“Treason,” I murmured, heartsick. “Another traitor. The bastard. He will pay for this perfidy.”
Suddenly Brackenbury raised a gauntleted arm and shouted, “Look my lord King, look!”
Dragging on the reins, I whirled White Syrie around. Henry Tydder was on the move, his armed retinue scurrying towards the hill where the Stanleys waited, still, ominous, like crows ready to pick the dead. It was almost certain the wretch was going to try to exhort them to join the battle, and if they did and if Northumberland was either unable or unwilling to join in, the rest of us would have no chance. We would be slaughtered, our original advantageous numbers halved.
I had to stop him.
I had to end this now or go down in defeat. The Stanleys would join him. They would come.
I could see Henry’s standard, the red dragon of Cadwallader, snapping in the summer wind, an alien symbol on English soil, strange and pagan in its fiery intensity. The pretender was also displaying the undifferenced Arms of England in his vile attempt to proclaim his right to the throne.
White-hot rage at such arrogance obliterated my feelings of dismay at the death of Jockey Howard and the apparent defection or reluctance of Northumberland.
I would take Tydder down, I would break him. I would utterly destroy this man who would destroy me…
“Brackenbury! I shouted. “Gather the household! We ride! We ride on Henry Tydder! We ride to glory or we ride this day to death! Are you with me? Are you all with me?”
For a moment those gathered closest to me were silent, as they realised what I asked of them. They were still, holding their destriers in check; no words passed their lips, either yea or nay. Away in the distance the bombards boomed, hidden in the haze of smoke; the cries of the men still fighting and dying in the embattled van were swept northward on the wind.
Would they abandon me? I sat on Syrie’s back in silence, alone, a man encased in iron, faceless in my helm but with the crown burning like fire upon my head. If they would not join me, I must ride on alone, throw myself at the foe nonetheless.
Then, almost as one, the household knights drew their swords with a great ringing of steel. They raised thee blades to the sky, shining like flames in the sunlight. “King Richard, King Richard! For York! For York!” The chant rang out across the battlefield, proud, fierce, unyielding.
“In the name of Saint George and St Cuthbert!” I hefted my lance into a forward position. “Ride now with me! Ride with me to Victory or to Doom! Charge! Charge!”
White Syrie sprang forward, clods of earth tearing up beneath his flying hooves. The rest of the knights thundered at my back, gathering pace as we surged toward the Red Dragon of Cadwallader.
Henry Tydder had spotted us. I saw him turn his horse’s head as if to flee, but then someone snatched his reins and he flung himself down to the ground where he was less visible amidst the press of his personal bodyguard.
As I galloped in his direction, gathering speed, I was consumed by a black mirth that was certainly not born of joy. How must I seem to my feeble enemy, cowering and trying to conceal himself behind his men? I could only think of Revelations—And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. By now Henry’s shiny new armour would be fouled, I was sure of it.
I struck my spurs to Syrie’s flanks again, urging him to fastest gallop. Faster…faster… with three hundred trained knights thundering behind me, my best and most loyal. I had to reach my enemy; that was my one and only goal. Take him down or set him to flight—and it was over. I could still win. Kill Tydder and the Thomas Stanley would not attack, the rabble would flee.
Up ahead, the pretender’s foreign pikemen were moving, forming a tight square around their master. What were they doing? A chill went through me but I spurred onwards, my approach relentless. They were scum, unwanted on English soil; I would shatter them
Closer and closer we came, three hundred and one; my heart drummed, hooves drummed, banners crackled and whipped in the wind of our speed. I could see the points of the pikes glinting wickedly, could see individual faces now, enemy faces white with determination…
“Onward, onward!” I cried to my men. “Break through, break through by God!”
The horses hurtled forward, a wall of equine power. And then…the first row of pikemen in their square dropped abruptly onto one knee. Their weapons were pointing up from below while behind them their fellows gathered into two more rows, angling their weapons upwards and forwards in different ways. Never before had I seen such a manoeuvre.
There was no stopping the charge now. Even had I wished to avert collision, the impetus of the forward rush was too great. I slammed into the front line of defenders, hastily turning Syrie to the side so that their weapons struck harmlessly on his armour rather than sliding under his legs to his belly. Even so, the impact was staggering; my teeth slammed together and a jab of pain snaked up my spine as I strove to hold on to my lance.
Around me, my household knights were likewise crashing into the wedge of Henry Tudor’s Swiss pikemen, wave upon wave, unable to alter their course due to their speed. Brutally they were repelled, the momentum of the charge shattered by the bristling alien wall of spikes before them.
Chaos reigned as the knights smashed into the pike-wall and each other. A horse went down, then two, then three, their bellies speared on the tips of the pikes, their guts falling in sizzling ropes upon the plain. Horses’ screams mingled with those of fallen men; bodies were trampled underfoot, some crushed by falling horses, others speared while down. Some of my faithful threw themselves off their steeds and began to fight furiously on foot, free of their now-encumbering mounts.
Enraged, so close to my destination and yet so far, I hacked wildly at the bristling pikes, the grim-faced mercenaries of the enemy line.
Tydder! I had to get to my quarry! He was just beyond…I could end this slaughter if only I could break through…
“Christ! Christ! Yield, you dogs! Let me through!” I cried in rage and sheer frustration as I strove against the pikemen, striking down with my axe repeatedly, my arm stinging with each violent blow. Blood showered, stained my tabard, making the lions spit gore; screams of agony rang out, mingling with the shrieks of felled and thrashing horses, the thunder of the cannon, the whirr of the distant arrows.
“Your Grace…Richard!” Rob Percy, my oldest friend besides Frank, was pushing in beside me, hacking and hewing, guarding my right flank; we were almost fighting in tandem, armoured death, brothers in battle. After the initial shock of impact, those who had not fallen or been trapped had regained their equilibrium and continued to press forward using revised tactics. The strange pike formation held but was gradually failing on one corner as my men hurled themselves against it, over and over again.
“What is it, Rob?” I kept my gaze trained ahead, my right arm busy. It dripped red.
“William Stanley! His army is on the move! Look if you dare.”
I peered through the narrow slit in my visor. Sure enough, men were streaming down from the hill above the plain; red livery, red as blood, with the emblem of a white hart. There were hundreds of them, hundreds upon hundreds.
Time had caught me up…
It was now or never…
I renewed my attack on the pike-wall in a frenzy…and suddenly, miraculously, it collapsed. A heap of dead men, some with legs hewn off below the knee, formed a bloody bridge to my quarry. With Rob, Ratcliffe, Brackenbury and other loyal men close at my heels, I forced my way past the remaining pikemen and entered Tydder’s space.
A stallion veered in front of me, huge, black, a towering shadow cutting off the strengthening sunlight. The man upon its back reared up like some mythical giant, bigger than Ned…bigger than anyone I had ever seen, the huge plume on his helm making him seem even larger. I knew his colours and I knew him by his size—Sir John Cheney. I had granted a pension to his blameless wife when he had deserted her to join Tydder in Brittany.
> He raised a great sword, also one of the largest I had ever seen, its pommel mounted with a red stone that flared flame. “Out of my way, you traitor!” I cried and I launched myself at him, this human barrier to what I desired …this vast impediment to Henry Tydder.
Syrie careered into the flank of his steed, the plates of the horse armour clanging as they sawed against each other; and with my lance I struck Cheney’s massive shoulder a staggering blow. His armour dented with the force of my strike, and that huge sword spun from his frozen arm, an arc of light. Seeing the advantage, I struck him again, this time with my axe, seeking to smash through his gorget and open his throat. His armour held, saving him, but he was flung backwards, toppling out of the saddle with a cry. Crashing to the ground, Cheney lay still.
His mount raced away, riderless, and like some blessed vision, I saw in my vision Henry Tydder’s standard-bearer, William Brandon, a despicable creature who had narrowly escaped the hangman’s noose when he had raped a gentlewoman and her eldest daughter then attempted to defile her youngest girl. Today, he would pay for those heinous crimes and for his treachery in taking arms against the rightful King.
Striking my spurs to Syrie’s sides, I charged straight at Brandon and the great flapping Dragon of Cadwallader. Tydder could not be far away if his standard-bearer was so close; I would fell him, and get to my enemy.
William Brandon did not stand a chance; he did not even move to get out of my way, seemed transfixed with terror, a rabbit stricken before a deadly predator. With one mighty blow, I clove straight through his outstretched arm and Henry Tydder’s standard crumpled to the ground, the dragon’s mouth gaping before collapsing in on itself. Brandon started to scream as the stump of his arm fountained blood, but I silenced him with a second devastating blow that clove into his neck through a weak point in his armour and nigh took off his head.
Dead, he crumpled on top of Tydder’s fallen banner, soaking its folds with his life’s blood.
I was so near now, I sought vainly in the press of men and horses for my foe. Henry had removed his tabard, the little worm; was hiding somewhere in a gang of bodyguards.
“Come out and face me like a man, Henry Tydder!” I roared, swinging my axe. Droplets of blood showered through the air. “If you want my crown, you must come and take it! Stand against me, you craven whoreson!”
I was just about to spur forward again, when the sound of screams at my back drew my attention. The Stanley contingent had arrived, were hacking their way through my knights to protect Tydder. To my horror, I saw old John Kendall fall, his helm shattered, and then Brackenbury, pulled from his horse and knifed through the face. Many of the others were swept away by the red flood of William Stanley’s men, overwhelmed, dying as they attempted to fight back against greater numbers.
One Stanley supporter launched himself at my standard-bearer, Percival Thirlwall. There was a wild tussle, and the traitor’s man swung an axe and sheared straight through Sir Percival’s legs. In horror I watched as, still living, this brave loyal man attempted to keep moving, to hold the banner of the Boar upright.
He failed. He died face first in the mud, and the White Boar covered him like a shroud.
The Swiss pikemen were regrouping, forming a new barricade between Henry Tydder and me; his personal bodyguard were sweeping him away, taking him to safety, he was going beyond my reach….
Stanley’s men were all around, the hart badge, the red jerkins; I battled them desperately, my voice sobbing in my lungs, as I cried ‘Treason! Treason!’ the despair of that awful moment overwhelming me utterly.
As the Stanley forces overran mine, giving no quarter, I realised I was being separated from the remainder of the household knights and pushed towards the marshy ground I had ridden past earlier. The pikemen were circling like vultures, trying to ring me in; behind their line, a contingent of Welsh had joined in the slaughter, trapping my knights between their bills and the flashing swords of William Stanley.
I tried to force Syrie forward, to burst through the enemy line, but suddenly the horse stumbled, lurched, his hind leg buckling. The bog, the bloody fucking bog!
Glancing down, I could see Syrie was up to his fetlocks in sticky, dark, churned-up mud. “Get on, goddamn you!” I screamed at him, desperate, but as the animal tried to obey, to surge forward to safety, his hooves could find no purchase in the slime and he began to panic.
The pikemen saw his distress and went in for the kill. One man fell to his knees and thrust upward with the pike, gouging the horse’s belly through the joints in the armour. Syrie screamed and collapsed, his body writhing in death spasms. I fell heavily beside him in the mud, fortunately thrown clear of his flailing legs.
Lord Warwick had trained me well as a youth; I had been trained in agility, could turn handstands in my armour. I was back on my feet almost instantly. Glancing around, I saw some of my men still engaged nearby, holding their ground as best they could against greater numbers.
One of them, the Spaniard Juan de Salazar, agent of Ferdinand and Isabella, struggled in my direction, cleaving a Stanley supporter from skull to breastbone with his sword. “My Lord King, you have lost your mount!” he cried. “Here, take my horse and flee the field! The day is lost but if you act now, you may live and fight another day!”
I stared at de Salazar. I wore the Arms of England upon my tabard, an open challenge to my rival. If I left the field, I was as much a coward as he, as unworthy as he. Edward had retreated in the face of disaster, true—at Ludford Bridge with my father and Edmund, and when we fled to Burgundy in 1470. But I was not my brother. Men had always said, often to my face, how different we were in both looks and temperament.
Today, the world would see just how different Richard Plantagenet was….
“No!” I shouted at de Salazar. “I will never flee. If I do not win this day, I will die as King of England!”
The Spaniard gaped at me, unbelieving. Then red-coated Stanley men flooded between us, and de Salazar and the horse, the chance of retreat he offered, were swept away into the far distance.
I was alone now. I could see none of my men. I suspected most of them were dead, taken down in the massive onslaught of William Stanley’s soldiers. Good men, slain by treachery.
Grim, determined, I fought onwards, my battle-axe rising and falling, heaps of slain men piling around me. I trod on them, tripped on them, slid in the unnameable.
Within my armour, sweat bathed me head to toe; my heart was a thunderous drum in my ears. My arms were aching wrist to shoulder and tightness gripped my chest as it often did when I over-exerted myself—my breaths were short, ragged, laboured. I was tiring and, I feared, my armour was finally beginning to fail with each new enemy blow.
Inside my helm, I started to laugh, a harsh bitter laugh that none could hear but me.
I knew the truth.
I was going to die.
I had taken this path in life because I believed I was honouring my father, my father lost at Wakefield, my father who should have been King. From childhood onward, they said I was like him in looks and temperament. I thought I was living the life that should have been his.
Now I would live my father’s death…
The enemy was close around me, pressing in; I could scarcely swing my axe—there was no room. Suddenly I felt hands descend upon my person, from the front, the side, and in a cowardly attack from behind. I fought back like a bear, or the wild boar, trying to free myself, to get hold of my dagger or my sword.
There were too many assailants. They tore the axe from my hand, flung me down upon the ground. I struggled to rise, and a man looped an arm around my neck, near pulling me over backwards. A knife flashed and pain stabbed through my face; at the same time, the day became much lighter and wind licked the sweat and blood off my face. The attacker had cut my chinstrap and flung the helm with its glittering ceremonial crown away…My head was now bare, unprotected.
Despite the pain of the deep wound in my cheek, I still sought t
o defend myself using my hands alone. If I could get hold of another man’s weapons, this fight was not yet done… Blades clashed against my forearms; they were still well-protected, the fine gauntlets holding up against the rain of blows.
It was no use. They enemy fell upon me like a pack of dogs, flung me to my knees again. I raised my hands to protect myself but suddenly there was a tremendous blow to the top of my skull, knocking me face first into the muddied ground. The soil of Redemore, red with blood and red in its own right, oozed between my teeth.
I lay there, stunned, clinging to consciousness, as my vision swam and blurred, and black spots danced in the periphery of my vision.
Strange thoughts assailed me, running through my confused mind like the clouds across the heavens….How would I be remembered, once I was dead—as a good man or a bad? What was good and bad? In the reign of this Henry Tydder, who had struck no blow in battle, but who had won the day, I knew the lines between would be forever blurred and the story changed as stories often are, the tale growing with every telling….
My head was still swimming. I raised it, the blood and the mud running down, dripping from my chin. My mouth hurt; a front tooth had cracked with the force of the head-blow. The cruel voices around me were fading to a buzz; yet I knew my assailants, my killers, were there, standing behind me with swords, bills, and poleaxes.
Yes, behind…still too afraid of a small, thin man with a twisted spine to take him from the front, lest with his last breath he might somehow magically smite them all dead.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 43
