White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (56 page)

‘My liege, you do not really mean to wear that crown into battle?’ Lord Howard, Duke of Norfolk, looked appalled as Richard set the small gold circlet, symbol of royal rank, upon his helmet.

‘Why not? I am the king and shall live—or die—as such!’

‘But it is an open invitation to any rebel to strike you down! Do you want to die?’

‘No, of course not. But it will also act as a spur to my men to see me casting my lot as king into the jaws of danger—as they are bound to do! It will make them feel I am one of them in body and spirit. They will be inspired to fight all the better for it!’

‘But you are not one of them—you are the king, set apart and anointed by God for a special purpose upon this earth! And you cannot do that if you are killed through what is nothing more than sheer bravado! You must protect yourself. And you must keep yourself apart from the melee. I insist! Especially as you did not choose to take Mass early this morning and invoke God’s protection.’

‘You can insist all you like, Howard, but I shall do as I think fit! I will wear this crown to identify myself to all—and I will fight if I deem it necessary! I have put all in the hands of God already. I did not feel the need for Mass at that time. He will spare me if my cause is just!’

‘Madness! This is madness, Sire! A king should not fight in battle!’

‘I have fought in battles all my life and escaped serious injury thus far. I know how to fight effectively and to protect myself. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I am set upon it. Yes, Francis, what is it?’

‘Richard, this note has been found fixed to Lord Howard’s tent in the camp. I think he—and you—should read it.’

Francis Lovell held up a grubby piece of cheap paper to Norfolk on which was scrawled in large, uneven letters by an obviously illiterate hand, the words: ‘Jack of Norfolk, be not too bold, For Dickon, thy maister, is bought and sold!’

Hastily scanning it, Norfolk shrugged and would have screwed the note up dismissively into a ball and thrown it away if the king had not held out his hand for it.

‘Let me see, Jack! What is it?’

‘Nothing. Some prankster trying to stir things up and worry us—that’s all. Not worth bothering about!’ His big, ruddy face, tanned to the colour of old leather after many years at sea, took on a laconic look. ‘Pay it no heed!’

Richard stared down at the missive for a few moments, then shrugged.

‘As you say, not worth any consideration. And yet—there is truth in it, I suppose!’

‘How so?’ Norfolk looked puzzled.

‘Well, you know, as well as I, that the Stanleys’ devious behaviour can be interpreted by others as treachery. It is not just we who know they will likely play us false and join Tudor! I sent Thomas a note over an hour ago commanding him to join us forthwith and is there any sign of him? Of course not!’

The bitterness in Richard’s voice betrayed his inner fury, but his face was quite expressionless.

‘Come, bring me White Surrey, and help me mount. I have had enough of waiting for this renegade’s pleasure. When I catch up with him, it will be my pleasure to see that both he and his brother pay the extreme penalty! A traitor’s death is the most terrible thought up to punish those who choose to desert their king in word or deed. And they both deserve it, most assuredly!’

‘But Thomas’s son, my lord!’ cried Francis. ‘We have him under heavy guard in the camp! What is to happen to him? Surely his father will not abandon him?’

‘Thomas knows Lord Strange is my hostage—under threat of death if he chooses to betray me!’

‘But supposing you get no reply before the battle begins? Is he to be put to death at once for his father’s betrayal? The boy is in the last extremity of terror—I have seen him. He has lost all pride and hope now and cries like a child. He cannot believe that his own father should abandon him so. He had no reply to the letter you allowed him to write himself to Thomas, begging him to remain loyal to you, knowing his son was under sentence of death!’

‘And I do not expect I will receive an answer either!’

‘How a man could abandon his son—his own firstborn son—in this manner, is beyond belief!’

‘Well, there you see the true baseness of the man! He puts other considerations, such as assurances of even more future riches and estates—probably promised by Henry—above the duty and love of a father for his son. I despise him!’

‘Will you not take pity on the lad, Richard? Surely you did not expect it to come to this? Surely you did not really expect to have to execute him?’

‘What kind of a signal would that send out, Francis? That I am weak and vacillating. I shall have to carry out my threat regardless! I will have no choice! And now we must make haste to get ready. I think I hear trumpets in the distance. Tudor’s army is anxious to begin the battle, I trow! The men must be arranged in their dispositions. Norfolk, you shall take the vanguard halfway down the hill—a half-moon arrangement is best, I think. I will be on the brow of the hill with the main body of cavalry and archers. And a message must be sent to Percy of Northumberland that, as he has not deigned to appear here to me yet, he should maintain the back-up forces on the ridge over there, as he insisted he wished to do anyway. He can keep an eye open for the Stanleys’ movements. Now, my horse has arrived, and I must mount!’

White Surrey, resplendent in his battle array, his chest, sides, and throat protected well by armour and his head encased in his special spiked battle helmet, was whinnying and pawing the ground, eager to be away, as his master was. Just as Richard had been helped to mount by two squires, there was a commotion nearby, and Thomas Brackenbury called out, ‘Your Grace, there is a horseman galloping up the hill from the south-east! Perhaps it is the answer from the Stanleys that you crave?’

‘I hope so, for our sakes—and for Lord Strange! What news then?’ he challenged the rider, who had drawn up alongside White Surrey, his horse practically bursting its chest as it drew in rapid, noisy breaths like a wheezy old bellows in its exhaustion. But the look on the messenger’s face told the king all he needed to know before the man even opened his mouth.

‘My Lord Stanley says that he is unable to meet up with you at this moment. I am sorry, Your Grace!’

‘He will be sorry! And what of his son? Did he mention his son?’

‘His answer was…’ the man paused, as if unable to believe himself what he was about to say, ‘Tell the king I have other sons!’

‘And that was all?’

‘Aye, he turned away then, bidding me to hasten to you, which I have done!’

‘I see. Well, when you find your master again, tell him that Lord Strange’s life is now forfeit, but that I will wait to have him executed until after the battle be won. Perhaps then, he will regret his decision and come over to us after all!’

The man turned and urged his tired horse down the hill again and away.

‘My lord, you give this Stanley endless chances!’ Robert Percy challenged! ‘Why so? Can you really have any hope that he will fight with us now?’

‘Not really. But hope never really dies, as they say. Maybe when he realises my deadly intent to kill his son, he could still change his mind? He is a waverer by nature, after all! But it seems we must fall back upon our own resources only and use them to the best advantage we possibly can! And now, to horse!’

Henry Tudor, Battle of Bosworth, Redmore Plain,
22 August 1485

‘You are safe here, lad, on this ridge, with your household knights around you! It is a good observation point. You may learn a lot by just watching what happens on the plain in the next hour or so!’

‘But, Uncle Jasper, am I not to fight then? Am I just to stand by and let others decide my fate? I had assumed I would have a hand in it myself?’

‘You are too precious to risk on the actual battlefield, boyo! You must keep well behind the battle lines! What would be the point of men fighting—and dying—for your cause if you were killed too? No point at all, whatever! Kings, and kings-to-be, do not fight, ever! I am sure the Yorkists have Richard somewhere safe too, where he can observe without being in actual danger!’

‘I see what you mean. But won’t I be regarded as cowardly, skulking here?’

‘Not at all. The army will be glad to see you kept safe, believe me! Now I must away to my men—they will be wondering if I have deserted them. Any moment, I am sure, we will see Richard’s vanguard rushing down that hill, bent on our destruction. I must be there to do my part!’

‘Take care of yourself, Uncle. I have depended on you all my life—I could not bear it if you were killed!’

‘I will do my best to avoid that, lad. I have had plenty of experience of battles—never fear. I know how to defend myself!’

I watch in much trepidation as my uncle gallops off, wondering if I will ever see him alive again.

The sun is still low in the east, but its brightness already dazzles my eyes and it is hot, even though it is barely seven of the clock. The weather seems set fair to be even hotter than the day before, as hundreds of exhausted men on both sides had trudged through the dust and heat to this place. They had only rested briefly and were up before dawn to prepare for the trials of today. I can only hope that tonight they will rest happy in the knowledge that they have done their duty and been victorious! I pray there will not be too many who will sleep eternally after the battle. And all this is because of me and my indomitable mother’s overweening ambition. I hope I am worth it!

The thought of dozens—perhaps hundreds of men—dying for me causes not a few uncomfortable qualms in my mind.

A moment later, there is the shrill bray of trumpets, startling me from my thoughts—the signal for Norfolk’s vanguard to move downhill, I suppose. Then I see a huge multitude of at least 4,000 soldiers, well armed and armoured, their weapons and accoutrements glinting in the sun, moving down Ambion Hill to where my entire force waits drawn up in battle lines on Redmore Plain below. My army is a hotchpotch: French mercenaries—professional soldiers who fight merely for money; the dregs of the French gaols; a fair number of Welsh—but not nearly as many as I had hoped for—and a few Scots, in all, not more than 5,000 in total. They look very exposed there, when I can also see Richard’s back-up force drawn up on the brow of the hill and Northumberland’s on a far ridge, bringing up the rearguard. We are outnumbered by two to one, surely?

And, of course, there are the two forces of the Stanleys, standing immobile on either side in the distance, just staring at what is happening, but making no move, My heart jumps with apprehension. Are they not to join in the battle at all then—for either of us? Without them, Richard’s superior forces could mean our utter downfall. And, if the Stanleys choose to join the Yorkists, our fate is sealed!

But then, all thoughts flee in the sudden action! The noise assails me most and the smell of smoke and gunpowder. Bombards erupt from the hill down on to my men, who are surely sitting ducks. Guns flash and boom. Deadly flights of arrows cut through the air, over and over again—and find their marks. My army sways like a field of tall grasses in the wind, then great swathes of it are cut down like new-mown hay! I hear screams and groans which sear my soul. The guns, arrows, and bombards have done terrible damage!

My army regroups itself and moves forward, as Norfolk’s force, mainly on horseback, bear down upon it at speed! Surely, it cannot withstand another onslaught?

Then it is vicious fighting, hand to hand, with any weapon available: star-maces, covered in sharp, pointed barbs, swords, daggers, lances—and worst of all—the terrible battle-axes, swung around the head then finding their marks to appalling effect. My stomach churns and almost erupts. The terrible cries of wounded horses added to those of wounded and dying men would have me block my ears, if I dared. But I am surrounded by my seasoned household knights, who have seen it all before many times and are just itching—I know it—to be off, galloping across the plain to join in the fray! If it were not for their duty to me, they would do it. They probably see me as a terrified weakling already. I must stay my ground stolidly, as they do, and not show weakness by such an action.

But I would rather be anywhere but here. I did not imagine it would be like this! The stench of blood carries strongly upward and fills my nostrils and mouth. It is quite sickening.

A messenger is galloping towards me from the thick of the battle. He is smeared with blood on the face, and his arms and hands are thick with it. But it is others’ blood—he is uninjured.

‘My Lord Henry! King Richard’s chief commander, the Duke of Norfolk, is down! He has been killed in the first engagement. His men are in disarray, shocked by their loss. They wander around as if uncertain what to do. We now have the advantage!’

‘What about Richard’s force? Have they joined in yet to back up Norfolk’s men?’

‘I last saw him galloping down the hill on his great white charger, White Surrey. He is fighting now in the midst of them all, like a madman! Perhaps he will soon be killed. Then it will all be over in a trice. Men do not have the heart to fight without their leader. There is no point!’

‘Send me further word when there are more developments!’ I cry, somehow moved by Richard’s courage and determination. He is not hiding behind the lines like me.

The man rides off, and I strain my eyes to try and see what is happening through the thick haze of stinking smoke and blinding sunlight. I am sweating heavily, either through heat or horror, I know not. I feel both unbearably. There seems to be a lull. A strange silence has descended on the field. Maybe the king is dead as well as the Duke of Norfolk? Barely half an hour has passed. Surely the battle cannot be over yet?

No. It was just a pause for rest and regrouping. Then I see Richard’s reserves pouring down the hill, but Northumberland’s force has not moved, neither have the Stanleys. Just what are they playing at? What is their game? Why are they here at all? It is all very strange and terrifying. And quite incomprehensible.

Then Lord Oxford is by my side. He is filthy and covered with blood too but has no injuries, thank God. If he were to be cut down—like Norfolk—I would be utterly lost. He is actually cheerful and encouraging, to my amazement.