The crowd gasped in terror; a woman shrieked, a thin, high, keening noise. A fat dame in a frowzy yellow gown and huge headdress fainted, and had to be hauled away like some great pole-axed cow. The old woman’s prophecy—so close to ill wishing, to predicting the king’s demise, a treasonable offence punishable by death.
“This is outrageous!” Riding near me on the bridge, Sir Ralph Assheton was livid. “Your Grace, you must deal with this crone. She will put evil fears into the men, and what she has done is against the law! I know your Grace is tender toward the weaker sex…but that thing is scarcely a woman! She is an abomination, a witch.”
“She is mad, that is all, Ralph.” Ignoring Assheton, I motioned to the guards. “Have her taken to the town lock up, but no harm is to be done to her, at least not in my name. The local authorities may of course try her by the rules and laws of their own town.”
The soldiers dragged Agnes Black away, handing her over to the town’s beadles, who bundled her down the road as the gathered mob spat and jeered at her.
Face expressionless, as though nothing untoward had happened, I rode on. I did not, would not, feel affrighted by such mummery. The trumpeters resumed their fanfare and the kettledrums boomed.
My army marched onwards, over the end of Bow Bridge, out of Leicester town and away.
The wind was in my hair, the early sun warming my face, bringing faint colour to its pallor. We were heading south, hurrying to engage Henry Tydder’s forces, to cut them off before they could proceed further towards London. My scurriers and scouts had finally located the pretender’s troops; Henry himself was skulking near Merevale Abbey, availing himself of the monks’ hospitality. A hilarious rumour ran rife that Henry had disappeared a few nights earlier while on the ride from Shrewsbury, leaving Jasper Tydder to go searching for his missing kinsman. When found, Henry made some pitiful excuse about a rendezvous with the traitor William Stanley, but Tydder was doubtless on the edge of running away, hiding behind a bush with his knees knocking in fright while hoping Uncle Jasper wouldn’t see him.
Craven. It made me feel warm inside to think of my opponent’s cowardice as my huge army marched in splendour to the plain of Redemore, where we would engage the foe.
My camp.
Here I was, at last, near the village of Sutton Cheney. Poised on the edge of destiny. My pavilion had been raised, a huge tent with blue and white stripes, bearing the Arms of England over the entrance and a tracery of white roses around the rim. My motto played across the fabric—Loyaulte Me Lie, above a line from Vulgate: Mihi Vindicta, et ego Retribuani, decit Dominus.
The tent was filled with all the luxuries that could possibly be fitted inside; carpets and tapestries, books by Vegetius and about Stilicho, my precious Prayer Book, a small oak table, my desk, countless tapers, carafes of wine. My travelling couch stood to one side, out of the way of any draughts from the doorway, screened off and with cloth of gold hanging over it on rails. A padlocked chest at its foot contained clothing and robes…and, far more precious, the crown of England, heavy with jewels, heavier with symbolism. Next to the chest, my squires were busily polishing my armour for the next day.
I peered through the entrance to the tent. The army was camped near a Roman Road, with swampland stretching before us and giving off a rank, watery reek in the heat. In the distance, a hump against the sky’s brightness stood a low hill…and it crawled with men like black ants. The enemy.
Shading my eyes against the dazzle of the heavens, I could just about make out colours of the Stanleys, their contingents standing almost side-by-side. So…Thomas had come. But he had not come to me, and was still undeclared. His proximity to William, already marked as traitor, filled my heart with renewed foreboding. So many men between them.
I scowled, tore my gaze away. Who could I trust? Even my own son-in-law, Walter Herbert, had not turned up on the field, despite earlier promises. He claimed his efforts to deflect Tydder’s forces in his region of Wales had delayed him so much he could not possibly arrive in time. There would be stern words and penalties after the battle was over, and if his reticence had caused any upset to my little daughter, especially if she was pregnant with my grandchild, I would have his ballocks as trophies, by God I would….
Out amid the sea of painted tents stretching across Redemore, suddenly I heard the herald’s horns blare. An arrival. Someone had joined me, thanks be to God. There was a commotion beyond. “Your Grace!” a young squire dashed in, windswept. “The Lord Lovell has arrived from Southampton!”
My heart immediately leapt with gladness, and my frown fled. Praise God Almighty, my best friend had come at last. Stationed on the south coast, I had truly feared he might not reach Leicestershire in time for battle. Glancing through the milling crowd, I saw him striding towards me, paler crinkles round the edges of his eyes in his sunburnt face, the ends of his fair hair bleached almost white by the sun as he removed his helmet. The two Stafford brothers, Humphrey and Thomas, who were his close companions, accompanied him. Distant cousins of that other Stafford, Harry Buckingham, the brothers had no love for their treacherous kinsman and after burning the Severn bridges during his rebellion, had joined the Welsh in setting set upon his castle at Brecknock. They had been seen merrily carrying away tapestries and furnishings alongside the gleeful natives and the Vaughans of Tretower.
“Francis!” Frank stepped into the dimness of my great pavilion and I embraced him with fervour. “It brings me great comfort to see your face this day.”
“And I yours, Richard. Alas that Tudor avoided the south coast altogether and went to Milford Haven.”
I shrugged. “Never mind. It was the will of our Lord. We will have him here.”
“But Rhys Ap Thomas would likely not have joined him had he not reached Wales.”
“Maybe not, but I have heard, through the keen ears of my spies, that not as many Welshmen have flocked to his banner as Tydder had hoped. Only a handful of Englishmen have done so too. His main hopes still lie with the leadership of Jasper Tydder and John deVere…and with his blasted French rabble.”
“And Swiss pikemen,” said Frank, solemn. “I heard he has a small amount of well-trained foreigners marching with him. Scots mercenaries too, paid for by that interfering harridan Anne of Beaujeu.”
“Bloody Scots,” I grunted. “So much for the treaty we made not so very long ago! Not worth the parchment it was written on.” I shrugged again, fatalistic. “No matter, I still have more men than Henry Tydder, many more. And far more artillery. You should see the bombards I have, Francis. Beautiful things. A stack of hand-gonnes too.”
“I am sure I will see them in action on the morrow,” Frank said wryly. “Your Grace, could I sit? I am saddlesore.”
“Of course, Frank. You must rest at once.” I beckoned him to a bench set alongside the long table and he sat down, heavily, stiffly; the Stafford brothers followed suit and sat too. Servers brought drink and food, and for a while we chatted as if we were not facing battle the next day, as if we would not be fighting for our lives and our honour…for the crown of England itself.
For the precious crown of the Confessor that lay within the chest at the foot of my battle-couch.
Later that day others of my chief supporters began to file in to my pavilion, joining Francis and the Staffords. Jockey Howard was there, with his son Surrey; Rob Percy, Brackenbury, Ratcliffe, Catesby, John Kendall, Ralph Assheton, John Harrington and Percy.
John of Lincoln had ridden in only that hour from Yorkshire; I pulled him sharply aside as he entered the tent.
“How goes it at our castle of Sheriff Hutton?” I asked in a low voice. “The children of my brothers are well? You have left them carefully guarded?”
“They are well and under lock and key till the battle is over,” he nodded. “Little Warwick begs to come to court, though, and Cecily misses her new husband. The little one that is to be a nun, Bridget, is fretful sometimes.”
“And the Lady Elizabeth?”
“Bessy…I mean, Elizabeth, is in good cheer, Your Grace. She asked me to bring a message for you.”
“Nothing that cannot be revealed in this company, I pray,” I said with a terse smile, hoping he would be discreet if my niece had sent declarations of undying love or a tirade full of embarrassing histrionics.
“Not really. Only that she sends her love to her Lord King, prays the Lord God keeps him well, and makes him victorious so that she may soon fare to Portugal to wed the Duke of Beja.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Bessy had come to accept was proper and right and put her foolish notions aside.
“Come sit, John,” I said to Lincoln, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Sit beside me as my heir.”
My lords and advisors stayed within my pavilion deep into the night, discussing battle tactics—we were up later than we should have been, since we would have to rise well before dawn’s light touched the sky, but it scarcely mattered. What man could sleep well before his potential death? Not me, certainly, and I would not numb my senses with any sleeping draught.
Hotly we debated the positioning of the archers and cavalry and bombards, and tried to second-guess what Tydder’s course would be. We mulled over the perfidy of Rhys Ap Thomas, the Scots and William Stanley, which made Assheton shake in fury, and Henry Percy go sullen and silent, folding his arms and leaning back from the table.
At last the most pertinent points of the forthcoming battle were decided. As King, I would take the centre battle, with the household cavalry around me, while Jockey Howard led the van with his son Thomas as second in command. The Howards would also be in charge of the archers, while Northumberland, with his enormous contingent of men, would command the rearguard.
Jockey Howard seemed ill at ease, more that I thought he would be, that grizzled veteran of over sixty summers. Stroking his long moustache, he kept staring nervously towards the tent flaps. Finally he banged down his wine cup, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said gruffly, “I have to ask it. What of Thomas Stanley? I like it not that he is out there with a huge host, his intentions unknown, and his men settled near to a known traitor…his own brother.”
“I don’t like it either,” I replied. “But remember, I have Thomas’ son Strange, here as a hostage on the battlefield. And I should know what way the wind blows soon; I have sent my herald to Stanley’s camp to give him an ultimatum. He must declare himself of suffer the consequences.”
We returned to our debates and stratagems, poring over charts and analysing battle manoeuvres. Outside, when the door hangings were drawn back by servants as they passed back and forth, the sky was jet, speckled with a thousand stars. The woody smell of nearby fires permeated the air, reached us even in the depths of the pavilion; across the plain of Redemore, other tiny flames were blooming—the distant campfires of the enemy
Somewhere close a soldier hidden in the dark began to play a haunting air upon a whistle, the sound drifting up and over the noises of moving men, champing horses, clanking harness. Away in the summer’s darkness, a voice was singing plaintively if not tunefully,
As I lay sick in my languor,
With sorrow of heart and tear of eye,
This carol I made with great dolour —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Lady, help! Jesu, mercy!
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Fear of Death disturbs me…
The song seemed to have disturbed John Howard, for suddenly he staggered to his feet, almost knocking his son Surrey off the bench beside him. I noticed John had not looked happy all evening, as if something was weighing on his mind, something even beyond the possible perfidy of Stanley.
“I cannot hold my tongue any longer!” he cried. “Whether it was just a jest, I cannot say yeah or nay, but I cannot keep my silence!”
“What on earth are you talking about, Norfolk?” I asked, perturbed.
“Richard, you must be told—there was a note.” He uncurled his great, battle-scarred hand. It was trembling. A crushed, mangled shred of paper lay upon his callused palm, damp and stained with his sweat. “A note pinned to my tent earlier today.”
I hooked my hands behind my back, schooled my face into an expressionless mask. “What does it say? Tell me.”
He breathed deeply. With his thick neck tight from strain and his nostrils flaring with emotion, he looked almost like a bull ready to charge. “It says…. Jockey of Norfolk, be not bold, for Dickon thy master is bought and sold.”
The other men in the tent fell silent, gazing one to the other in consternation. Taking the note from Jockey, I flipped it over in my fingers several times, reading the words, then flicked it onto the brazier where it burnt to ash. “A ruse to cause doubt and upset. Nothing more.”
“Well, it caused plenty of upset, that can’t be denied!” John Howard pounded the table with his fist; the carafes and goblets and candles swayed and clinked together. “Upset to me! How can you be so calm, Richard? Whoever pinned that note to my tent was an enemy and he was right within your camp! We have been infiltrated.”
To everyone’s surprise, I threw back my head and laughed. “Yes. Infiltrated, betrayed, let down by those who were sworn to aid. And, knowing that already, you think I fear a ditty on a scrap of parchment?”
I glanced from face to serious face, my commanders and supporters, knowing well that I might not see some of them again after the morrow. “But I know I can trust every man in this tent with me tonight. I know you would all follow me to death if it were asked of you… Go now, and sleep if you have the ability to do so. The morn and all it brings will come all too swiftly.”
My captains filed out of the pavilion, returned to their own camps strung out across the plain. Frank remained with me, despite the late hour, as if unwilling to leave.
I looked at him, my oldest friend. For the last few days I had thought much of him, and how I trusted him above all men, and now that he had arrived from Southampton, I had to confide in him. One matter troubled me, and only Francis could aid me.
“Come outside.” I put my hand on his arm. We walked outside and away from the pavilion, where men could not hear. The sky was obsidian above us, stars icy, the moon a wan ghost sailing west. The woodsmoke curled, rising like ghostly hands; the smell of the nearby marsh rose too, clammy, fetid—rank water and weed. A nightbird soared over head, it voice a plaintive cry in the dark.
“What is it, Richard?” Frank asked me. “Is all as it should be? You are well?”
“Do I not look well?”
He gave me a wry smile. “To be honest, Dickon, you look dreadful.”
“You dare tell your King he looks dreadful?”
We both stared at each other a moment and then burst into nervous laughter. Then I took hold of his arms and embraced him. “Francis, there is something I am going to ask of you tonight. Something I know you are not going to want to do.”
“Richard?” He frowned, perplexed.
I heaved a breath. “I don’t want you to fight with me tomorrow.”
“What!” the exclamation burst from him like cannonfire.
“Shh, be quiet and listen! I need you to watch the battle from a nearby rise, out of harm’s way.”
“But why? What stratagem is this? I do not understand!”
I bit on my lip, glanced down. My hands looked very smooth and white in the pale moonlight, thin, like skeleton’s hands. “You know…the boy…At Tyrrell’s manor at Gipping.”
He nodded; long ago I had disclosed to him the dreadful truth about the fate of Ned’s eldest son and how I planned to send the younger abroad with an assumed identity. “I should have sent him overseas long ago, but arrangements needed to be made with Margaret and others, and too many enemy ships fared abroad in the Channel, including those of Edward Woodville. Tyrrell is in France, at the castle at Guisnes, as you know. As it stands, the child is almost alone, protected only by a few retainers and womenfolk. If anything should happen untoward on the morrow, you need to get the lad away, get
him out of the country. Tyrrell has prepared a place abroad.”
“But…but he is a bastard, I don’t see why you are worrying now.”
“If I fail tomorrow, I won’t be.” I smiled ruefully. “And bastard though young Richard may be, if I am unsuccessful in battle I would still have him live to cast that bigger bastard Tydder from his ill-gotten throne.”
“But John de la Pole is your heir, and then there is Warwick, who has a claim to the throne should George’s attainder be reversed.”
“John of Lincoln is a man grown; he must look to himself if it goes ill at Redemore. He himself might well have to take himself into exile…should he live. And Warwick, God bless him, I pray my foes would have mercy on such a simple, harmless lad. No one would see that boy on any throne; lessons, surely, have been learned by Harry Six, both about child-kings and the afflicted.”
Agitated, Frank passed his hand through his curling hair; the moon had turned its gold to silver. “Truth be told, Richard, I would as happily take your own bastards to safety as much as Ned’s son. What of them?”
I began to pace; grass bent beneath my poulaines, sweet-scented. All the little things in the world suddenly seemed so sharp, so crisp—the grass, with its beads of dew, the night air with its mingled scents, the look of the sky, the silhouette of a distant church tower. It was as if on that momentous eve time was trying to slow down, to give me a chance to savour all I had taken for granted in my thirty-two years upon this earth. “John, my dear bastard son; yes, I worry about what might become of him, should I lose, but he is at Calais with his advisors and tutors and nothing can be done. Katherine is the responsibility of her husband, and I would not think even Tydder is low enough to harm women just for their birth.”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 41
