B008257PJY EBOK Page 23

  He opened his eyes.

  He was in bed. There was darkness in the tent. He threw back the covers and sat for a moment on the edge of his cot. It was Monday, the twenty-second of August, the eve of the feast of St. Bartholomew. He had been awakened many times in the night by fierce and terrible nightmares, but never by a dream of such rare beauty. A dream that left such sweetness and peace in its wake. And hope… But this was the day of battle, and of judgement, not of hope. Once there had been hope… A year ago on this very day, he had been with Anne at Windsor and she had sat in the garden for the first time since Ned’s death, and he had been hopeful of her recovery.

  He became aware of the sounds of the stirring camp: the stamping and neighing of horses, the clanking of armour, the murmur of voices as officers awakened sleeping men to eat breakfast and check their gear. His squire, Gower, appeared at the entrance with a candle. “My lord, ’tis time. Almost dawn.” Richard clenched his jaw to still the racing of his heart. The knight held his candle to the oil-lamp, flooding the area with light. Richard regarded the man who had once been John Neville’s squire. “Have you ever had a dream so beautiful it woke you up, Gower?” he asked softly.

  “Why no, my lord. Never. I never even knew such a thing was possible.”

  “Neither did I.”

  The older man waited, as if expecting Richard to say more. When he didn’t, he set the candle down on the table and picked up the ewer. He splashed water into the silver basin. The cold water felt good against Richard’s face and neck. He took a seat on the campstool while Gower shaved him, brooding on the dream and its meaning. If he didn’t know better, he would say it signified his victory in battle, but there had been too many omens to the contrary. Besides, the roses had been red, the colour of Lancaster… Maybe it was a triumph of another kind… Yet, if he lost the battle, what other triumph could there be?

  Gower held up the mirror for his inspection. Richard’s jaw slackened in dismay. It was a ghastly stranger who stared back at him, with skin the colour of mould and a face that was startlingly livid and frightful in the greyness of dawn. The sooner he hid himself beneath his helmet, the better. Pushing himself to his feet, he stood to don his armour, the same white armour he had worn at Barnet. He noticed the older man’s hesitation, the sorrow in his eyes. So must Gower have looked at John that morning of Barnet, he thought. John’s words echoed back to him across the years: Aye, we’re alike as brothers in many ways and our lives seem to take the same turns. Richard had a sense of time barrelling backwards, then flashing forward. They had come full circle and now he stood where John had stood at Barnet, the end of the road.

  He looked down at the golden griffin he wore on his finger. John, old friend, more than ever I need you now. If only you were at my side to give me courage. If only you could see me wield my axe once more.

  “Your gauntlets, my lord.”

  “What?—” He had let his mind wander again. “Ah.”

  Gower hooked the latchets and buckled the straps that fastened Richard’s mailed gauntlets. Richard rested a grateful hand on his shoulder for a long moment. Then, stifling his emotion, he said, “Summon my captains.”

  From the camp came the hammering of steel and twanging of bowstrings. They were drowned out by shouts. Gower rushed back in. “’Tis my Duke of Norfolk, Sire! Something’s happened!”

  The Silver Lion flashing on the azure tabard over his armour, Howard stormed into the royal tent, waving a placard in his hand. He was red-faced, fuming. Richard had never seen him in such a state.

  “This was pinned to my tent in the night!” Howard roared, holding the placard out.

  Richard took it and read:

  Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold.

  For Dickon thy master

  Has been bought and sold.

  Richard felt the blood drain from his head. Trembling with fury, he crumpled the doggerel in his fist, his breath burning his throat. Was there no end? No end to the foul treason? Even in his own camp! Even on the eve of battle! For the love of God—

  “Accursed Tudor!” he raged. He kicked the table, and the oil lamp would have toppled but for Gower. “Accursed Tudor! By Christ’s holy wounds, where were my sentries? Your guard? How in the Blessed Virgin’s name weren’t the traitors caught? Had you done your duty, Howard, this could not have happened!”

  Howard turned crimson and a vein throbbed in his forehead. “Duty, Sire, is what’s kept me here!” he retorted angrily.

  Richard jerked his head around and glared. Abashed, Howard said, “Forgive me, my lord—’tis that I’m not accustomed to having my loyalty questioned.”

  Richard dropped into a campstool. “Why, Howard? Why are you still with me?”

  “I’m no traitor!” Howard bristled again, his pride bruised.

  “Why stay? When by doing so, you risk so much?” Richard asked wearily.

  Now Howard understood. In a soft tone, he said, “You mean, what makes me different from the others? Aye—” He gave a sigh and sank his ample bulk down on the cot, “I could’ve carved a fine settlement out o’ Tudor for my support. He approached me, as you know—” He paused at Richard’s expression. “So you didn’t know? No matter. I turned him down flat cold.”

  “Tell me why you stay, my friend,” Richard repeated.

  “’Tis a black day when a man is asked why he chooses honour over dishonour… I stay because you’re my king, because you’ve been good to me, because it’s the right thing to do.” He slapped his palms on his knees and rose. “Now, my lord, I must away. My men await.”

  Richard nodded.

  Howard strode to the opening, pushed aside the flap, turned back thoughtfully. “There is one other reason, my lord.”

  Richard waited.

  “Because you have my heart.”

  ~*~

  Brother John Roby’s expression was wretched as he gazed at his King. “Sire, we can’t perform Mass. We have no bread.”

  “A minute ago you said we had no wine!” Richard fumed.

  “That, too, my Liege. We left Sutton Cheney in such haste we forgot to—” His voice died away. “There are no chaplains, either.”

  “Get out of my sight! Out, out!” blustered Richard, boiling with impotent rage.

  Before the man could move, Ratcliffe rushed into the tent. “My lord, there’s no time to be lost! Tudor’s advancing! It seems he would seize the initiative!” A sombre-faced Scrope appeared beside Ratcliffe. “The men’re upset about Mass, m’lord. ’Tis bad enough they’ll miss their breakfast, but Mass—” He swallowed, continued in a lower tone, “’Tis a bad omen and causing much murmuring and fear in the ranks. There were many defections in the night. More may slip away before we give battle.”

  Richard put on his helmet so the men wouldn’t see his face. He pushed up his visor and thrust the tent flap open. The August morning was cool, fresh; the day gave promise of fair weather. He strode out to the troops assembling on the crest of Ambion Hill. Their lances and bills bristled in the grey light of dawn and the brightly coloured standards glowed. The murmurings died away. He went across to White Surrey, whom Gower held by his gold-tasselled bridle. His war horse gave him a snort of greeting. He mounted and positioned his prancing destrier to face his troops as red dawn streaked the sky.

  “There will be no divine service by my order!” he shouted so all could hear. “If God is with us, we have no need of Mass! And if He is not, Mass will not help!” He noted the looks on men’s faces as they gazed at him. Shock. Horror. Fear. Steeling himself so that they should not see their own emotions answered in his own face, he turned to Gower.

  “My crown!” he called.

  “Sire—” protested Conyers in a shocked whisper. Francis cantered forward. “Sire, you already stand out thanks to White Surrey, you must not wear the crown. It’ll mark you as a target for every archer in Tudor’s ranks.” A chorus echoed his concern.

  Richard looked at Francis and Conyers, at the sombre faces of his other loyal friends,
Rob and the lords Scrope of Bolton and Masham; his advisors, Ratcliffe and Catesby; his secretary, John Kendall; gentle Brackenbury, loyal Humphrey Stafford, and the many others who had kept the faith and stood by him. He wished he could make them understand, but there were no words to express what was in his heart: this day was his Day of Judgement.

  “Fetch my crown, Gower,” he said.

  A hushed silence fell. Gower went into the royal pavilion, emerged with the crown on a velvet cushion. His footsteps crunched on the hard red earth. Richard looked down at the circlet of gold. The rubies glinted darkly. He had always hated rubies. He reached out, took the crown into his trembling hands, set it squarely atop his helmet. “This day I live or die as King of England!” he cried.

  His friends glanced away wretchedly.

  “Brackenbury!” said Richard. “Dispatch a message to Lord Stanley. Tell him to come if he values the life of his son!” Brackenbury galloped off. Percy’s retainer rode up. “What is it, Tempest?” demanded Richard.

  “My lord, the Earl of Northumberland proposes that his mounted force take up a position in the rear. That way he can fall on Stanley’s flank if he moves against Ambion Hill, and he will be close enough to you to provide reinforcements if you need them.”

  Richard stared quietly at the man. So this was Percy’s game, to stay neutral. He could deny his request. Reveal his treachery. But what good would that do now?

  “Very well,” he agreed tersely. Better for Percy to be neutral in the rear than in front of the line where his stance would demoralize the royal army. He would have to manage without Percy’s three thousand. He looked back at his men. They were silent, waiting for his final address. It struck him more forcefully than ever before that it wasn’t only his life he was wagering in this battle, but theirs, too. It wouldn’t happen again. There would never be another battle for his accursed Crown.

  “If Henry Tudor wins this battle, England, as you have known it, will change!” he said, straining to speak loudly despite the depth of weariness that weighed him down. “Justice, the common man, matter not to Tudor. He is reared in France and has learned from King Louis. He will rule England with fear and an iron fist. He will be a ruthless despot, as Louis was to his people, and he will wreak vengeance upon you—” They were all looking at him with grave, desperate eyes. He wished he could give them encouragement, but he owed them the truth. “I have tried to be a just prince to you. But if I triumph, England will also change. No longer will I seek to rest my rule on good will. Opposition will be crushed. Traitors will be shown no mercy. I will be ruthless in demanding obedience—for the security of the realm.”

  He fell silent, sick at heart. There was no more to say and he would not give them false hope. Without Percy and the Stanleys they were outnumbered by Tudor eight thousand to six. Only if the Stanley brothers remained neutral, did they stand chance of victory. How likely was that?

  Horses’ hoofs thudded on the hard ground. One of Howard’s azure-jacketed men was riding up on his left.

  “The Duke of Norfolk is ready to deploy, Sire!”

  Richard inclined his head and watched the man return to Howard’s vanguard. The banner of the Silver Lion sparkled in the rising sun, pointing the way. Trusty Norfolk. Bless him, loyal knight.

  Turning White Surrey, he followed Howard. He himself would lead the centre of his army. Let Percy rot in the rear.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 34

  “‘And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet ere I pass.’

  And saying this the king Made at the man.

  Then Mordred smote his liege Hard on the helm…”

  Richard stood with his army at the summit of Ambion hill. Above him fluttered the banners of England and St. George, his own White Boar, and young Edward’s Dun Cow of Warwick. Birds wheeled in the sky, squawking loudly, and golden wheat fields glistened in the sun. From distant Sutton Cheney Church where he and his men had prayed at Vespers the night before came the chiming of church bells, ringing for Prime. There was the bleating of sheep and the whinny of horses. A few dogs barked.

  Richard could see all three armies of his enemies. Tudor was below in Redmore Plain, directly south, less than six hundred yards away and closing the distance, his standard of the Red Dragon of Wales waving in the wind as he marched with his army of two thousand men. The Stanley brothers, together numbering about six thousand, were to Richard’s right, across a valley and a stream to the southwest, their red-jacketed men motionless. Lord Stanley was further north than his brother and remained on foot, as was customary, while William Stanley, positioned closer to Tudor, was mounted and on the ready.

  Traitors, he thought with disgust, turning away as the wind shifted and the heavy smell of dung assailed his nostrils. He focused on Howard’s azure ranks to his left. The vanguard was flowing downwards and taking on the shape of a bent bow pointing south to the enemy, and Howard was pushing his cannon to higher ground and arranging his men-at-arms between his archers. An impenetrable swamp protected Howard’s flank on the northeast but the hillside was too small for the huge royal host of six thousand men to stretch out across. Howard had to assemble his division further down the slope than it should be.

  Too late to worry about that now, Richard thought. He set about disposing his own men along the ridge. The hillside was a splendid sight, ablaze with Lilies and Leopards, the White Boar and the Sun of York, and Richard’s colours of berry and grey. But that was because men stood crowded on the tight ledge. Maybe this high ground had not been a good idea. If only John had been here to advise him!

  Enemy trumpets shrilled the battle-cry, drums rolled, heralds sounded fanfares. Howard’s trumpets answered and his captains shouted orders. On Tudor’s side commands rang out in French, Welsh, and English. Frantic hoof beats sounded on Richard’s right. It was Brackenbury, returning with Stanley’s reply. He drew his stallion to a halt. “Sire, Lord Stanley says he cannot join you at present.”

  Shock rendered Richard momentarily mute. “Did you warn him that his son will die if he refuses?”

  “I did, my lord,” said Brackenbury. “He said to tell you he has other sons.”

  Richard stared. It was impossible! Inconceivable! Could a father care so little for his own son? “Catesby!” roared Richard, eyes blazing.

  “Aye, Sire?”

  “Execute George Stanley!”

  Catesby paled. “My lord, if we do, we’ll force the Stanleys to throw in their lot with Tudor—”

  “They plan to do that anyway. Carry out the execution!”

  “Aye, Sire,” said Catesby miserably, turning his horse.

  “Catesby, wait!” He couldn’t do it. How would he go on, if he couldn’t do what had to be done? “Let the battle decide his fate.” He trotted his horse forward to where the knights of his household waited in their shining armour. Behind them stretched the ranks of his reserves, a thousand strong.

  A chorus of blood-curdling yells erupted. Battle was joined. The Earl of Oxford appeared beneath his banner of the Star and Streams, guns thundering. Stone cannon balls bounced against Howard’s position on the hill. Howard answered with a rain of arrows and a burst of cannon fire from his one gun, taking a toll on the Lancastrian front line. Richard cursed himself. He had not thought of bringing more guns, since guns had never proved much help to Warwick. Oxford’s foot soldiers gained ground rapidly and poured half-way up the hill. The two armies clashed on Ambion Hill with an earth-shattering din of metal. Though Oxford was protected on his right by the swamp, his left flank was open—unless William Stanley supported it. Richard glanced over to his right. The Stanleys hadn’t moved.

  He scanned the reserves behind Tudor’s lines. Henry Tudor was there somewhere. Watching. Hiding. He was no soldier. He wouldn’t risk his neck. That kind never did. Richard turned to his men. “Find out where Tudor has stationed himself!” He focused his attention back on Howard’s side. The armies were locked in fierce combat. Tudor had committed the bulk of his troops to Oxfo
rd’s vanguard, and Howard’s line was weaker than the enemy. In the centre of the fighting, the Silver Lion bobbed against Oxford’s Stars and Streams, now and again pushing forward, but more often giving ground. Despite the fire maintained by Howard’s archers, Oxford continued to advance. Howard’s bow shape turned into a crescent, thinned dangerously.

  “Send reserves to Norfolk!” commanded Richard. He watched, his heart pounding.

  The centre held. Slowly Howard recovered, began to beat Oxford back. Oxford’s trumpets blared retreat. Commands sounded above the noise of battle. The enemy fell back. There was no more clash of steel. No arrows flew. A lull descended on the field. Could Oxford be withdrawing after only a half-hour battle? Why wasn’t Howard in pursuit?

  Richard’s men were murmuring the same thought. He rose in his stirrups to gain a better look. Howard was evidently confused, thought it might be some kind of a ruse. Richard could see him looking along his line with his son, the Earl of Surrey, and his captains, the lords Zouche and Ferrers.

  Oxford’s men gathered around their standards. He was getting reinforcements and reshaping his army’s ranks into an arrow-head pointed at the hill. Howard had missed a chance for a rout! He must have realised his mistake, for Zouche raised a steel-gauntleted arm and the royal trumpets sounded the battle call again. Howard led his men in a charge down the hill. They threw themselves on the enemy. Richard could see the barrel figure in shining silver armour exchanging sword thrusts with a knight in the thick of the fighting. Howard was discharging himself like a true lion, thought Richard, his mouth softening. His eye went to two other men nearby, fighting side by side; yeomen, from the look of them, with their leather jerkins and rusty steel sallets. They fought like war gods, bringing men down quickly with a few well-aimed lance-like thrusts of their pole-axes. A knight rode up, raised his sword to cut one of them down, and was somehow unhorsed. Those two had felled a knight in full armour! Richard almost cheered. There would be a knighthood for them!