‘He wouldn’t dare. He has to live in the north.’
‘Yes,’ said Richard, ‘there is that, isn’t there.’
~~~
Stanley and Northumberland had probably turned traitor. Yet that was the worst: Tudor raised little enough support on his blustering march into England, and all the other men Richard sent for came, in strength. When on the Friday we rode into Leicester we saw the banners of most of the great nobles of England: an army of some fifteen thousand.
We lodged at the White Boar inn in Guildhall Street, and there to greet us were the Howards, father and son, and Sir Robert Brackenbury with the London contingent. A message also awaited us, that Northumberland was on his way. He arrived that night when we were at supper. Clad in black for his wife, he listened wearily to our condolences, then asked to be excused.
‘One moment,’ Richard said. ‘Harry, how many men have you brought?’
‘Around three thousand. Lucky to have that many, there’s this sickness all through the north.’
‘So I gather. What about the York contingent?’
‘On their way.’ But he couldn’t meet Richard’s eye. They say in the north, ‘No Prince but a Percy’ – but in the past decade and a half he’d learnt the bitter lesson that he would always come second to a Neville.
‘Brackenbury tells me,’ Richard said carefully, ‘that Hungerford and Bouchier slipped away on the march and joined Tudor.’
‘Aye? Well, they’re of little account. No one else has been beguiled by this Welshman.’
‘I trust not,’ said Richard, and Northumberland glowered for a moment, then asked again to be excused.
~~~
We set out from Leicester on the Sunday morning, the twenty-first of August, starting early so as to have the greater part of the march over before the heat of the day. There was just enough breeze to make the banners snap in the summer air, and as I paced to my horse I made note of them. Richard was riding out today with the full panoply of King of England. Seasoned campaigner though I was, I could yet thrill to the stern message of those banners. The Royal Arms of England. Richard’s battle standard with the Cross of St George. The badge of York and his own Blanc Sanglier. In a calculated sting to the slinking invader, the banners of Lancaster and Richmond. Then in every colour created under heaven, the arms of England’s nobility: the silver lion of Norfolk, my own rose and harts’ head, Lovell’s hound, Stanley’s eagle’s foot, Northumberland’s crescent moon; oh, I can’t list them all. The arms of the earls of Lincoln, Surrey, Kent, Nottingham, Shrewsbury, Westmorland; Lord Zouche and Lord Ferrers, Lord Dudley and Lord Maltravers, Frances’s kinsman Lord Fitzhugh, Lord Grey, Sir Henry Bodrugan from Cornwall, the twenty or so Knights of the Household, the northern lords and knights, the Spanish knight Juan de Salazer, and all the others.
The people of Leicester were enjoying the show, but they wanted the King. At eight of the clock they got him, and cheered to see him. He was in full armour, of course, with the tabard whose red, gold and blue again displayed the Royal Arms. He carried his helmet, and on his dark hair was the crown. Not the coronation crown, of course; this was the coronet of red-gold trefoils with diamonds and a single great ruby. Another ruby flared on his hand as, smiling, he saluted the crowd.
John and Martin stood by Richard’s stirrup, the epitome of military smartness – the previous night they had made the mistake of begging to march with us today, and had nearly been packed off back to Nottingham. Richard said, ‘Very impressive,’ in an amused voice, and gave Martin a hug. We had said our farewells privately, at breakfast, but now Richard embraced John and kissed him. All the by-standers cooed; somehow people never expect a monarch to do anything so ordinary as kiss his son farewell.
Then Richard mounted. With a last kiss for Martin I swung up into my saddle. Trumpets blared the signal. Richard lifted his hand, said, ‘Ride on,’ as casually as he always did, and on a swelling cheer from the townspeople we left Leicester.
It was a typical August day: high summer, the sun blazing from a clear blue sky. As we made our way down the Kirkby Mallory road I thought of that May march to Tewkesbury fourteen years earlier. Common soldiers could strip off against the heat, but this time we had to swelter in our armour. My head aching with heat, I tried to count up the number of times I had marched with Richard under the White Boar banner and the Lilies and Leopards of England – 1469, when Warwick had taken Edward prisoner; in Wales; pursuing Clarence and Warwick down to the coast; down from Ravenspur; at Barnet and Tewkesbury; all the years we had kept the north; the campaigning against the Scots; mopping up after Buckingham’s abortive rebellion. I couldn’t make a total, there were too many patrols and skirmishes besides the major campaigns. It was only the heat beating down from a sky like baked blue enamel – but it seemed I heard Edward cheering his men on to Tewkesbury; saw George of Clarence riding beside us trying to joke with his little brother. It seemed I heard again John Milwater saying ‘I’ll follow the White Boar till the end of my life,’ and morbidly I wondered if this time I was riding to the end of mine.
We halted at Kirkby Mallory to eat and let the men get at the ale barrels. Trying to wipe the pouring sweat from his eyes Richard said, ‘The scurriers say the Stanleys are holding their positions, they’re at Stoke Golding and Shenton. Tudor is said to be moving, he might still think of trying to give us the slip and head for London. What’s the next village, Sutton Cheney? It’s on a ridge, from there we can keep them in view. The nearest town is Market Bosworth away to the northwest.’
As he spoke a scout galloped up to say that Tudor was moving – not for London but up towards us, heading for an area called Redemore Plain.
‘Send to Lord Stanley to bring his men to join me at once.’ Wearily Richard pulled his helmet on again, and gave the signal to move on.
~~~
We camped that night with our army strung out north-south in three wings, Richard’s, Northumberland’s, Norfolk’s, running from the eastern end of that ridge they call Ambien Hill. Lord Stanley was to our south, and looking to the west we could see Sir William Stanley and Tudor’s army. The ground between was marshy and low-lying, tilting westward. The configuration of the ground would protect our flanks if Lord Stanley moved against us, and in the morning we would occupy Ambien Hill, from where we could strike downwards to the northwest or southwest.
It was an ordinary commanders’ conference Richard held that night. He was confident, and calm; but we all knew that if Northumberland declared for Tudor, or simply failed to fight with us, we would be hard-pressed to match the enemy numbers. What either or both Stanleys would do was anyone’s guess, but their numbers would be decisive.
The bustle of the camp at night was comforting because it was familiar and normal. Campfires twinkled as the men began to cook their meals, there was the usual singing and the hum of gossiping voices. With night had come blessed coolness, and as we did the rounds of our troops it could have been the eve of any battle.
Yet I could not sleep. Never before had I been so aware of the stink of treachery. I kept futilely going over and over the numbers: if Northumberland turned traitor, if Stanley did... We had perhaps fifteen thousand men. Tudor had only half that – therefore he was depending on the Stanleys. On one at least of the Stanley brothers. Richard had reigned two years and a month, and he had done it well, yet in the first real test it seemed we were surrounded by a fog of doubts. Looking down at Northumberland’s camp I noticed his banners with the Crescent Moon, and with a chill I remembered an incident on the march here. At the bridge where the road turned sharply we were crammed briefly against the stone wall, and I’d seen Richard’s mailed foot strike sparks from that wall. An old man had leapt up from nowhere behind the wall, a rustic old idiot in rags, cackling and mowing and bleating some nonsense about ‘the foot becomes the head’. Meaningless nonsense, but then he had cried ‘Beware the moon when it changes.’ Nonsense again, it was the time of the full moon – but now I looked at Percy’s Crescent Moon
badge, and wondered.
About to go to my tent and try to rest if not sleep, I walked slap into a man similarly patrolling.
‘Richard.’
‘Martin. Can’t sleep? Nor can I.’
‘Battle fears?’
‘Battle fears. Remember before Barnet? I was shitting myself with terror.’
‘You were! I couldn’t leave the latrines for hours!’ We laughed ruefully together.
‘Edward said he was afraid too, though somehow I’ve always doubted it. Remember how he talked that night, about the King’s duty, responsibility... A good thing we can’t see the future, isn’t it. Martin, I’m so afraid. God help me, I’m so afraid!’
Inadequately I said, ‘We all are.’
‘Yes – yes. I never wanted it to come to this. I should have done things differently, so many times. Martin, there is so much I want to do, so much to achieve. Two years, and I’ve done so little. Two years of niggling threats and uprisings distracting me from my real work. I want this over. I want to be free to rule. Yet – if it goes against us tomorrow, Martin, I won’t retreat. This matter will be settled tomorrow, with my death or this Welshman’s.’
‘Richard – ’
‘I don’t expect to die. I don’t want to. But nor am I afraid to. Yet I can see no future.’
Frightened, I said, ‘There is a future, Richard! So much work to be done, so many things to achieve. Your daughter is married, you might have a grandchild soon.’
‘Yes, I might. I’d like that. Remember how we said I would have to marry again? I’ve had the offer from Portugal, they are offering me Princess Joanna, and Manuel of Bega for Bess. Even Spain is casting out lures. There could be more children, I suppose. An heir.’ He was talking to himself rather than to me, but suddenly he said, ‘I don’t want to leave my country to this unknown Welshman. He knows nothing of England, nothing of what it means to be King. Without right of blood, he would rule by tyranny, the country would be back in the civil wars and bloodshed of thirty years ago. So I must win tomorrow.’
Suddenly we both yawned. Richard said, ‘Get some sleep.’
‘I won’t sleep.’
‘Nor will I. Rest, though. Martin, I have known you all my life, only those two years in our childhood we were apart. Thirty-three years of friendship. I’ve been lucky in that, in friendship; lucky in my friends. You are my best friend and I love you.’
‘I too have been lucky in my friends. Lucky in your friendship. You are my dearest friend, Richard. I love you.’
We tried to laugh at all this intensity, then suddenly we were hugging desperately. I felt his slight body shivering, or trembling. Battle fears, or something more.
‘God have you in His keeping, Martin.’ He kissed me and traced the Cross on my brow. ‘God keep you safe, my friend.’
‘And you, Richard my dear friend.’
~~~
Sunrise was at five. Armed, I went to the King’s tent. I knew at once that Richard hadn’t slept, any more than I had. He looked deathly pale, and although he said he wasn’t hungry, to please us he ate some bread and drank a little watered wine. Someone said something about Norfolk, and Richard spun about.
‘Norfolk? What?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Norfolk himself, striding in with his son behind him. ‘A stupid rhyme pinned to my tent in the night.’
‘Saying what?’
Reluctantly Norfolk held out the ragged paper. ‘Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold, for Dickon thy master is bought and sold.’
Richard raised an eyebrow, his sole comment. Norfolk crumpled the paper and threw it away.
There was some trouble with the priests, with Mass; first the wine was ready but not the bread, then by the time they found the bread the wine was missing. Our men were muttering that it was an ill omen so Richard said, ‘Any man who wishes to will find he can take Mass. But either our cause has God’s blessing, or it has not.’ There were some shocked faces at that, and he raised his voice to carry to all the leaders now grouped around his tent. ‘Any man who fears to fight for me today can go; so be it. For you should all know that I have tried to rule this country as a just prince, for my people’s good, and sometimes I have turned men against me. I have been lenient, but I will be no longer. There will always be justice where I rule; mercy may be harder come by. If I sinned in taking the crown, that sin is on my head and none other, but I have not committed the sins my enemies accuse me of. Yet I have been beleaguered throughout my reign by this Welsh milksop who covets my crown and my realm, and who comes with his rabble of beggarly Bretons and faint-hearted Frenchmen to try to seize it.
‘This battle today is a symbol of the creeping treachery that has surrounded me since I took the Crown. Let me say, therefore, that there will be no more of it. This battle is to the death, mine or Tudor’s. Should he win, then I weep for England, for Tudor will have to rule by fear and by force, and he will find the Crown rests uneasy on his head. You are my friends and I have trusted you all. If you cannot find it in your hearts to trust me and fight for me with whole hearts, then consider what I have said. And like valiant champions, advance your standards and see if your enemies can try the title of battle by dint of sword.’
For a moment not a man moved or spoke, then, as one, we cheered. Richard’s stern face broke into its swift, sweet smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘Now finish arming, get ready. We move out within the hour.’
As he turned away a messenger said nervously, ‘Sire, Lord Stanley sends his answer. He says – he says he has other sons.’
A shocked murmur went up. Richard was perfectly still for a moment, then he said casually, ‘Then it shall be as he wills. Now we know. Take Lord Strange and execute him. Anywhere. Now.’
‘Richard... ’ Francis said. ‘Richard, don’t.’
‘I... Very well – one more message to Lord Stanley. He is to bring his men up now, and his son’s life depends on his conduct in this battle.’ The messenger went away, looking backward over his shoulder.
It was time. Just before we went to mount up, Richard’s squire handed him his weapons, then knelt before him holding out a square wooden box. We looked on, puzzled, as Richard put on his helmet then reached into the box.
‘Richard, no!’
‘Your Grace, you cannot – ’
‘Man, you’re mad!’
For it was the Crown. Ignoring us all Richard bent his head and the squire fitted the circlet around his helmet.
‘Richard,’ I cried, aghast, tugging at his arm, ‘you cannot wear that in battle! Christ, man, it’ll mark you out, you’ll be every man’s target! Don’t do it!’
In silence he mounted his horse. Then, looking down at me, he said, ‘Whether I live or die today, I do it as the anointed King of England. God keep you safe, my friends.’
~~~
Norfolk and Surrey led the van, some fifteen hundred archers flanked by spears-men and artillery, the cannon chained together; I wished we had brought more guns from the Tower arsenal. Slowly they went forward to the western extremity of that ridge, then down onto the edge of the plain. Under Richard’s command the centre, thousands strong and with a large mounted contingent, moved forward along the ridge. Northumberland moved the rear-guard into position.
We could clearly see Tudor’s force, and Sir William Stanley to the north. There was quite a large force of Scots fighting for Tudor, I noticed. The Earl of Oxford was leading the enemy vanguard, we could see his banners with the Star with Streamers that had caused so much havoc at Barnet. He was forced to attack on a narrower front than he would have liked, with the marsh constricting his right flank. He was having to attack upwards, looking at an angle into the sharp morning sun.
Our archers fired, then the enemy’s. The two vanguards met, and it was hand-to-hand fighting all along the line. Oxford had formed his men into solid wedges around the standards; provided the men hold, this is one of the most difficult formations to attack. Ominously, Norfolk’s line was bending, giving way in the
centre. Richard ordered more men down in support. Norfolk spread his line further, trying to swing the flanks round upon the enemy centre. He needed more men. Richard despatched them, and I knew he was thinking of the thousands whom the Stanleys held motionless, joining neither side. We needed them, but would they fight for us?
Norfolk and Surrey were in trouble. About to dispatch yet more men Richard suddenly lifted his arm in the signal and galloped down into the fray. Desperately we pelted after him. I noticed the man beside me was John Kendal, Richard’s secretary, and I knew he’d never fought before. His armour didn’t fit him well; I wondered who he had borrowed it from. That was my last conscious thought for some time, it was like every other battle, act and react and do what damage you can. The enemy lines were giving way before our assault. We fought on, and I saw Richard by that damned conspicuous crown. His tabard with the Royal Arms was solid red now, his right arm was blood-soaked to the shoulder. So was mine, I had used both axe and sword, and my lance. How long we fought I don’t know, as usual in battle it could have been five minutes or five hours, but then Richard was leading us back up onto that ridge.
Frantically we yelled for water, and I snatched the chance to take my helmet off and wring the sweat out of my hair. A runner seized Richard’s arm and shouted news – Norfolk was down. Killed. Richard said, ‘Jock!’ in a tone of great grief, then, ‘Surrey?’
‘Holding.’
‘Send down more men. Tell Northumberland to move his men down now.’ The runner scurried away. Richard grabbed a water bottle, drank deep, then poured the rest over his head. ‘The Stanleys?’ he asked anyone who could hear.
‘Have not moved. Richard, look. Down there.’ I turned to follow Francis’s outflung arm. Richard’s eyes narrowed.
‘Tudor. Right down there behind his lines. Not going to dirty his hands with battle. All alone with his little bodyguard. Right.’ He stood up in his stirrups, pitching his voice to carry to all of us, the Knights of his Household. ‘Tudor is back behind the main force, only a small guard. Take him and the day is ours. It’s a risk because it means riding right across the face of Sir William Stanley’s force, but they’ve not moved yet. Five minutes, gentlemen; less, with luck. A few minutes and it is over. Who’s with me?’
Treason Page 43
