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  “Anyone know those men? Richard asked.

  “I know them, Sire!” a young knight called from behind him. “They are the Brechers, father and son, from the West Country.”

  Somewhere a distant memory stirred. Richard’s heart constricted. These were the people who had given them shelter when he and Anne had run away from Barnard’s Castle and were lost in the rain.

  “I know them, too,” he said, softly.

  “Sire!—”

  Richard twisted in his saddle, looked down at the man.

  “Sire! We’ve found him for you—Henry Tudor!” cried the scout. “There, to the west, on the rising ground opposite—” He ran forward, pointing.

  Richard trotted White Surrey a few paces and peered into the dusty air of combat. “The one standing by the red-dragon standard?”

  “Aye, Sire!”

  As he watched, a messenger ran up to the figure, did obeisance. Tudor! Richard clenched his teeth, tightened his grip of his reins. Hate swept him with such force, he could almost taste its vile bitterness in his mouth.

  “Richard, what is it?” Francis’ voice.

  “That’s Tudor,” he said, without turning.

  Francis followed his gaze.

  “He won’t get away this time,” Richard said. “I’m going to slay the dragon.”

  Francis grinned. “Allow me to give you a hand.” Richard looked at him gravely. With a calmness he himself knew to be strange under the circumstances, he said, “You won’t be at my side, old friend. You can’t take part in the fighting. If anything happens to me, you have to be there for Jack… and Warbeck.”

  “But—” Francis fell silent. Their eyes met and held. He gave a nod, swallowed visibly and transferred his gaze to the fighting on Howard’s side. All at once he gave a bounce in the saddle. “A mute point, Richard! Looks like Howard will slay the beast for you!”

  Howard’s lines were still washing back and forth like a tide, but he was fighting fiercely, gaining steady ground. Forward, my brave Lion, urged Richard silently. Forward! Then, before his eyes, Howard disappeared and there was a swirl of fighting around his banner. Shouts arose. Howard’s son, the Earl of Surrey, was swinging his sword furiously but the royal ranks were giving way. Richard rose in his stirrups. He still couldn’t tell what was happening! A messenger galloped up, reared to a halt.

  “The Duke of Norfolk has been slain, my lord!” cried the man. “The sun was in his eyes—he didn’t see the arrow coming!”

  Richard reeled. He collapsed into his saddle, tightened his hold of the reins. The sun was in his eyes. He hadn’t considered the sun when he’d faced his army south! He hadn’t considered a lot of things. It was his fault Howard was dead. His fault. He’d never fought a pitched battle of this magnitude, and now good Howard, the Friendly Lion, was gone. Just like that. His eyes stung. If John had been at his side this would never have happened. John had never lost a battle, except Barnet, the one he’d had no heart to win.

  He swallowed on the constriction in his throat, found his voice, “Send reserves to Surrey’s aid!” As one of his esquires galloped off to give the order, another messenger rode up. Richard held his breath.

  “Lord Ferrers has fallen, my lord!”

  Black rage swept Richard. He cursed, turned his head, sought Tudor. A horseman was galloping furiously across Redmore Plain. That would be Tudor’s messenger, bearing the news of Howard’s death to Stanley. The foxes smelled blood. “Send to Northumberland!” ordered Richard. “Command him to advance at once in support of the royal army!”

  ~ * ~

  Flies whined in Richard’s face. The day had grown hot…. so hot. He felt dizzy, could barely breathe beneath his armour, and his throat ached. He needed water.

  A small crowd stood around the well behind his standard. He slid from the saddle. They rushed to assist him. He shoved them aside. He could stand. He just needed water, that’s all. Someone offered him a cup. He drank, but it was not enough, did nothing to assuage his thirst. He removed his helmet, passed it to Gower. He stumbled to the well, leaned his weight on the rough stone edge until he managed to catch his breath. He grabbed the bucket and drank greedily, spilling more than he swallowed. That was better. He looked up at the sky. Dust. No birds. His standard of the White Boar and Edward’s Sun-and-Roses beat loudly in the wind.

  Howard was dead. Ferrers was dead. And maybe Zouche— How many more? He rubbed his bleary eyes. That damn Tudor. Lucifer. He had to do something before they were all dead. All his knights.

  Rob rode up, flung himself from his saddle. “Richard! Are you all right?” Richard gripped his shoulder, as much to support himself as in friendship. “I’m going to get him, Rob. I need to get him.”

  “Tudor?”

  “Help me into the saddle,” he whispered.

  “Richard, you’re in no condition—”

  “I’m tired, that’s all. Help me, Rob—”

  Rob assisted him onto White Surrey. No sooner had he taken his reins than his men shouted that a rider was approaching from the north bearing the Silver Crescent badge of Henry Percy on his helmet. Richard held himself very still; the muscles of his forearm tensed beneath his armour. Percy’s herald dismounted, bent a knee. Impatiently, Richard motioned him to rise.

  “Your Grace…” said the man uneasily, “my Lord of Northumberland bids me tell you that he feels it his duty to remain in the rear in order to guard against Lord Stanley, in case he moves against your flank.” He looked down at the trampled grass at his feet.

  Men cursed; others spat. Two men seized the herald; a dagger flashed. Richard raised a hand. Silence. Richard stared at the man’s bent head, at the Silver Crescent he bore. Richard had displaced Percy in the North and Percy had never forgiven him. Despite all the favour he had shown him, all the generosity and the courtesy, there had been no gratitude. Only resentment; a bitter, grim resentment. He turned and looked at Percy, far in the distance, sitting still as a statue on his horse, glum and sullen. It should be John there, he thought. If John were Earl of Northumberland, everything would be different. This was Edward’s doing. His revenge from the grave. By sacrificing John all those years ago, he had reached out into the future and sacrificed him as well. Richard was surprised that he should feel no emotion; nothing at all. No fear, and no hope.

  Let what will be, be.

  He looked at his men. Others had joined him: noble Ratcliffe, fair Clarendon, gallant Conyers, gentle Brackenbury, faithful Kendall, and many trusted retainers and esquires. And there was dear Rob. And Francis. Francis; ever at his side.

  Catesby ran up, pushed his way through to Richard. “Sire, Lord Zouche is dead! The battle’s all but lost! The Stanleys will advance against us at any moment. You must seek safety in flight!”

  Richard smiled. They all looked at him strangely. They didn’t understand. “I’m going to charge Tudor’s position,” he said.

  There was disbelief for a moment, then gasps and shocked murmurs.

  “Sire, it’s too dangerous!” protested Conyers. “To get to him, you must pass directly in front of the Stanleys’ position!”

  “For that reason I’ll not order any man to come with me. I ride to seek Tudor. Alone, if need be. You can each choose whether to follow.”

  After a moment’s silence, Rob trotted his horse beside Richard. Clarendon raised a mailed arm in salute. “Loyaulte me lie!” A chorus echoed his refrain. Loyalty binds me. A smile lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth. Men burst into action. Horses were led forward; knights and squires calmed their excited mounts, tightened armour plate and saddles. Gower put Richard’s battle-axe into his grip. Their eyes locked, grey to brown. Farewell, friend; and thank you. Richard slammed his visor shut. He drew himself up in his saddle, saw Francis standing by the boar standard, watching him. Richard sat very still, his eyes soft. He nodded his crowned helmet in Francis’ direction, in farewell.

  “Loyaulte me lie!” he cried, turning his horse.

  ~ * ~

  South
-westward down the hill he led them, gathering speed, a bright figure in shining white armour on a white horse, his golden crown flashing on his helmet. In a wide arc he swept them past the southern end of the battle line. Ahead lay the flatland of Redmore Plain. The noise of the battle on Ambion Hill faded, grew ever more distant. He felt at one with White Surrey; at one with his men. They were all with him, all the men of his household, almost a hundred brave, loyal knights, ready to battle the mass of the enemy reserves. To kill the dragon leader.

  Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King—

  This was what it was all about. Loyalty. Justice. To fight for right.

  Through the eye-slits of his visor, he glimpsed the banner of the White Hart, William Stanley’s blazon. Straight across Sir William’s front, he galloped, hoofs thundering behind him. Stanley’s men were a stream of blood-red jackets on his right, hundreds and hundreds of them, all staring, mouth agape, scarcely a bow-shot away and unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes. He felt exhilarated. He wanted to laugh. To roar with laughter. He wanted to clasp every one of his men to his heart and tell them he loved them.

  The ground was rising. They were nearing Tudor’s position. Men had been caught by surprise. They scattered, ran for their horses, tried to get into formation. Richard heard their cries; the shouted orders. Ranks closed around Henry Tudor. A mighty figure charged forward. It was the giant, Sir John Cheyney, nearly seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. Richard swung his battle-axe in an arc, made contact with a crash of steel. Cheyney’s horse reared; he lost his balance, fell to the ground. Another knight advanced to take his place. Richard raised his battle-axe again and brought it down on his helmet. Ratcliffe and Rob hewed their way to his side. All around him was the crash of metal. His ears throbbed with the screams of horses in pain, the cries of men, the thumping of his own heart. Ahead waved the standard of the Red Dragon borne by William Brandon. Ahead was Tudor.

  He could see Tudor!

  Tudor was on foot. He wore a breastplate but no helmet, and there was fear on his face. He recoiled, looked as if he were about to run. Oh, God, it felt so good to see the fear! Richard plunged forward. Brandon blocked his path with his sword. Richard whirled his axe. Steel crashed against steel. Brandon fell dead. Richard’s men were all around him now in a tight group, slashing their way forward. Just a little further!

  Shouts erupted; someone sounded an alarm: All is lost! Save yourselves! Richard paid no heed. Someone else seized Richard’s bridle. It was Ratcliffe. He was gesturing behind him. Richard turned. Through the narrow slits of his visor and the swirling yellow dust of combat, he saw the blood-red jackets of Sir William’s men. They were thundering down on them. Richard shook his head. He wouldn’t flee! He had to get to the Dragon before Stanley reached them. He spurred White Surrey forward. His men swung round to meet the onslaught. There was yelling, an ear-deafening crash of steel on steel. But even as Richard chopped through the masses of weapons, he realised that all around him his men were falling. All at once White Surrey gave a shrill, piercing scream and sank to his knees in the dust. Oh, God, no, not White Surrey—!

  He slipped from his saddle, swung his battle-axe wildly, desperately, cutting his way to Tudor. Someone grabbed his arm. He looked up. It was the young knight Clarendon. Conyers was with him, leading a fresh horse. He shook his head again. Not while the Dragon lived! He smashed onward with his battle-axe. Conyers and Clarendon turned to protect his back from Stanley.

  Suddenly Richard found himself face to face with the Dragon.

  For an instant he couldn’t move, he was so surprised. There was nothing fierce-looking about this beast. Tudor was thin-lipped, with a long uneven nose and lank, straggly brown hair. The most astonishing feature in his nondescript narrow face was his small grey eyes, which were strikingly pale and stretched wide in naked terror. He was more hare than dragon, this miserable worm, this lily-livered coward! Richard raised his axe. A terrible pain exploded in his arm, knocking the breath from his body. He whirled round, swinging his battle-axe with his left. Clarendon and Conyers had fallen. Red jackets were all around him.

  “Treason!” he cried, thrusting for his life. He’d almost had him! But for Stanley’s treason, he would have had him! Rob, Ratcliffe, Kendall, Brackenbury; they were dead. Howard, Zouche, Ferrers were dead. And Tudor lived.

  Tudor lived—

  It wasn’t fair! He struck out blindly in all directions. Virtue always prevails. His own words, spoken with such bland assurance to Anne a lifetime ago, pounded in his head, mocking him. Stand on your throne and tell your people that, a voice yelled in his head. Tell Stanley and Percy! Tell Rob and Howard and Conyers!

  “Treason!” he cried. “Treason!” He saw the gloomy chamber at Ludlow, the candles that threw menacing shadows across the stone walls and illuminated the faces of his father’s kin. There was Salisbury, Warwick, young Thomas Neville, and his own brother Edmund. Andrew Trollope loomed over them, laughing; an earring in one ear. He heard his father’s voice, loudly, clearly, “Treason!” cried his father.

  “Treason!” cried Richard, flailing about him against the masses of swords and spears pounding his armour. There was such pain, he couldn’t hold his battle-axe any longer; couldn’t stand. He was so tired; so very tired. He sank to his knees. “Treason!” he whispered. There was a roaring in his ears. Sweat poured into his eyes. He blinked, surprised it was red. Red was everywhere. Then there was no more red, only black, and he was cold, so cold. He laid his head down in the dust.

  Through the shaking earth and the din of battle he heard music, distant at first; a familiar refrain, but too faint to recognise. His eyes shot open. What was this? How could this be? He tried to lift his head but some great weight kept him down. The music rose in volume and his heart lifted. It was the Song of the North, sung by a thousand voices, pure and magnificent, harmonizing more melodiously than he had thought possible. An exquisite warmth radiated through him; he listened enraptured.

  Richard!

  Joy exploded in his breast. Where are you, Anne? I can’t see you—

  I’m waiting for you in heaven, Richard. Ned is with me. Come, my love; it’s beautiful here.

  I’m… coming… Flower-eyes.

  Epilogue

  “Thy shadow still would glide from room to room.”

  Westminster Palace

  February 11, 1503

  Elizabeth shifted her weight on her prie-dieu and her eyes strayed to the coffer where she had hidden Richard’s portrait. It was hopeless. Her thoughts were not with God; they were with Richard. For some inexplicable reason, he felt so near at this moment, as if he would walk into the room in the next instant. Today the years had fallen away and the ache of the past had returned more acutely than ever before, maybe because today was her birthday, and birthdays always carried her back to her happy youth, to the beautiful days when the palace halls rang with her father’s laughter and life sparkled with golden warmth and the promise of endless sunny tomorrows. To when sweet Anne had welcomed her to court with a loving smile, and Richard had strolled with her in the snowy garden.

  A sharp pain sent her doubling in agony. She clutched her abdomen and gasped. Her lady-in-waiting appeared at her side. Elizabeth shook her head, waved the woman back to the settle. She hesitated, retreated with reluctance. Elizabeth clasped her palms together and leaned her weight on the velvet-covered rail. There had been much difficulty with this birth, her seventh; a girl, born two weeks ago and dead only days later. She brushed a tear away. Fixing her eyes on the image of the suffering Christ hanging on the wall before her, she murmured fervent prayers for them all: her three dead babes and Arthur, her beloved boy who had died last year at seventeen, and taken with him what was left of her heart.

  Then she whispered a prayer for Richard.

  She had said Masses for his soul every day of these eighteen years since the black tidings of Bosworth Field were brought to Sherriff Hutton. Sometimes there was solace to be found. At othe
r times, like now, prayer availed her nothing. She made the sign of the Cross and rose from the prie-dieu. She turned to her lady-in-waiting. “Leave me, Lucy.”

  “But, my lady, you know I am ordered not to leave your side. What if you collapsed again? No one would know, and the King—”

  “I am well enough,” interrupted Elizabeth. “Well enough, Lucy. Go, now. I’ll pull the bell cord if I need you.”

  The lady in waiting hesitated. “What if you can’t reach it in—”

  “I’ll pull the bell cord if I need you,” repeated Elizabeth firmly. The woman sank into a curtsy and withdrew. Elizabeth waited until the door thudded shut. She went to the coffer. Slowly, heavily, she let herself down, withdrew a key from inside her bodice, and removed the silver chain from around her neck. She opened the chest. Her treasured, worn copy of Richard’s Tristan and Iseult was where she had hidden it, safe in a false drawer at the bottom. Another spasm of pain rippled in her side. Leaning on the coffer, she gripped the book tightly in her hand until it passed.

  She made her way past the tall traceried windows to the brocade-covered writing table in the corner and sat down in the carved chair. The sun poured into the chamber in long panels, fell across the table, bathing her in warmth. A sudden wind stirred the ivy on her bower. She closed her eyes and softly hummed an old tune from the past.

  Aye, aye, O, aye the winds that bend the brier!

  The winds that bow the grass!

  For the time was may-time,

  and blossoms draped the earth—

  The song had haunted her all day, though she had heard it only once. It was Richard’s Song of the North, which he had sung to Anne on her deathbed.