The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

Elizabeth sighed and choked down a hope that Henry would love her. She had laughed so heartily at that tale of the barber. Lady Margaret was a darling, but she had no sense of humor. She had not thought it funny; she had been angry at the insult to her son even though she freely admitted that he was no beauty. But obviously Henry had thought it funny. So he and I would laugh at the same sort of things, Elizabeth thought. Suddenly she began to sob softly. It would be like heaven to have someone to laugh with. Her father had laughed so easily and so often with her. Since his death she had so seldom laughed. Henry's letters ... She had laughed at them. But not his letters to me, Elizabeth reminded herself.

  She tried to remember what Henry had written to her, but there was really nothing to remember. The phrases were as proper and polite as the rote speeches she had memorized for certain court situations. How could he love her or she him? Nearly thirty years of bloodshed divided them, and every friend of Henry of Richmond had hated her and her house.

  The warm, soft breeze of summer stirred the leaves, and they whispered softly. But for a princess there could be no soft whispers of love. Desperately Elizabeth tried to gird her spirit with pride. She would need it to deny Richard and possibly to die if the king defeated Henry. And if Henry won, she would need the pride to live with, to uphold her through the lonely years so that Edward IV's grandson could sit on the throne.

  CHAPTER 9

  The morning mists of a fair, warm August day were clearing slowly. Henry Tudor looked about and sighed softly with mingled nervousness and satisfaction. He was glad it did not rain. He did not like to be wet. The thought brought a smile to his lips. If one must soon be dead, it was better not to be uncomfortable first. He began to laugh softly. Also, if one was to be king, it would be most undignified to accept the crown with a sniffling nose and running eyes, and his colds were always of that unappealing type.

  King. Would he be king? Below and to the right of the slight eminence on which his horse stood, surrounded by his council and a band of about one hundred of the most fanatically devoted of the English exiles, lay the main body of his army under Oxford. To the right again was a small group of reserves that Sir Gilbert Talbot commanded, and directly below Henry another small reserve force under Sir John Savage. Left again and almost out of sight were William Stanley's forces, about two thousand mounted men. Sir William had offered to fight in the main body, but Henry had not dared accept. If that snake retreated, the entire force would have been thrown into confusion.

  Of course, in his present position Sir William could fall upon the left flank of Oxford's army and destroy it almost at will. That was why Savage held the left wing. Perhaps Sir William would hesitate to ride down his own nephew. Perhaps … South, off to Oxford's right, waited Lord Stanley's force of four thousand, almost as large as Henry's entire army. Oxford's flank was safe enough from them—there was a marsh there—and it was unlikely that Stanley would fall on Oxford's rear unless defeat seemed inevitable.

  Henry sighed again. It was the best he could do, for they had been taken somewhat by surprise. After so slow a start, Richard had moved from Leicester with unexpected speed. He had occupied the high ground and the Tudor's men would have to fight uphill, but there were compensations. The sun, brightening into brilliance now, would be behind Henry's force and fully in the faces of Gloucester's host. As Oxford's men fought uphill, they would be able to spread out, whereas if they were forced to retreat, the marsh on one side and the stream on the other would force them to consolidate and permit their officers to rally them. Contrariwise, Richard's men could drift off sideways and desert with the greatest ease. They had better do it, too, Henry thought wryly, for they outnumbered his army two to one.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his speech to the host, in which he had assured his outnumbered troops that Gloucester's army was filled with "men by fear compelled and not by goodwill assembled." Please God I have not lied, Henry prayed, and started violently at a crash of thunder. As his eyes opened, instinctively looking heavenward, he laughed again. It was not God's reply, but Guildford’s whose beloved guns had fired their opening salvo. Perhaps it was God's reply. No answering crash came, which meant that Gloucester had no big guns, and the men massed on the open slope of Ambion Hill were an excellent target. Most of the first salvo had fallen short, but the next crash opened a hole here and there in Gloucester's forces. "Again," Henry whispered, "again, faster."

  The big guns were not really much use in an army battle because, killing friend and foe alike, firing had to be discontinued before the armies mingled. Nonetheless, they had a value. Henry could see the uneasy movement on the hill. Firing the guns spread terror. Now their muzzles were being raised again, and the charges of powder increased. The balls would fall higher on the hillside so that Oxford's men could move forward in safety while the rear ranks of Gloucester's army were rendered unfit to fight by fear.

  The trumpets rang out. Now! Rhys ap Thomas's voice, bellowing orders in Welsh mingled with Shaunde's French and Oxford's English. Now! Forward! A flight of arrows rose from Gloucester's vanguard which was under the duke of Norfolk's command. Oxford's archers replied in kind, running forward, shooting, and running forward again. Henry gasped for air as if he were part of the attack, tried to steady his breathing, and then, realizing that all about him men were sobbing for breath, forgot about the impression he was making as the fronts crashed together.

  The central curve of Norfolk's force buckled. Henry's fist pounded his saddle pommel as if the blows could push the men onward. Another foot. Another! To the left the Welshmen were screaming like wild things, swirling around the black raven banner of ap Thomas. Rhys himself had discarded his shield and was swinging a sword in one hand and a battle-ax in the other. To the right, Shaunde's men fought low and dirty; they were the scum of the streets and the prisons, and men who had survived that are not easy to kill. In the main center Oxford's banner, its star seeming to stream light from its bright center, forged slowly ahead surrounded by desperate Englishmen who were fighting for their lost homes and lands, for the children some of them had not seen in two sad years of exile.

  Norfolk's center gave further, his army bending like the slow stringing of a bow. Henry tore his eyes from the fighting and looked higher up the hill. There, Gloucester was sending a detachment of reserve. Five hundred? A thousand? Henry wiped the sweat from his eyes, glanced left. Sir William held steady. No, it was not time for him; things were neither bad enough nor good enough to demand his unreliable help. To the right Lord Stanley had edged closer, but he, too, offered neither help nor threat—yet.

  "Willoughby!"

  "Sire?"

  "Ride to Oxford. Tell him to disengage if he can or to take care not to be surrounded. Gloucester is sending in reserves and I am sending Talbot."

  Sir Robert Willoughby dug spurs into his horse's sides. Henry did not watch him. Unless he were killed instantly, Willoughby would accomplish his mission. No wound, even a fatal one, could stop him because Willoughby was a religious fanatic—only Henry had taken the place of God. It made Sir Robert useful for clear-cut or dangerous work, but it annoyed Henry because such devotion muddled a man's thinking. Willoughby's judgment was unreliable. He thought too much of what Henry wanted and not enough about the easiest and least painful way of accomplishing it.

  "Uncle, send a man to Talbot. Tell him—"

  "It is done."

  They watched anxiously as Gloucester's reserve prevented Oxford from cutting Norfolk's force in two. The French were falling back and would foul Oxford's rear. God, where was Willoughby? Rhys was down! No, there was Rhys, bellowing curses in Welsh at hillmen drunk with blood lust, turning his ax and sword sideways to whack his recalcitrant fighters into giving way. He was holding them together. Oxford was falling back.

  Compared with the clang and shriek of battle, the relative silence of the disengagement was shocking. Henry tried to swallow and found his throat achingly dry. In the few feet between the opposing armies, which pan
ted for breath and glared at each other, lay the wounded and the dead. Sickly fascinated, Henry watched them, some moving feebly, some lying still. They mingle their blood, he thought. Can men be closer than that? And yet they strive to slay each other. In these bitter times a mingling of blood meant nothing. Wicked uncle slew helpless nephew, and brother fought brother in the field.

  "Talbot is true," Jasper cried with relief. "Look how he drives forward."

  The force was small but the men were fresh and eager. Oxford's forces revived as Talbot threw himself forward on the right wing, bolstering the French, The streaming star lurched into action, and the memory of ten years of miserable imprisonment made Oxford's "For England and Saint George" a scream of lust for real freedom that only a victory in this battle could bring him. Rhys's bellow was almost drowned in the wild battle cry that rose from the Welshmen as, free of restraint, they charged again.

  "Harry, Norfolk is down."

  "Move," Henry gasped, "move."

  And, as if his will had forced his army forward, Gloucester's men fell back. Somewhere in the back of his mind Henry knew he should check on other danger points, but his eyes remained riveted on the fighting. If he looked away, disaster would come. Gloucester would loose more reserves; Northumberland would have a change of heart and charge of his own accord; the Stanleys would—

  "Harry, Gloucester is moving. He will join the battle himself."

  Henry's blood pounded so hard in his throat that he felt strangled. He knew only too well Richard's reputation as a warrior. For a moment longer his eyes remained fixed on Oxford's standard. It was moving, and moving faster.

  "Make ready," he said. "If Gloucester charges, we must meet him." He put a hand to his helmet visor.

  "Wait," Jasper cried, his voice rising almost to a scream with excitement. "He is not charging Oxford. He is coming here."

  "Edgecombe," Henry snapped, "ride to William Stanley. Tell him to cut off Gloucester's retreat once he has passed."

  The Tudor was no hero. He would rather have ordered Sir William to fall upon Gloucester and kill him before he reached the hill, but he feared that such an order might be disregarded. Worse, having disregarded it and thereby forfeited whatever reward Henry could be expected to give him for cooperation, Sir William might try to save his oats by joining Richard's attack.

  "Sire, Lord Stanley is moving."

  "Savage is engaged." That was Poynings's calm voice.

  "Where the hell is Gloucester?" Jasper snarled.

  "There," Brandon cried. "There he rides. Murdering pig, he dares wear the crown." He threw down his shield, grabbed the red dragon standard of Cadwallader, and shook it fiercely. "England and Saint George! King Henry and Saint George!"

  Henry snapped down his visor and drew his sword. It was little enough protection against the murderous battle-ax that Gloucester wielded so effectively, but its longer reach might be of value. To try to meet battle-ax with battle-ax was hopeless. Henry knew himself to be outclassed as a fighter and knew that Richard of Gloucester was seeking him and him alone. Yet now he felt neither afraid nor helpless. He would need to wait no longer. He would never run again. Whatever was to be, would be decided here and now. Henry did not hope to cut Gloucester down; he knew he could not. But if he could hold him off, Brandon and Poynings and Pembroke—in fact every man of the hundred men around him—would gladly give their lives to accomplish that great good.

  "Stand and receive," Henry ordered calmly.

  The slight advantage to be gained by the momentum of charging downhill was not worth the danger of becoming separated. A forest of lances tipped forward. The noise of the battle faded under the growing thunder of horses' hooves. Henry gripped his shield until his fingers ached and tried to swallow the lump in his throat that seemed to be obstructing his breathing. He had fought before, but never when he was the single target of a concentrated attack.

  "Stand!" he cried once more as John Cheney broke ranks and charged furiously toward the crowned figure in the center of the van.

  Three—four—men struck out and John went down. There was a crash of splintering lances; but Pembroke on one side and Poynings on the other protected Henry and he endured no shock. Then all were too close for spear work. The unbroken shafts and broken hafts were thrown down. Henry warded off a light blow with his shield and struck out with his sword. He could breathe now, and he was conscious only of a feeling of irritation that Jasper pressed so close to him on his right that he could not swing his sword freely. Brandon, who could hold no lance because he bore the red dragon, now pushed Poynings left, away from Henry, wielding his sword and bellowing his joy in battle and his rage against his enemies. He and Pembroke surged forward, both trying to keep their bodies between Henry and those who sought him, but Henry, caught in the fever of the fighting, pressed on with them.

  "Ware! Gloucester!" Poynings screamed, just as he was cut off from Henry's group by Richard's men.

  He lay about him furiously, trying to break free, but the crowned figure with armor distorted to make room for the overdeveloped right arm and shoulder of the battle-ax wielder charged past him straight at Henry. The ax rose. Henry gasped, raised his shield, and drew back his sword arm so that he could thrust forward with the point and keep Gloucester off. With a hoarse scream of rage, William Brandon drew the fiery dragon standard out of harm's way and threw his body between Henry and Richard. Gloucester shouted an oath, foiled of his purpose for the moment, struck Brandon's sword away with his shield, and launched the blow he had intended for Henry at Brandon's unprotected left side. William could have broken the blow with the strong shaft that supported Henry's banner, but the thought never entered his mind. If the pole were broken and the dragon fell, the entire army might panic, thinking that Henry had been killed or had run away. He thrust the shaft into the ground with all the strength of his great body, exposing his neck even more, and shouted "King Henry!"

  The ax bit deep.

  Blood as red as the dragon of Cadwallader cascaded over the bright armor. Brandon's horse, terrified by the suddenly slackened reins, leapt forward and Henry saw the blow Gloucester had intended to topple his banner whistle harmlessly in the air. He saw Gloucester spur his mount brutally, but Pembroke's shield was there and Courtenay's and Willoughby's. Edgecombe's sword struck Gloucester's shield, rebounding harmlessly, and Richard still strove onward toward Henry.

  The Tudor's men were giving back under the insane ferocity of the attack, but the wall about him remained unbroken. Back again. Henry uttered an inarticulate cry as he realized they would lose their standard if they gave another foot. In that moment, Poynings dispatched the last man separating him from his party, threw down the mace he had been using, and grasped the banner. He was weaponless, but he raised the dragon and shook it so that it coiled and uncoiled as if alive.

  "King Henry and Saint George!" He cried his defiance in the face of his foes, and "King Henry and Saint George" came as an answering bellow from behind Richard's men. The cry might have been repeated. Henry did not hear because it was swallowed up in the shrieks of rage and pain that came from Gloucester's men as William Stanley's full force fell upon their rear. Now the simple pressure of the red-liveried Stanley forces broke Gloucester's ranks and, singly, his men were pressed in among Henry's who joyfully cut them down. Henry himself was briefly engaged, protecting the weaponless Poynings. He was holding his own, actually enjoying himself, when John Cheney, miraculously no more than bruised and muddied, appeared and killed his opponent. Guildford appeared, the guns no longer being of use, and Edgecombe and then Courtenay, who was bleeding from a wound in the side not fatal but serious enough to prevent him from hard fighting. Poynings thrust the banner into Courtenay's hand and drew his own sword.

  For a moment as his men closed in around him, Henry suffered the rage of an overprotected child. Then he began to laugh. That was just what England needed; to have both Gloucester and himself slain!

  "Sire, are you hurt?" Courtenay cried as he saw Henry s
hake.

  "No," Henry gasped painfully, struggling to control the untimely, half-hysterical mirth. "Where is my uncle?"

  "Seeking Gloucester," Guildford panted. "I saw him going downhill as I came up to you."

  Henry bit his lip, but it was useless to order the men to ride after Pembroke. If he had found Gloucester, it was too late. If he had not, they would never find him in the wild confusion of fleeing, fighting men. He glanced toward Ambion Hill. No reserves remained there. His own men and Lord Stanley's pursued the remnants of Richard's army. Many were already prisoner; many threw down their arms; some ran away; some still fought because they feared to be slain if they yielded.

  "Poynings, bid the heralds offer mercy to all who throw down their arms," Henry said.

  He felt no pleasure now. Looking over the torn fields, the strewn bodies, hearing the groans of the wounded, Henry needed to swallow hard to keep down his sickness. No man disturbed their little group. Courtenay clutched his side and clung grimly to the red dragon, which now hung limp. The others watched as the fighting died down. At the foot of the low hill on which Henry was stationed it lasted longest as Gloucester's household guard was subdued. Then there was quiet, broken only by the weeping of those who had lost something or someone dear and by the moans of the dying. One by one, Henry's council drifted back to him, tired, bleeding, awed by what they had accomplished—all except William Brandon. Pembroke came last, riding slowly to dismount and kneel before his nephew.

  "I did not kill Gloucester for you, sire. I sought, but I could not find him."

  The Tudor slid from his horse and lifted his uncle. "Thank God you are spared to me. Gloucester will meet his fate by the headsman's ax if he has not met it already. Indeed, we must thank God for all. It is by His help alone that we have done this. Let us find William. I wish us all to be together in this thanksgiving."

  Brandon was there, where he had fallen, the blood dried to brown now. Henry lifted the visor and looked at the peaceful face, then crossed himself and began to pray. Around him the council knelt, and above them the red dragon, caught by a vagrant breeze, uncoiled and displayed himself, a bloody symbol of victory.