by Paul Doherty
Richard’s orders were clear enough, men were to fight for him on pain of life and limb, to provide arms, food and men. But I found things difficult. This gentleman was ill, that gentleman could not leave at the moment. Barns which were supposedly full were suddenly empty. Tenants who should have presented themselves in the village square before my commissioners, secretly absconded. My spies brought in news of secret covens and conspiracies. Of men assembling late at night after dark, using the device of the Red Eagle’s claw as a symbol of recognition. I had no illusions about the cause of this. The Red Eagle was the Stanley device and that vicious old spider, the Beaufort woman, was artfully spinning her web. News came from France. Charles VIII had supplied Henry with men, money and ships and two mercenary commanders. I forgot the French one but the other was a captain from the Scots guards and I shivered: Seigneur Bernard Stewart D’Aubigny was a fearsome fighter and a devious general and, with John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, the Tudor was well served.
July came, the height of summer. Richard sent news that the Tudor was assembling his men at Rouen, his ships on the river Seine. He would probably shelter in Harfleur and make a landing near Southampton. My commissioners arrayed their men and brought them in, long dusty lines, men-at-arms and archers. Behind them trundled wagons piled high with provisions and arms. A soothsayer claimed the Tudor would land at Poole in Dorset to march on London. The King’s strategy was that whatever the Tudor did, he would be met by two armies – a combined one under Norfolk and myself, while his, Richard’s, marched south to reinforce us. The Tudor must have had the devil’s own luck, for his small fleet of fifteen ships gave ours the slip and on Sunday, August 7th, landed in Milford Haven in Pembrokeshire. The usurper hoped to raise Wales behind him. He knelt on the sand, kissing the ground, muttering a line from the psalm, ‘Judge me, oh God, and discern my cause’. The great Red Dragon banners of Cadwaller were unfurled and Henry marched to the English border. His agents fanned out before him, trying to raise troops, depicting the pathetic Tudor as Arthur come again.
My own scurriers brought in news of the invasion and fresh ones came from Richard. I was to advance north into Bedfordshire, camp near Woburn Abbey and await further orders. The King sent out letters to all his generals and henchmen. Jack of Norfolk soon stirred himself and I watched his troops come in: long lines of tired, dusty men sweating under an August sun, their silver-blue tabards and banners soiled and coated with a thick grey dust. Similar writs were sent to Henry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, and to the Stanleys, but here Richard met with a cool reception. Yes, these men would march but Percy had problems and Stanley claimed he was unwell. Richard immediately imprisoned Stanley’s son, Lord Strange. He foiled an escape attempt by this young nobleman and told Stanley he would execute his son at the first sign of treachery. At last two messengers, sweat-soaked and grimed with travel, arrived with the King’s orders to join him at Nottingham. They said the King was in good heart, even hunting from his favourite lodge in Sherwood. He believed once his army was mustered he would bring the Tudor to battle and utterly destroy him.
Fifteen
I rode ahead with a small group of retainers to join the King at Nottingham and met him in the castle solar. His mood alternated from black pessimism to prospects of a golden and rosy future. He was nervous, fidgety, refusing to sit down or stand still, pacing the room as he described the situation. He was waiting for Norfolk and Northumberland and other contingents to reach him. Henry Tudor continued to march north, the gates of Shrewsbury and Litchfield being thrown open to greet him. The Stanleys lay between him and Tudor and, Richard grimly confided, he did not know their true intentions. My walk through Nottingham Castle had alerted me to the suspicion and distrust surrounding the King. Catesby avoided me, Ratcliffe was uneasy and nervous. No man knew how the coming battle would fare. The King’s buoyancy and show of confidence was false; on the one hand, he was now free of the tension, eager to fight his enemies in the open; but on the other, he knew he did not command the total loyalty of his followers. He chattered away to me as if I had never been absent, ignoring the rumours of how lukewarm my support had grown. In his eyes I had arrived, I would be with him, and that, he pronounced tersely, would be the mark of all men’s loyalty once he had secured victory. He asked about Anne, her father, rumours of treachery in the fleet, and what problems I had encountered in arraigning troops. Then he came and stood over me.
‘Francis,’ he said quietly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?’
‘Yes, Richard,’ I replied, ignoring his royal titles to secure his attention. ‘In three, four days’ time we will meet the Tudor’s army. We may win and live victoriously or we might die. I ask you this then, as one friend to another: did you kill your nephews?’ Richard’s face drained of colour. His lips went tight and flames of fury flared in his eyes. He spun on his heel and strode away. I thought he was ignoring me, but he went over to a table, picked up a book and walked back. He turned the pages and I saw the beautiful gold paintings of a Book of Hours. Holding it high in his right hand, his other hand on a gold cross which hung from a chain round his neck, Richard declared:
‘Before God, I swear I had no hand in the deaths of my nephews!’ He tossed the book into my lap and stalked out of the room.
I listened to his footsteps echo down the stone-vaulted corridor and cursed my own disbelief. Was Richard really innocent? Or was it just another lie? I looked at the Book of Hours: at the back, on the calf-skin cover, in Richard’s own handwriting was a long prayer to the Blessed Julian. Time and again the King prayed for release, for peace between himself and his enemies; and appealed to God that, like Susannah in the Bible, he might be freed from false slander and malicious allegations. I got up and placed the book back on the table. I went over to look through one of the arrow-slit windows at the frenetic activity in the courtyard below. The place was full: men-at-arms, neighing horses, carts being loaded, serjeants and knights bellowing orders to the retainers. Was this, I wondered, this coming battle, to be God’s answer to Richard? Deliverance from rumour or peace in death?
The following morning, Friday 19th August, the King led us down from the rock of Nottingham Castle. We took the Southwell road through the wooded aisles of Sherwood Forest across the hills towards Leicester. I despatched a swift note to Anne, ensured my retainers were in good order, and rode alongside Richard, who showed no anger at my question to him the previous day. Behind us, the royal army moved in a square column of march, troops of cavalry on each wing. Richard and the household in the van, our baggage and impedimenta in the centre, and a force of northern lords bringing up the rear. I glimpsed Stanley’s son, Lord Strange, amongst them, young, white-faced, fearful lest his father’s treachery cost him his head. He was bound hand and foot to his horse.
A little before sunset on the same day, we crossed the river Soar and entered Leicester, up the High Street into the square before All Saints Church. Here, Richard, who had been quiet for most of the march, issued instructions to his camp marshals, saying he would take up quarters in a nearby inn which bore his badge, the White Boar. The town’s cannon roared out a royal salute, messengers bustled their way through, their faces grimy with dust and sweat. They announced the glad news that Norfolk had arrived and Northumberland would be here early the next day. Richard nodded, and whispering he wished to be alone went into the large, cantilevered, half-timbered inn. Behind him, his retainers unpacked his furniture, bed, caskets and other paraphernalia.
The following day, Saturday, 20 August, was frenetically busy. Richard took counsel with his captains and principal commanders about how he should counter the Tudor threat. Earl Henry Percy of Northumberland arrived, his lying face and evasive answers about why he had not come earlier creating a sense of unease, only heightened by the Stanleys’ continual refusal to bring their forces over to Richard. Other levies poured into the town, archers, foot-soldiers, some well-armed, others causing acute dismay to the serjeants and muster captains. One
unexpected arrival was Sir Robert Brackenbury with a contingent from London. We met in a narrow street just off the town square. I expected him to either glare or openly ignore me but he just smiled sadly, his eyes dowcast as he stood aside to let my by. I did not speak to Richard. The King would not discuss anything but who was with him, who had not arrived, or the possible intentions of the Stanleys, whilst he uttered grim warnings of what would happen to those traitors after his expected victory over the invaders. Norfolk, eating and drinking as if his life depended upon it, openly boasted how all would go well.
Late that Saturday night, however, when the King had withdrawn, a more grim-faced Norfolk confided to both Catesby and myself how he suspected the King was surrounded by treachery on every side. Catesby stiffened beside me. I had to look away to hide my own embarrassment, but the Duke was lost in his own thoughts. He searched his wallet and brought out a small dirty scrap of vellum which he handed to me. I looked at the spider-thin handwriting, a doggerel verse. I smiled secretly, for Collingbourne would have liked it. The message was stark enough –
‘Jack of Norfolk, ride not so bold,
For Dickon, your master, has been both bought and sold.’
‘I wonder,’ Norfolk said, plucking the parchment from my fingers, ‘how many such messages have gone out? And what traitors have sold our master?’ Catesby and I just sat, not daring to answer.
On Sunday, 21st August, the royal army formed its column of march. The streets of Leicester filled with colour as banners were unfurled to the shrill bray of trumpets. The King, now tight-lipped, his face white, drawn with tension, led the royal army down the Swine’s Market, his figure slight, even in the full casing of armour he wore. Richard bore a gold crown upon his helmet; the banners of France, England and St. George snapped and flapped in the breeze above him. All the heralds, in their brilliant tabards, blew shrilly on trumpets, drowning the beat of the drummers, proclaiming that the King was going forth to war to destroy his enemies. Behind Richard was Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, then other retinues forming a screen around the great baggage-train, and in the rear Northumberland, treacherous as ever. I wished to God the King had killed him on the spot! I was slightly behind the King; unlike him I was not in armour for I wanted to feel the sun and wind and rejoice in that glorious August day. The trees were green still in full bloom, the sky blue, and around us, as far as the eye could see, the yellow corn reaching up ripe and full, ready for the harvest. I thought of Anne and the calm beauty of Minster Lovell. I wished I could turn my horse and canter away from the agony, suspicion and frenetic excitement of the royal army.
Later in the afternoon, the army entered the small village of Sutton Cheyne, a collection of houses grouped along a high street and an old greystone church. The hamlet stood on a ridge, the land sloping northwards to the manor and village of Market Bosworth. Our spies reported that Sir William Stanley had taken up position here and those with keen eyesight could espy the different colours of his banners, pavilions and the liveries of his retainers.
The site was near the old Roman road which the Tudor would have to march along. We camped on the summit of some rising ground the locals called Ambian Hill. This provided us with an excellent view of the low-lying Redmore Plain beneath, whilst our camp was protected by a moss-covered, treacherous marsh. Tents and pavilions were set up, camp fires lit, servants and boys bringing water and provisions from the purveyance wagons. Our spies and scouts went out and returned to declare the Tudor’s army was three miles away and nearby the forces of the two Stanley brothers, their intentions still unclear. Darkness fell and the fires of the enemy danced like a cluster of fireflies across the meadow. A restless night, the silence continually broken by the hammering on steel, the clanging of armour, horses neighing and the shouts of camp marshals and sentries.
Richard held a brief council in his tent. We sat grouped round a trestle-table as Norfolk, with the aid of a crudely-drawn map, demonstrated what actions we should follow. Essentially, we would hold the high ground and allow the Tudor to attack, hoping he would waste his energy. However, any real discussion was blighted by distrust of the true intentions of both Northumberland and the Stanley brothers. I looked around the table, for the last time seeing the faces of Richard’s secret council, all pale-faced, with black shadows under eyes which gleamed with a frenetic excitement. To be brief, we had no illusions. Tomorrow there would be a battle and it would be a hard-run fight. The Tudor was already proclaiming himself as King and, if we were defeated, we would suffer the fate of any traitor caught in arms against the Crown. The wine-jug circulated. No one wished to leave, preferring to stay in the flickering light of the candles, drawing comfort from those present. At last Richard ordered us to withdraw. Catesby touched me gently on the arm as I left the royal pavilion, a signal to follow him deeper into the darkness. Once out of earshot he turned.
‘This is the message,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing is to be done to Lord Strange, otherwise, if the battle is lost and we are found on the field, it will be either the axe or the rope.’ I nodded and turned away, fully understanding Catesby’s message. We were not to go over to the Tudor but simply ensure we left the battlefield as discreetly as possible. I walked back to my own tent. I wished Belknap was with me and regretted my decision to send him back to Minster Lovell before marching north to join Richard. I entered my tent, surprised to find the page had lit a candle and placed it on the table. I cursed, such negligence could start a fire and a panic. But then I saw the figure huddled in a cloak seated in the far corner. He stood as I entered, pulling back the cowl, and I recognised the swarthy dark looks of Sir Robert Brackenbury.
‘You are welcome, Robert,’ I said, realising this was no chance meeting. He had just attended the recent council meeting. He must have left swiftly, to ensure he would be at my tent before I arrived and so block any refusal to see him.
‘Sit down, Francis,’ he replied, and without another word turned to the two cups standing on a chest, both already filled with wine. He gave one to me. ‘Pardon my presumption,’ he said quietly, ‘but I need the wine and your page was agreeable enough.’ I sipped from the cup, watching him carefully. ‘I have come to make a confession,’ he began abruptly.
‘Aren’t there priests in the camp?’ I asked.
‘As a matter of fact, there are not,’ he answered. I felt the tingle of excitement in my stomach, the quickening pulse of my heart, and yet smiled at the foolishness of it. Here, before the battle, the evening before I might die, I would learn the truth about a secret which had eluded me for two years. I sat on the corner of the chest close to him.
‘Then you had better make your confession, Robert,’ I said. ‘It is already dark and the King intends to be moving before dawn.’
‘I wish to confess,’ Brackenbury began, ‘to the murder of William Slaughter.’ He held up a hand to fend off any questions. ‘Slaughter was a rogue, a mercenary, corrupted by the traitor Buckingham. When Buckingham came to the Tower,’ he hurried on, ‘he saw the Princes, as I said, in the royal apartments. I moved them from the Tower to keep them more secure. The chamber you saw was empty. Only Slaughter and I saw the Princes.’ Brackenbury rubbed his face. ‘Anyway, Buckingham. He gave them gifts, small painted wooden swords and a silver tray of sweetmeats. The dish was poisoned.’ He stopped and put his face in his hands. ‘The venom must have been some Italian concoction, not quick-acting but slow, taking hours rather than minutes to work.’
‘But surely,’ I interrupted, ‘such presents should have been carefully inspected?’
‘Oh, they were.’ Brackenbury looked up at me. ‘Slaughter told me he would check everything, but he had been bribed. The morning after Buckingham left, the knave came rushing to me, saying how the Princes were sickened, too drowsy even to stand. I ordered him to keep his mouth shut and, by secret passages, brought the Princes to a small chamber deep in the royal apartments, a room once used as a warming-room for any child born in the Tower.’ Brackenbury shook his he
ad. Beads of sweat poured down his now grey face. ‘There was nothing I could do,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘If I sent for Argentine, he would know it was poison. I or the King would be blamed. Richard would never forgive me. I did not want to die a traitor’s death.’
‘And the Princes?’ I asked, hiding the chilling terrors in my own body.
‘They just died,’ he answered.
‘And their bodies?’ Brackenbury placed his head in his hands.
‘God forgive me. Slaughter and I simply bricked the room up. We took off the door and lintel, it did not take, long. The chamber lay off a disused passageway, very few people used it. I then wrote to the King saying the Princes had escaped and you know the rest.’
‘And Slaughter?’ I asked.
‘At first,’ he replied, ‘I swore him to secrecy, offering him gold, treasure, even lands, but afterwards I recollected how the Princes must have died. First I thought it was the sweating sickness but I knew they’d been poisoned and Slaughter had been bribed, so I arranged to meet him in some small squalid tavern alongside Cheapside. I cut his throat.’ Brackenbury gulped from his cup. ‘He was a traitor and he deserved a traitor’s death. I was quick and it was a mercy for him.’
‘Surely a new, bricked-up chamber would be noticed?’ I said.
‘Not really,’ Brackenbury said wearily. ‘The royal apartments in the Tower are a collection of rambling rooms and chambers. Many are in disrepair. They are hardly ever used.’ He looked away, listening to the distant noises from the camp. ‘Sometimes in my dreams,’ he said, ‘I stand in that long, dusty, whitewashed passage looking down at the walled-up chamber.’ He licked his lips. ‘I hear a tapping, see the dust begin to crumble, a skeletal arm push through the plaster, stretching and grasping for my throat.’ In the darkness I heard an owl hoot and, despite the warmth, I shivered.
