This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Richard began to wish he had taken more wine to drown any such maudlin thoughts, but instead he wondered how a man who cherished his wife and children and worked to improve the common people’s lot as he had could have callously ordered the hideous deaths of brilliant men like Anthony Woodville and William Hastings? How could such good and evil abide in the same man? I thought it was my duty to protect the crown. Woodville had weapons on those wagons at Stony Stratford. He would have used them against me had I let him reach London with young Edward. Hastings! He sighed for he had always thought well of Hastings. The man had betrayed England by keeping so dangerous a secret as the pre-contract. I have no doubt either that he was plotting against me. Certes, there were other rebels who deserved their deaths just as much, he mused, for a traitor must always die horribly. Buckingham, the sad, sorry and untrue creature, should have been quartered as well as beheaded. I was too kind to him for what he did. Dear God, those poor boys. “I hope he rots in hell!” Richard cried aloud. “’Tis where all rats must go.”

  “Your grace requires something,” one of the knights outside the king’s tent called back.

  “Nay, Sir Robert, I was talking to myself. What time is it?”

  “’Tis five hours to lauds, my liege.”

  “Instruct the chaplain to come to my tent at prime. We will hold mass here before we arm.”

  He knelt at the portable altar, the candles in sconces either side of the crucifix dripping wax onto the grass, and opened his well-worn book of hours to the last page. He whispered the words he had written himself not long after Anne’s death and which had been added to the prayer book: “I ask you, most sweet lord Jesus Christ, to save me from all the perils in which I stand and, by your love, deign always to deliver and help me, and after the journey of this life deign to bring me before you, the living and true God, who lives and reigns through Christ our Lord.”

  And then he prayed for a victory for England. “Should I win, I shall know You have absolved me of my sins, which are many and for which I have tried to atone many times. I gave You my promise to rule my kingdom well, and I believe have kept that promise.” The candlelight illuminated the gold and enameled cross, as well as the delicate portrait of the Virgin and of Richard’s favorite St. Anthony on either side. His voice became more urgent. “Now, in the name of the holy Mother, of Saint Anthony and of your Son our Saviour, show me the way to victory.”

  The candles flared suddenly, and the altar vanished, dissolved in the sudden brilliance of the light. Richard, as in a dream, fully armed on White Syrie, found himself galloping down a hill alone while all around a battle was silently raging. Far ahead he saw his quarry, Henry Tudor, cowering behind a giant of a man and the standard bearer. Tudor’s banner, emblazoned with the red dragon of Wales, waved tantalizingly at Richard. He waits for me. He sits there and waits for me. Joy and divine confidence filled Richard’s chest as he unsheathed his sword and heard himself cry, “For York, God and England! Death to the invader!” The sure-footed courser navigated the steep hill and carried Richard forward as if on wings. He could hear nothing else but the wind whistling past his helmet and his pounding heart. Closer and closer he rode, brandishing his sword and easily slaying two knights in his path. The goliath moved towards him and raised his deadly mace. With God on his side, nothing could stop Richard now, and he engaged the knight, slicing so powerfully through the vambrace protecting the man’s forearm that the weapon fell harmlessly to the ground, still gripped by the severed hand.

  Now Henry was alone, and even with his visor down, Richard could see the terror in the pale blue eyes. “It is only you and me now, my lord!” Richard shouted. “Unsheath your sword, or do you want to die without a fight? If you want my crown, come and get it.” Before Henry could properly adjust the grip on his sword, Richard urged White Syrie sideways, the horse’s armored shoulder unbalancing Henry’s horse. Henry fell out of his saddle and onto the ground, knocking off his helmet.

  “Did you not learn in the art of war, as I did, that being unhorsed and losing your helmet is the killing blow for nobles, my lord?” Richard gloated high above the trembling Henry, who was begging for mercy. “You should have heeded the lesson. Now make your peace with God!” As Henry prayed, Richard raised his sword and brought it down.

  The light guttered suddenly and the kneeling Richard started. He knew then this victory had been but a vision, and, marveling, he crossed himself. Vision or no, he now finally believed God was with him. He would win this battle.

  Dawn broke on that twenty-second day of the month, and when his chaplain entered the tent just before prime, he found Richard prostrate in front of the little altar, fast asleep, the candles long since extinguished.

  “There is nary an Englishman with Tudor, they are mostly Frenchies. Will you let those Frenchmen over there beat us on our own soil?” Richard asked to shouts and boos of “Nay! Never!”

  Francis stood awed as Richard addressed the troops assembled on Ambion Hill. He did not know what miracle had led Richard to seem to tower above all others, his voice strong and confident as he roused the thousands of men to fight for him, but he was grateful; the miracle was much needed. After weeks of depression and self-pity, Francis worried Richard had harbored a death wish.

  Now in his gleaming harness, the arms of England brightly displayed on his tabard, the crest on his crowned battle helm streaming his white boar pennon, Richard was magnificent, ramrod straight in his cleverly fashioned cuirass; no one who did not know the king would guess it hid a curved spine. White Syrie was a fearsome sight, plate armor covering his face and flanks making him appear larger than life. He snorted and pranced along the ranks of horsemen of the household who surrounded Richard on the hill, anticipating the coming battle like the superbly trained warhorse he was. Richard seemed unconcerned that Henry of Richmond had stolen a march on him and had already chosen more solid ground past the somewhat boggy terrain to the south. He let them come and deliberately continued his delivery of thanks and encouragement to his mustered troops.

  “I had a sign from God last night,” Richard told them. “I had a vision that I slew the Tudor in a great victory. Let us now fulfill that destiny. I am ready!” he shouted. “Are you ready to end the strife that has near destroyed England for thirty years? Let our enemies hear your resolve! Let me hear you now—are you ready?”

  The roar of “For England! For King Richard!” that echoed over the plain inspired his army to raise their weapons—English longbows, crossbows, halberds, bills, lances, swords, and battleaxes—and shake them at the Lancastrian troops assembled in front of them. Compared with the mile-long line of royal troops facing them bristling with weaponry, the Lancastrian force appeared small, boosting the morale of Richard’s army.

  Richard gave the order to the extensive artillery to fire. The first thundering booms from the serpentines and bombards were the signal for the archers to loose their deadly arrows skyward and commence battle. Jack Howard advanced the van, and soon he and Oxford were lost to Richard’s sight in the vicious melee. God keep you, Jack, Richard thought.

  His gaze swept the rest of the battlefield from his vantage point, noting where Richmond’s strengths and weaknesses lay. The terrain was not ideal, he knew, as he watched Oxford’s van carefully maneuver round a large patch of marshy ground, forcing Norfolk’s soldiers to tread it.

  Richard became focused on two forces a half mile hence, both close to the village of Dadlington but set apart and seemingly rooted to their spots. “Stanleys,” he muttered, angrily. “Fence-sitting Stanleys. Let us finally see where their loyalties lie.” He had despatched a messenger half an hour before to order Lord Stanley’s force to move towards Norfolk and attack Oxford’s flank. Thomas Stanley had not yet moved a muscle.

  Richard turned to look over his shoulder to his other worry. So far to the rear had the earl of Northumberland chosen to station his force, Richard could only glimpse the glinting of sun on steel. Will he or won’t he obey a summons when the tim
e comes, his king wondered. He looked back to his right and was dismayed to see Norfolk being hard pressed by Oxford. Rally them, Jack, rally them now! He looked again at Lord Stanley’s thousands-strong force and growled, “Move your arse, Thomas.” But when he saw his messenger returning at full speed, he guessed that the older Stanley brother had turned his coat. The other, he knew, would follow his senior brother’s lead. It meant five or perhaps six thousand men were lost to him. He knew then what he must do. It was time to be unmerciful. He summoned an esquire waiting for a command. “Return to camp and tell Sir John to execute Lord Strange. His father has turned traitor.” The young man wheeled his horse around and galloped off. Richard never knew that the knight guarding Strange had been forewarned that the Stanleys would enter the battle on Henry’s side, and he made his choice: He ignored the king’s command, later earning a Tudor pardon for himself.

  “Norfolk has fallen!” Richard heard the cry and turned his attention to the mass of men below him slashing, slicing and piercing each other while tripping over those bloodied, mutilated bodies already littering their path. He could no longer see the red and white of Norfolk’s banner. It cannot be true! Richard thought grimly, he is the best of men. Jack Howard was a seasoned fighter, but he was no longer in his prime. When the king heard several shouts of, “Howard is slain,” his anger at Richmond rose. “Stay your course!” he yelled, “reinforcements will come,” but his words were drowned in the battle cries, screams from horses, and the agony of the mortally wounded.

  It was then that Richard saw Henry’s standard move off to the left of the main battle with only a handful of escorts and seemed nonchalantly to skirt the marsh near Fenns Lane. Richard frowned. Where was Richmond going? Most likely to parley with the Stanleys directly in front of him, he fumed. A blinding flash of sunlight on a distant breastplate dazzled him momentarily, and the shimmering memory of his battle dream rose before him and made him gasp. It was the same scene: Henry almost alone and vulnerable. Richard did not think twice. God was speaking directly to him, he was certain of it: I have not forsaken you, Richard, and here is My proof, the Lord seemed to say.

  Without warning his retinue, Richard gathered his reins in his strong left hand, unhooked his war hammer and lowered his visor. He spurred White Syrie into sudden action, and charging down the hill with only his standard bearer by his side, he skirted the battle and thundered along the path known as Fenns Lane and across Redemore towards the red-dragon standard and his enemy. He had no fear, had not thought of the risk, because he had a divine purpose. God was carrying him along to put an end to all the doubts and struggles of his reign and cement his right to the throne once and for all. He was in a state of euphoria: he was riding to his destiny.

  Behind him, Rob and Francis called desperately for him to stop or wait for them. When Richard ignored their plea, they quickly decided that Francis should assume command of the main battle to bolster the flagging van. Rob and John Kendall then ordered others to join them, and they took off after Richard to stop his foolish charge. But by now Richard had a good hundred-yard lead.

  “What is he thinking?” Rob yelled, and then he saw. “Good Christ, he is making for Richmond! Is he mad? He is acting like Achilles charging down on Hector. We must stop him, John! Christ’s nails, look!” And he pointed to William Stanley’s force moving towards Henry. “We cannot think Stanley is going to Richard’s aid now, can we? Richard is in mortal danger! Faster, faster!”

  The first knight to block Richard’s lethal charge hardly registered with him so intent was Richard on reaching Henry. He brought his hammer up and smashed the man’s skull as though brushing a fly off his nose. The next man thrust a sword at him, and Richard easily parried the blow with the cannon of the lower vambrace of his superior armor, and smote the soldier so hard it knocked him from his horse. Through the slit of Richard’s visor he could see—just as in his dream—Henry cowering behind a giant of a man Richard recognized as Sir John Cheyney. The man measured six-feet eight-inches and was astride a huge courser, but what did it matter? This day belonged to him, Richard knew, and he charged at Cheyney and dealt him such a blow with the spiked end of his war hammer that he pierced Cheyney’s visor, drilled through his eye and into the brain. The giant fell like an English oak, brains spilling white and red onto the boggy ground, the war hammer still impaled in his skull.

  As others of Henry’s household realized what was happening, a few rode full tilt towards the scene while the rest barred Rob Percy’s path and killed Richard’s standard bearer. His was a thankless, vulnerable, but honorable duty, as those chosen could not hold both a flag and a sword while handling a destrier. Down went the royal standard just as Richard closed in on Sir William Brandon, Richmond’s own standard bearer. Henry was screaming to his men to protect him when Richard now unsheathed his sword and slew Brandon, the green and white flag with its proud red dragon floating to the ground. His dream was almost a reality as he turned his attention to a hesitant Henry.

  Close behind him Richard could hear fighting, and he thought he recognized Rob’s voice, but just as he was attempting to take a run at Henry, White Syrie foundered. The right front hoof of the heavily armed destrier was sucked into the marsh and Richard heard the fearful crack of the animal’s leg bone and knew he would be unhorsed. A random, unwanted thought struck him: where had he heard that sickening sound before? It was forgotten as he threw himself sideways to avoid the horse pinning him under its weight. He fully expected Henry to charge and finish him off, but the man was frozen—whether in shock or fear, Richard would never know, for he himself was now fighting for his life as Lancastrian men-at-arms had reached the scene.

  Despite Signor Vicente’s ability to create a lightweight harness, Richard’s mailed feet were also mired in the soggy ground, and he desperately tried to free them. Defending himself from bills and halberds, he whirled his sword in a circle and caught one billman in the face, who screamed and fell back. Richard finally managed to stagger out of the quagmire but, as always when he fought on foot, his compromised lungs began to play him false, and he could hear his own panting magnified inside the helmet. I can’t breathe, he thought panicked. Lift the visor, you fool! Goddamn this vile body of mine to Hell.

  A sharp pain penetrated his jaw and he tasted blood. Someone jerked his helmet off, having cut through the chinstrap with a rondel dagger. At last he could breathe, but by then he felt blows to his protected back and one to his head. How many were there around him? He could not count, but his sword blade never stopped swooping and flashing.

  He was not sure when he realized that he was going to die, but when he saw the blue and white badge of William Stanley on one of his assailants, he knew he was betrayed and the day was lost. With great effort he cried, “Traitor!” just as the same dagger was plunged through the top of his skull, and he could not help but scream in pain. He fell to his knees, blood streaming down his face, and turned his face to heaven.

  “I am betrayed,” he gasped, feeling yet another blow to his head and, now afraid, noticed the light was blurring and fading around him. “God has betrayed me!” he seethed. “He has taken everything from me,” and when he heard White Syrie scream, he cried, “even my horse!” A weightlessness began to engulf him and he could no longer hold up his head; it felt full to bursting. Is this the end? he wondered, blood gushing from his ears, nose and mouth. Take me, O God, take me now. I am the final sacrifice, and I can bear no more. Father, I pass the cup…

  Mercifully, Richard never saw the halberd raised behind him that sliced through the base of his skull, dealing the death blow. He fell forward onto the sacred soil of the kingdom he had tried so honorably to defend all his short life, and his noble heart stopped. He had been king of England for a mere two years.

  Behind his lifeless corpse, his lifelong friends battled to reach him, but William Stanley’s reinforcements blocked their efforts. It was as well Richard never saw John Kendall’s arm struck from his shoulder by a sword on one side as a
Stanley battle-ax cleaved his helmet like parchment on the other and his brains, like pink and white worms, spilled out onto the ground. Or saw Rob Percy speared through the gut, still clinging to his horse as men-at-arms surrounded him and dragged him to the ground, ripping his tabard and harness from him as he lay dying. They did not notice the little silver boar fall from the tabard to be buried in the mud for centuries.

  “Long live King Henry!” was the last thing Rob heard, but with his final breath he managed to cry, “God save King Richard, the one true king.” Thus Rob Percy died, ever the loyal friend.

  A grisly battlefield tradition was taking place where Richard lay. Henry allowed the soldiers to strip Richard naked and take pieces of his harness as souvenirs. As one billman pulled off the padded gambeson under Richard’s breastplate, a small pouch of green velvet fell unheeded to the mud, its auburn contents ground beneath the soldier’s boot.

  “Tie the usurper to the back of a horse!” Henry commanded, basking in his victory. “He deserves no better treatment. Take him to the Greyfriars to bury but instruct them to lay him out so the people see that the tyrant Richard is well and truly dead.”

  Three men easily lifted Richard’s battered, bloodied body onto a pack horse brought forward for the task, and as they tied his hands and feet under the animal’s belly, a sadistic, bloodthirsty Frenchman drew his dagger and viciously stabbed Richard between the buttocks, roaring: “Va te faire foutre, salaud!”

  It was only then in his nakedness that Richard’s cruel affliction was exposed and witnessed by a thousand men as York Herald was forced to ride the horse through the battlefield and onto the road for Leicester. As Richard’s ignominious last journey began, and having learned of Richard’s death, the royal army was already fleeing—Francis Lovell and Richard’s son along with it.

  “Christ’s nails, he be but a runt!” Shouted a soldier sporting Oxford’s streaming-stars badge, his leather jerkin black-stained with blood. Laughter, jeering and pointing now accompanied Richard between the columns of victorious troops, while the herald forced back tears of humiliation for Richard and dared look neither right nor left.