Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors

by Conn Iggulden

  Henry Tudor sat in full armour, with his uncle alongside him in the centre. Captain Thomas oversaw the left wing and de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, held the right. The ranks had fallen silent as they moved across the open land. They could already see the forces of King Richard on the rising hills ahead of them. They had manoeuvred for days in the approach, but the royal force of King Richard the Third had found themselves a fine hill and plain before it.

  Henry Tudor was the one who had come to take his crown from him, after all. The king of England could choose a spot anywhere that suited him – and they would still have to come. Richard had understood that only too well and had scouted the ground for forty miles. He had found a perfect spot to offer battle, with green wheat turning gold in the fields.

  Jasper turned his head back and forth and narrowed his eyes, but he could not make out the banners at over a mile distant. He saw Richard’s force of knights on the hill as a blur and it hurt him to have to ask his nephew for details he would once have seen like a hawk wheeling above a field of stubble.

  King Richard had gathered his army on a ridge almost, a natural rise of the land that allowed ten thousand men to stand in ranks of horsemen and archers. Jasper swallowed at that, thinking how much further the arrows would soar when they rained down. He knew the sound better than most men, as he had endured the battering of them against his armour, his life in the hands of fate and luck and curved iron. He could not help wonder if the French men-at-arms had heard of Agincourt as they marched along beside the men of Wales and England. They had not fared well before against bows the height of a man.

  ‘It looks like Percy arms on his right. Northumberland,’ Henry said, squinting. ‘That is a blue lion on the coats of arms and shields there. I thought they might stand for Lancaster.’

  ‘They should have,’ his uncle said sourly. ‘They did before, from the beginning. I thought they would now as well. I do not doubt Richard has their sons as hostages back in London, held as an earnest of loyalty. It is what I would do.’

  ‘King Richard holds the centre then, with Northumberland on his right and … Norfolk on his left.’

  Jasper shrugged. ‘That is a withered line, that once was greater. I do not fear the Norfolks, not at all.’ He spoke to raise his nephew’s spirits, in case Henry was feeling overawed at approaching a force on superior ground and under royal banners, a force that outnumbered them by almost two to one.

  Henry appeared completely calm. Once more, his uncle could not decide whether the young man was an innocent fool, a master of appearing confident to the men, or some strange third choice perhaps: a man who believed he truly was the Man of Destiny, the Red Dragon returned out of Wales to fight for the throne. As he watched his nephew staring up at the great ridge and the army there, Jasper saw a spark in Henry’s eyes, a savagery he had not expected.

  They had marched just a few miles from their camp the night before. The men had eaten and emptied their bladders and bowels before setting off. The day was fine and the sky remained clear. They did not stop as they approached the army on the hill. As Jasper watched, parts of it began to creep down the slope. The men there were eager and he could hear the thin voices of their captains and serjeants, calling them back, telling them to wait and wait. They knew they had the advantage and he could imagine them readying their blades and axes, leaning forward like leashed dogs, wanting to run in. For some young men, it would be the most exciting morning of their lives. They did not fear death; it would not come for them. They trusted in their vigour and their strength, never yet tested as it would be that day.

  Horns sounded to halt the Tudor columns, half a mile out. They formed in good order into fighting squares, ready to push up the hill. Jasper felt a shiver run through him and he crossed himself and said a silent prayer of penance for his sins. It had been a while since his last confession and he could only ask for mercy. He had seen war before and he was no longer young.

  On Henry Tudor’s right, the Earl of Oxford rode along the face of his fighting square, two thousand men in all and composed half and half of French soldiers and Welsh. The French at least were experienced, well armed and armoured. The Welsh had been given long spears and heavy-bladed cleavers any butcher would have recognized.

  Eight hundred archers gathered on the outer wing, already seeking targets and pointing them out to friends. There was a slight breeze blowing and they did not look content with the sight of an army on the ridge. It would be no easy task and they had no wooden mantlets to stand behind as they shot. There would be a great band of ground where they came within range of the enemy but could not reply.

  Oxford saw the danger and was considering his best approach as they advanced. He had known the confusion of battle in the fog at Barnet and he was determined to make the best decisions, only too aware that the best commanders were not those with a plan, but those who made the right choices when opportunity presented itself. As he rode in the second rank, surrounded by knights and burly men-at-arms, he saw Norfolk’s forces begin to come down the hill ahead of him. Earl Oxford looked left and right along his own lines. They were moving along in good order, spears held out like sharp spines. He was slightly ahead of the Tudors in the centre, but not overly so. Further over, Oxford knew the last of their army was marching along under Rhys ap Thomas, the Welshman keen on the fight.

  Oxford was pleased to see the enemy vanguard give up the advantage of high ground, though it spoke of their confidence. The line of Norfolk soldiers seemed to leap ahead. The slow and measured approach became a rush down the slope as those behind pushed forward and those ahead went in fear of being trampled. They were at three hundred yards when Oxford roared for his archers. They had been ready, staring at the commanding earl and willing him to snap out of his trance. Whatever forces of bowmen King Richard had were up on the ridge and out of range. It was every archer’s dream to face a charging line with just a quiver and a bow – and an army to fall behind when they were done.

  The arrows snapped out in a great clatter, as fast as the men could put a shaft on the cord and pull. There was no great skill in aiming at that closing distance, but they showed their training in the huge strength that didn’t fade after a few shots.

  Norfolk’s men were running into a hail of fire. Worse, as they tried to push past it, those who fell brought down the men behind. For a few vital moments, it was the sort of slaughter Agincourt had been, with piles of howling, dying men crushed under the weight of those trying to climb over them, desperate to get past.

  The arrows rattled away to nothing, until there were no more than a dozen of the slowest archers left, older men who wet thumbs on their tongues and fitted shafts with slow precision. They were fearsome in their accuracy and men still died as they closed the gap, but the great breaking of lines and massed slaughter had come to an end. The rest of the archers fell back at a run, laughing and calling to the men-at-arms to try and match that. Those soldiers looked on in envy at the peculiar status of such men, without armour and without shame as they loped off and left others to the work.

  Oxford’s lines bristled again with spears. Many of those who still came down the hill had been wounded by arrows and marched with shafts still in them. That part of the battered charge was cut down in turn. His men used their spears until they were broken, then took out the falchion cleavers.

  Oxford had no idea how many hundreds his archers had ripped from the royal ranks – and he knew any advance on the hill would suffer at least as much. Yet his men had started well. Some of those who had come racing down had so disliked the welcome he had given them that they had retreated, creeping away around the hill with their heads down in shame. In comparison, Oxford felt pride soar as he looked along the lines, hoping the Tudors had seen.

  The Duke of Norfolk had come down with his men in that reeling charge. His armour had saved him from the barrage of arrows, but his coat of arms had been torn and there was blood showing on his thigh, though whether it was his own or another’s was unknown.
He was still ahorse when Oxford saw him, cutting wildly down at men-at-arms. They had little answer against armour of that quality and Norfolk had smashed a gap for himself. His men were rallying to him, seeing his coat of arms and calling each other to that spot, to support their feudal lord.

  Oxford made his decision. He had a chance to tear the heart out of Norfolk’s entire wing, not twenty yards from his position. He sent a messenger racing off to the Tudor centre and slammed his visor down, drawing his sword and spurring his mount forward. It reared as it went and the kicking hooves made his own men fling themselves aside rather than be struck.

  Norfolk looked up to see the Earl of Oxford coming, trampling and knocking soldiers from his path with the horse’s plating of iron. Norfolk was in full armour and yet the first blow unseated him, sending him tumbling out of his saddle in a great crash. His horse bolted and his leg was held for a breathless heartbeat before the leather snapped and he fell to the ground. Norfolk landed awkwardly and hard, with his helmet buckled and broken. One hinge of his visor had snapped and he could not see as Oxford dismounted and battered him with blow after blow.

  ‘Wait!’ Norfolk shouted furiously. He backed off and yanked at the twisted visor, heaving it back and forth until the second hinge snapped. He tossed it away then and stood tall, panting, to see Oxford waiting for him. Norfolk could feel blood seeping from a dozen gashes, stealing his strength. He swallowed.

  One of the last archers on the field was no more than a dozen paces away, still thumbing his last two shafts. Old Bill had held back to watch the lords fight because he liked the idea of taking a fine nobleman with his old bow. He didn’t understand why Earl Oxford had stopped attacking, why he stood there waiting for an enemy to recover enough wind to go on fighting. Old Bill closed one eye and sent his last but one at the Duke of Norfolk. The archer laughed in delight when it flew like a bird into that open visor.

  The duke stood stunned for a moment and Old Bill had the sense to turn away and lower his hands as he felt Oxford’s gaze searching for whoever had done it. Bill pushed his last arrow into the ground then, as an offering. You didn’t do better than that and none of his mates would believe him, more was the pity.

  On the ridge, King Richard watched with a resigned expression as the Duke of Norfolk fell and more of his vanguard turned away from the carnage and destruction. Norfolk had lost the slope, then the men and finally his own life. It saved Richard from having him executed afterwards, that was the only fine thing about it.

  The king scratched in thought at one side of his mouth, stretching the part of his back that ached the worst that morning. Even without Norfolk’s wing, he knew the force he had gathered still outnumbered the rebels. Around him on Ambion Hill, he had a personal guard of fifteen hundred knights and men-at-arms in full armour, a great tide of silver metal on the most powerful horses ever bred by man. He wanted to charge with them, just to hear that thunder. The very thought made him smile.

  Yet he had Lord Percy, Earl of Northumberland, still on his right, in command of three thousand men, waiting in silent ranks with the flags fluttering overhead. They were not dismayed by Norfolk’s failure. Battles could be won in the first charge, or they could be slow and bruising things that took all day and came down to will. The king’s left wing may have been battered back, but his right wing was ready to move. Richard shifted in his saddle, straining his eyes to see into the distance.

  ‘And there you are,’ he whispered to himself. His brother Edward had taught him the power of a reserve, used properly. The Tudor forces had been so intent on his army perched on the ridge that they had marched straight at his position. Yet his entire army was not on the ridge. He smiled at the sight of marching ranks shimmering. Lord Stanley was about two miles away and he doubted the Tudors were even aware of them. Richard had the man’s son secure in London. Lord Stanley would not falter. Very well. It was time to bring the Tudor dreams to nothing.

  Richard gestured to a herald, so that the man came racing on a light gelding.

  ‘Lord Percy is to engage immediately,’ Richard said. ‘My orders are to sweep Rhys ap Thomas from the field and then turn against the Tudor centre. I will meet him there.’

  The young man raced away and Richard could only envy him his youth and enthusiasm. His back was growing worse in the cold wind. It would need a good soak that night, with oil and wine to sleep. If he could sleep at all, of course.

  He waited, staring down across the plain. The Tudor army looked too small to be a threat. They had no more than six thousand and he had as many approaching them on their flank. He only wished his brother Edward could have been present to see it, or perhaps their father.

  Down on the plain, a small group broke off from the centre, no more than fifty men. Richard’s attention fixed on it immediately. They carried the Tudor banners and he felt a twinge of cold in his gut as they rode straight at Lord Stanley’s force. He had missed something, or been betrayed.

  In sudden panic, Richard looked up. Northumberland’s wing had not moved an inch, though Earl Percy had surely received his orders. Yet they stood there, on horse and on foot, with the wind blowing across them and not a face turned his way, all looking down at the movement of men below.

  Richard swore to himself. He sat a destrier with fifteen hundred horsemen in armour, an iron mace greater than any force on the field. He called left and right to his captains, needing them to pass on the orders.

  ‘Close formation on the king! Engage the Tudor centre. Ready!’

  He waited with his eyes closed as they repeated his orders and the riders gathered in their reins and lances. Horses whinnied and stamped and still Lord Percy’s right wing remained in silent ranks. Richard cursed them as he dug in his heels, drawing his sword and pointing it at the small group riding across the Tudor lines. He would crash through them before they reached Lord Stanley. He loosened his shoulders as he leaned over the saddle, letting the horse build speed to a canter on the gentle slope down. He had picked the ground just for this and he revelled in the speed.

  Fifteen hundred horseman came down off the slopes in a single mass like a spear, aiming for the suddenly terrified Tudor centre as it came to a halt. No one there had ever seen such a charge before and the thunder of it shocked men to stillness. The soldiers of France and Wales below were already bowing back from the massed line of knights and iron coming in at terrible speed towards them. They raised spears and dug shields into the earth to crouch behind, but they were afraid.

  Out ahead of the Tudor centre, Henry and his uncle turned to face the silver horde pouring off the ridge. There was no doubt where they were aiming and they could see King Richard himself riding at the head, his surcoat quartered in red, gold and blue. Jasper felt his mouth dry in fear and it was Henry who halted and called up the biggest men, with shields to take the first blow. They could not reach the Stanley forces, not then.

  They waited, and as they waited, the army behind them suddenly came forward. Henry and his uncle had been out in front, halted ahead of the rest. In one sudden movement, the captains and serjeants stepped forward and the line enveloped them. Men held up shields and closed their eyes for an impact they knew they could not withstand. The long lances would break the lines and the horses would smash through, half a ton at full speed.

  Henry held his breath and drew his sword. The man in front of him raised his banner high, though it meant he could not hold a weapon. It was an act of madness and bravery. On Henry’s right hand, a huge warrior loomed, Sir John Cheyney. The man nodded to him and winked as he pulled down a visor and turned to face the galloping wall of horses and knights, spitting clods of earth into the air that fell like rain. They could see King Richard there, behind the front rank then, hemmed in by knights who had driven themselves to exhaustion to stay out ahead of him.

  The world grew quick, for a time, though Henry saw clearly enough. He did not flinch or look away as men went flat, suddenly, smacked down so hard it was as if they disappeared into the air.
Horses bore iron plates against the spears and crashed past them only to collapse and skid on broken legs against crouching men behind. The speed and power of the charge was soaked up in death and broken things, and sound enough to fill all Bosworth Field.

  33

  Richard saw the Tudor banner flutter down from where it had streamed overhead. He and his knights had punched right through the first few ranks, smashing them down. Some horses had fallen, some of his knights had been impaled or spun from their feet, but the rest had plunged deep into the Tudor centre, against their strongest knights.

  Richard could see the man they followed, waiting like a statue while others fought to keep him alive. Henry Tudor sat with an expression of infuriating calm while lives were ripped away within his arm’s reach. The very last of the breed.

  Richard jabbed his spurs in, though his horse was held tight in the press of men. In fury, he hacked down at someone as they squeezed past his stirrup. The man crumpled under the hooves and Richard looked up to see his view of Henry Tudor had been blocked by a huge mounted knight, broad as a door and sitting a horse of astonishing size.

  The giant’s visor was up and Richard knew he would expect a thrust at that weakness. The fellow was ready for it, his eyes bright with pleasure as he saw he faced the king himself. Sir John Cheyney had an advantage in that almost every man he faced was smaller than he was. Yet Richard had learned to spar against his brother Edward. He had more practice than anyone else alive in withstanding the force of a big ox in armour.

  The fighting went on around them and both men had to keep some part of their awareness for a chance spear thrust, or a mace blow from the side. Battles could turn on luck or slipping in entrails as much as loyalty and strength.