He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘There is a village with an abbey nearby which we should have passed through by now.’

  Dear God, they were lost! The panic which now seized Henry quite cured him of any other ills which had beset him. He was separated from the main part of his army and had no idea where he was; for all he knew he might even be approaching the army of King Richard. To lose a battle is one thing, to ride into the enemy’s camp because you have lost your way, quite another. In the whole course of human history could anyone have been so foolish? The long shadows had merged now and Henry watched the burnished sun slide quietly beyond the furthest hill. There was no question now as to why he had come; all that mattered was that he was here when he should have been there. One cannot expect men to go into battle behind a commander who has acquired a reputation for losing his whereabouts. Henry said calmly, ‘Soon we shall come to a village where I expect to receive certain news and where we may spend the night.’

  The ‘news’ he must contrive as best he could. England must provide the village; it seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them. Sure enough, a turn in the road revealed the by-now familiar complex of cottages and church. Henry sent a man ahead to secure accommodation and waited for sounds of strife and glee, or whatever sounds men make when they capture an enemy without a battle. None came. Eventually the man returned. He had found an inn where accommodation, albeit crude, could be offered. The accommodation was indeed crude, but Henry had slept in worse places.

  Before he lay down for the night, he despatched a rider to reconnoitre and report to him. By night, with any luck, the camp fires would indicate the position of his army. So it proved. The rider, who had been strictly instructed to return to Henry as soon as he had discovered the whereabouts of the army (Henry preferred to make his own explanation of his absence) returned in less than an hour to say that he had seen camp fires not far distant, and had heard men talking in Welsh and French. Henry thanked God for his deliverance.

  Early the next morning he rode without unseemly haste towards Tamworth. There was a hint of autumn in the air; mist furred the contours of the landscape so that it lost that particular quality which it had seemed to possess the evening before and which had made it so alien. Now, Henry might have been riding down any country lane at any time. Ahead, accompanied by a jingle of harness and rattle of metal, something not at first clearly defined moved towards them, a strange patchwork weakly stencilled in the air, which gradually took the shape of a tinker on horseback followed by three ragged children. Henry shivered and thought of Robin. The wound was still there, and this was as it should be; it had been gained in his engagement with life and he needed it as an old warrior needs his itching battle scars to remind him of danger. But, in the raw air of this notable morning, it smarted so painfully one would have thought it newly made.

  On the morning of Sunday, August 21st, the royal armies gathered for battle under the banners of England and St George and the marching columns made their way through the country lanes towards Kirkby Mallory watched by a people who were tired of such spectacles. There had been too much of Death, he had stalked the country in one guise or another ever since the Black Death of 1349. Now, there was plague in York; Death was abroad again and little he cared for the White Boar, for honour and gallantry and valour. And the only answer to him that their rulers could contrive was this endless bloodletting! Too much blood had been drained away. The colour had run out of their days; the stuff of their very lives was thin and their faith was dark with fear. Richard’s courage was of the kind that goes hand in hand with Death. Courage needed a new face, not so heroic perhaps, but quieter and less despairing; a hard face, for there were hard times ahead still, but a face with a leaven of humour, and above all a face that meant to survive into the sixteenth century. The army marched and the people turned their backs and went on with their work.

  From Kirkby Mallory the columns marched on into the warm August afternoon and, climbing a high ridge, came to Sutton Cheney, some two miles south of the little town of Market Bosworth. Here Richard halted so that the army could be fed and he could confer with Norfolk and Northumberland. He had sent scouts out, and two were waiting for him here with news that the Tudor army was advancing down Watling Street from Atherstone. Richard, who was eager to do battle, was determined that the ground should be of his choosing. Before he talked to his commanders, he rode some way out of the town. Sutton Cheney was at the eastern edge of the ridge and to the west the land climbed to Ambien Hill, which must have been close on four-hundred feet. From here, Richard had a fine view of the area in which he must fight.

  Beneath him, to the south, was Redmore Plain which was bisected north-west/south-east by a stream known as the Tweed which was shallow and fordable at several points, and bridged at its meeting with the Atherstone to Kirkby Mallory road. The plain was bounded to the north and south by more rolling country with here and there small hills which offered good vantage ground. Already, however, Richard had been denied freedom of choice. On the far side of the plain, to the south-west, Lord Stanley had taken up his position near Stoke Golding; while, to the north, facing his brother across the plain, Sir William Stanley was encamped at the village of Shenton. If Henry Tudor was allowed to fight in the plain, the Stanleys could come down from either side to support him. It was important, therefore, that, this night, Richard’s armies should be so disposed as to discourage the Tudor from advancing into the plain. In order to do this, he decided that he must position one army in the centre of the plain and another on Harper’s Hill which was on the southern boundary of the plain, to the east of Stoke Golding. An army stationed there would not only overlook the plain, but would be able to keep a watch on Lord Stanley’s army from which it would be separated by some two miles and the Tweed river.

  So far, so good. In this way he might hope to halt the Tudor advance and force them to camp for the night somewhere short of the plain. The disposition of his commanders, however, was another matter. He was silent, staring in front of him. His companions were used to his silence at such moments and thought little of it; perhaps it seemed to them that he was uncommonly grim, but this was a serious moment and he was apt to take serious things seriously. It was now late afternoon. Ahead, the level land stretched beneath him, uninhabited, uncultivated, and uneventful, a dullish green expanse shot with needles of light where the sun’s rays glanced on the many streams which veined the plain. Away to the west, sunlight slanted like an arrow shot from the advancing Tudor army. Richard had looked down on grander scenes than this, but now, either weariness, or something more desperate which gnawed at his mind, humbled him. Once, he had felt that he had the power and strength of an eagle, that he would stretch his wings and encompass his kingdom; but he had no such flights of fancy now. As he looked at the hummocks rising almost playfully from the plain, he felt that these little hills must be engraved on his heart. In the morning, if the Tudor army had indeed been deterred from moving into the plain, he intended, while it was still dark, to move his main force to this hill of Ambien on which he now stood. If he could concentrate his forces here, he would be well- placed should Northumberland and the Stanleys fail him. In that case, the ideal plan would be for his army to remain on this ridge while Norfolk held the plain, and Northumberland moved to Harper’s Hill. But to post Northumberland on Harper’s Hill, where he would be in line with Lord Stanley’s force, was too great a risk; nor could he trust him to hold the position in the plain. Oh, treason, treason, always treason! It seemed, as he surveyed the land, that all his life he had been prevented, hampered and hobbled until now the fetters had bitten so deep they had become bone of his bone.

  It was best to leave Northumberland’s army to guard the eastern end of the ridge at Sutton Cheney: in this position any failure on its commander’s part would be damaging but not crucial. He would station Norfolk in the centre of the plain and himself camp for the night on Harper’s Hill. He looked to his right where, not a mile away, he could see Sir William Stanley’s army camped on
low ground outside the village of Shenton. He did not think that Sir William was any more likely to act precipitately in support of the Red Dragon than of the White Boar; nevertheless, it would be disastrous were Sir William to send men to occupy Ambien Hill overnight.

  When he returned to Sutton Cheney he discussed his plans with Norfolk and Northumberland. As the armies moved off, a small party of his own men were despatched to Ambien Hill with instructions that they were to light no fires at night. He did not wish to give the enemy advance warning of his intention to occupy the hill. His forces were now disposed and he must wait the arrival of the Tudor.

  As twilight deepened into dusk the men on Ambien Hill saw the fires lit in the camps until they glowed like stones set in a giant horseshoe. Then, in the distance a column of lights moved from the south-west; slowly, the little glow-worm column advanced in the direction of the plain, then wavered, turned aside and finally halted facing the gap in the horseshoe. The men on Ambien Hill watched while the Tudor army set camp.

  ‘And bloody fine they must feel if they can see all we can see!’ the watchers thought. ‘In the morning, we’ll move in and crack them like a nut!’

  Richard could see the lights flaring as the Tudor army made camp. He could also see Lord Stanley’s camp much nearer and settled for the night. He sent a messenger to instruct his lordship to be prepared to join him before dawn if he valued the life of his son.

  It grew darker and the stars came out. The soldiers grouped around the fires and sang their songs. Gradually, the fires died down and, humped around Ambien Hill, the armies slept. Richard prayed. His armies outnumbered his opponent’s host by almost two to one, yet tonight he was but one man and felt the weight of the whole weary world against him.

  ‘A king must rule,’ he said. ‘Young Edward could not have ruled; therefore I have taken nothing from him.’ Yet later, his face livid in moonlight, he prayed, ‘Lord God, if I have sinned, thou wilt punish me. If not, this day, by Thy hand, shall be mine.’

  Three rolling miles and a river away, Henry Tudor pledged himself to the service of God and the people of England. He did not ask that the people should love him, or even that they should like him; he asked only that he might have their support because without it he would not be able to rule them. In return, he would give not his heart but his head, since his head was by far the better part of him. He had little passion to infuse into the dry stuff of administration, but he had great intelligence, steadfastness, and an unremitting patience which would survive when the energy of youth was spent and carry him through the years when the heart has ceased to sing. He had what England needed and must hope that God and England realized this.

  Sometime, in the dead hour of the night, a message was scrawled on the door of Norfolk’s tent:

  Jack of Norfolk, be not too bold,

  For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold.

  In their tents, Henry and Richard slept at last. Henry slept lightly and woke at the slightest sound. Richard slept heavily, dreaming that he was walking in full armour within a fortress he could not identify. It was night and there was no one about save for one man who walked beside him. The man, too, was in full armour, but when Richard looked at him the vizor was up and Richard saw that his face was terrible, yet beautiful. Although this made a strong impression upon him, he could not have described any feature of the face. They came to the wall of a watch tower and as they approached the tower Richard knew that they were trying to get out, not only of the fortress, but of the country in which it was situated. His companion suddenly took him by the shoulder and pushed him against the wall, only now it wasn’t a wall, it was a portcullis and beyond it there were fields on the far side of the frontier. As they crouched there, footsteps rang on cobblestones. Richard, pressed against the iron spikes, heard the footsteps coming nearer and nearer and he felt helpless as though he was weak and naked as the day he was born. ‘It is the night watchman,’ he said. Then his companion drew him down to the ground and as they lay looking through the spikes at the fields beyond the frontier, Richard knew that the most terrifying moment of his life had come; he put his head down and seemed to regard the terror as though he was looking at it down a well, then he dived forward into it. His companion placed an arm around his shoulders. It grew darker and darker, but the arm around his shoulders held steady, and gradually Richard came to the core of the darkness and there was no fear there. Then he saw that they were on the far side of the portcullis. He said, ‘We are free!’ and the unknown friend laid a dark cloak over him.

  A hand was shaking his shoulder and he woke with a start, disturbed that he should dream of escape at this of all times. It was not yet light, but the plan was that before dawn broke he and Norfolk would march to occupy Ambien Hill. He was still disturbed by the dream when he came out of his tent. A breeze was getting up which would soon clear mist from the valley; it stirred the flap of his tent and brought to his nostrils the rank smell of dead fires and the ordure of men and horses.

  ‘Is there any movement from the Tudor camp?’ he asked one of his esquires.

  ‘No, Sire. Only a few lights.’ As Richard turned away, the man muttered, ‘We have no chaplains. Sire.’

  ‘If God espouses our cause, it cannot but prosper; if not, to pray for victory were but idle blasphemy.’ He paused, seeing dismay on some of the faces around him. In a surge of angry defiance, he shouted, ‘Be of good cheer, as am I. Today will see an end to our long quarrel with the House of Lancaster. I promise you I WILL NOT QUIT THIS FIELD until my cause be proved!’

  News came that Norfolk, who was nothing if not bold, was ready to march.

  The day yawned in the east; light came stealthily over the plain, skirted the side of Harper’s Hill and climbed up Ambien Hill; gradually it coloured the Tweed River so that it ran like a twisted blue ribbon from the west of Harper’s Hill northwards across the valley to Shenton where Sir William Stanley’s army still slumbered.

  In Henry Tudor’s camp the army was astir; but Richard had taken them by surprise and by the time they were formed to march Richard’s army was taking up its position on Ambien Hill. Now there were three armies on the move, those of Richard, Norfolk, and Henry Tudor. Northumberland delayed, dishonoured in the eyes of his own men, and neither of the Stanleys had moved. The Tudor host moved eastward towards Ambien Hill; its trumpets sounded and the Earl of Oxford rode forward in the van, his banner of a star with streams unfurled.

  The sound of the trumpets excited the men and sent larks protesting into the sky. Henry’s blood ran cold. His horse pranced about and he calmed it, and then practised some defiance for his own comfort. ‘Never fought a battle, is that what you are thinking of me now, Richard Plantagenet? Before I could walk I was hunted; my life has been spent in peril and in flight; I have known little of comfort or ease; there has been no standard to which I could rally—when I was hard-pressed, I was alone; I have been humiliated, scorned, betrayed, and never lost heart. Were these not battles? They were battles that I won, else I would not be here to do battle with you this day. Must I shout like a madman, wield an axe and lumber around a field weighed almost to the ground like some poor beast in order to prove myself a man?’ In the distance he could see Oxford’s standard raised where men were fording the river. On the far side of the river, on the slopes of Ambien Hill, Norfolk’s men waited under his banner of the silver lion. Henry thought, ‘If I must—why, then I shall.’ He rode forward, putting his trust in God: it was doubtful if he could put it in the Stanleys. Sir William had still not moved. Lord Stanley who, in answer to Richard’s command had replied, ‘I have other sons,’ was now moving his army across the plain; but the progress was so slow it was hard to decide whether Stanley was advancing in order to come to Henry’s aid, or the better to observe his end.

  Oxford’s men had crossed the river and were attacking Ambien Hill. Norfolk’s men surged down to meet them. Beneath the banners of the silver lion and the star with streams the spears struck, the axes rose and fel
l. Norfolk’s force was hard-pressed at the centre, Richard sent in some of the reserve; now Oxford’s men fell back, rallying to their standards. Clouds of dust dimmed the brightness of the day; the vigour of life ran out and stained the earth red.

  On a hummock some little distance from the fighting, Henry Tudor watched, while Richard Plantagenet looked down from Ambien Hill. They were both young men, and who could guess at this point in the battle that Henry was at his beginning and Richard at his end? Certainly not Henry. Before the sun had set the crown of England would be his, but between that time and this he must live through the worst moments of his life. He looked through the dust of battle to that area from whence no help came; Sir William Stanley’s cavalry was not yet formed to charge. Lord Stanley’s men were making heavy weather of fording the river. Henry felt he had outdistanced hope. And yet, in spite of his dismay, there was in his eyes as he looked about him something of the grim resolution of the man who, when the carnage has ceased, must pick up the pieces of life again.

  Even when he heard the great cry that went up when Norfolk fell, Henry did not realize what had happened. But Richard knew. He looked down the hill at the broken standard of the silver lion and knew that his moment had come. He called the members of his household to him and mounted his horse. They were grouped high on the hill, above the dust of battle. The day was brilliant, the sun had called all its colours to its standard. The deep blue sky had bands of thin cloud across it, formally patterned above the emerald of the distant hills; there was a sense of something planned, written in the heavens. Oh, hope was difficult to resist! He felt those old enemies, hope and despair, war within him as he urged his charger forward and then, as the pace quickened, the ranks of his army parted before him and below the plain opened out for him thick with men, a harvest to be reaped but one single ear of corn to be gleaned. He cried, ‘The Tudor!’ and raised his arm, holding the great battle-axe high. Now it was all or nothing, and all and nothing were one. The baited animal had sprung the trap of lineage and duty; the last sprig of broom had wrenched free of rooted earth. Hope and despair fused in joy.