait, but would have us done to death immediately! He has a quick way of dealing with those he sees as his enemies! I cannot forget what happened to the Earl of Buckingham and Lord Hastings, who was only suspected of plotting against him—summary execution! We have to bide our time and say nothing until the battle is joined. Then, we will show our hand!’

‘I suppose I will have to accept what you say with a good grace, though it is difficult. I am untried in the ways of war; I only know that to have an army double the size of the one I have at the moment would have made me feel more secure!’

‘Never fear, lad. I have told your Lady mother what we plan to do. Margaret is in complete accord with us and asked me to send her assurances that you can trust us. She has spent her entire life working towards this time; towards your taking the throne! Do you think I would dare to lie to you, knowing what a virago she can be when a rage takes her? My life would not be worth living afterwards if I did not come to your aid! Now we must away, back to our camps. There is still much to prepare. Be of good heart, Henry. All will be well on the day!’

Richard, Yorkist Camp, Bosworth, Staffs,
Night, 21 August 1485

‘Lord Francis! My Lord Lovell! Come quickly, I beseech you. The king—he is ill. He is in most desperate straits!’

‘What mean you, Stephen? I left him sleeping, not two hours ago.’

‘He sleeps still, my lord, but is beset by the horrors and tortures of nightmares in his sleep! He thrashes and shudders violently! His body twists as if in violent pain! He will do himself a damage! It is as if all the hounds of hell beset him! I cannot bear to look upon it! And he screams out, calling on God to forgive him, over and over! Please come, my lord. He must be woken from these horrors, but I dare not touch him. You are his friend. You must do it!’

Stephen, Richard’s body squire, looked to be in bad case himself. I know he loves the king, as I do. I could hear Richard as we approached his tent, calling out as if his elder brother were there. I sent the boy away, as he was shaking like a leaf.

‘Edward, Edward, forgive me! I did it for the best of reasons. I did it for the good of the country! I did not want to do it—I have never had a moment’s peace since—I betrayed you—betrayed your trust. Loyalty binds me—Loyalty binds me—And now is the time of retribution! God has punished me—goes on punishing me!’

I bent down and shook Richard’s arm gently, then more urgently, as he was sunk so deep in this terrible place of torture in his mind. Stephen was right. He must be released from it!

He woke suddenly, sat up, and clutched at my arms, staring with red-rimmed eyes unseeingly at my face. His face was pinched and ghastly white. Then he began to laugh, louder and louder, quite hysterically. I slapped his face to bring him back to reality. He stared again, this time with comprehension and shuddered.

‘Francis. Thank God you are here. I tried to make them understand, but they would not listen to me! Edward, then Hastings. George. And those two poor boys in the Tower! Edward just kept saying, “You were my dear brother, my most loyal and devoted friend. And you betrayed me. You killed my best friend, Hastings. You usurped my son and imprisoned him in that dreadful place. People say you killed him and his brother. I shall never forgive you—never! You will burn in hell for your deeds!”

‘And most of it is true, though I did not kill those boys—you know that I did not—Then there was George—his face and body all bloated, his eyes red and staring, his mouth loose and dribbling—the face of a drowned man. I saw one once, half-floating in the mud of the Thames shallows outside Baynard’s Castle, after the tide had gone out. It was just like that. I loved George. I begged Edward not to have him executed—that was not my fault either. But he was there, with the others! His eyes accused me. Perhaps he believed I was the one who ordered him killed—went to his death believing that—never—never! Young Prince Edward and Richard of York were there, pointing accusing fingers at me. Hastings’s bloody head was on a pole—just like my father’s at Micklegate—and he accused me from his dead mouth, “Murderer! Murderer! Black-hearted villain! I was your friend!” Then they were at me—slashing and hacking—I was drowning in my own blood—retribution! The vengeance of God! “Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord! My mother’s very words! And it has come to me—is claiming me!’

He stopped this crazed torrent of self-accusation for a moment to take breath, and I put my arms around him and held him close, rocking his body as I would a small child, to try and give some comfort to his tortured soul.

‘Hush, Your Grace, it is all right now. You were merely dreaming—a dreadful nightmare, that is all! It is gone now and you are here—safe, with me, your friend.’

‘My dearest friend—yes. Thank God for you, Francis. I have few friends. So many are against me—determined to see my downfall! Why? Why do they hate me so? I have made so many mistakes, but I did mean well—you know it—I have worked so hard to justify my actions. Why can they not see it?’

‘You meant well and you have done well! God can see that clearly, as I do. You are not a wicked man. God is not seeking vengeance—retribution is not hanging over your head! It is all in your mind, the product of too many nights without sleep lately, a natural apprehension about the morrow—which we all feel—too much recent tragedy and too much work! You never let up, never give yourself a chance to relax. No wonder your mind is disturbed. But it will all come right. I believe it and you must also!

Tomorrow you will be your usual capable, assertive self. In the morning, you will vanquish all these nonsensical nightmares—as you will your enemies! They will all melt away like snow in spring. And then, there will be peace—peace and tranquillity for us all—which you must seek now, my lord, in proper rest. I will stay by you until you sleep.’

I held up a beaker of strong hippocras to his lips, made him drink it all, and stayed by him until he slept again, this time peacefully, in my arms.

Bosworth Field, 22 August 1485, 5 a.m.

‘They have taken the best position, my Lord Henry! They got here before dawn and have now occupied Ambion Hill! Their armies are spread the entire length of it above us! It gives them a distinct advantage!

‘At the bottom of the hill to the south-west is a marsh—impossible to fight there—the horses would sink fetlock-deep in the oozy mud, men too! We are left with the rest of this unprepossessing area—Redmore Plain, they call it—to dispose our armies. I will have to think most carefully about this. And we have little time!’

‘I trust you, my Lord Oxford, to make the best use of the place. Just instruct us what to do and where to go and we will obey you in all things! You know what you are doing—and I do not!’

‘We have been taken by surprise, Henry, lad! Richard was quick off the mark in his planning—we must give him that. Here, in the open plain, we are at a definite disadvantage unless we stir quickly and move right away from that wretched marsh. Do not want to be caught with that at our backs to blunder into, whatever!’

‘Uncle Jasper, I feel that all the theoretical knowledge of battlefield dispositions you drummed into me is of little moment until one actually sees the land available. And I am about as much use here as a babe in arms. It is practical knowledge I need!’

‘You will certainly get plenty of that, boyo, in the next few hours!’

‘We must move at once! Order the men to advance as quickly as may be! We will move south-west, which will give us the best position we can get now to deal with the Royalists as they gallop down from the western heights. We will be ready, waiting for them! We must try to arrange our ranks with the sun to the side of us. No army can fight effectively facing east and blinded by its August rays. Ideally, it should be directly in the enemy’s eyes for our best advantage, but the king has craftily made sure his men are facing west!’

‘He stole a march on us with that, Oxford. This side of Ambion Hill faces west, so he assumes we will be forced to face due east!’

‘Clever devil, Richard! But then he is known as a supreme tacititian and planner. We should have got here yesterday to outwit him, Jasper!’

‘So we start off with half the men he has—only 5,000 to his 10,000? And we risk having the sun directly in our eyes during the fighting! Can we overcome such considerable disadvantages?!’

‘Henry, remember the Stanleys! They will be waiting on our flanks, whatever! I have already spied the red coats and horses of William’s host away to the north-west. And over on our other south-east flank, I am sure Lord Thomas’s infantry will now be massing. They have come and they will be sure to join us later, never fear!’

‘Yes, when the time is ripe. Whenever that is! I am sick of waiting for them to commit themselves. They could just as well be waiting there to join Richard when they find the time is ripe!’

‘My lord, we must be positive. We can win! And we do not have the disadvantage of possible treachery which the king faces, if the Stanleys decide to abandon him for us—when they are officially on his side! Also, I have heard privily that there may be others in high places who will not support him as they should when he most needs them—so do not worry. My spies have worked hard for such information and have been highly paid to ensure that it is accurate!’

‘Thank you, Lord Oxford. You cheer me somewhat. I cannot help my cynical, distrustful nature. Life has made me a pessimist, I am afraid! I am in God’s hands now and in your most capable ones, my lords. I must try to believe the day will be ours!’

Bosworth Field on Ambion Hill, 22 August 1485, 6 a.m.