Authors: Sandra Worth
Too late to worry about that now
, Richard thought. He set about disposing his own men along the ridge. The hillside was a splendid sight, ablaze with Lilies and Leopards, the White Boar and the Sun of York, and Richard’s colours of berry and grey. But that was because men stood crowded on the tight ledge. Maybe this high ground had not been a good idea. If only John had been here to advise him!
Enemy trumpets shrilled the battle-cry, drums rolled, heralds sounded fanfares. Howard’s trumpets answered and his captains shouted orders. On Tudor’s side commands rang out in French, Welsh, and English. Frantic hoof beats sounded on Richard’s right. It was Brackenbury, returning with Stanley’s reply. He drew his stallion to a halt. “Sire, Lord Stanley says he cannot join you at present.”
Shock rendered Richard momentarily mute. “Did you warn him that his son will die if he refuses?”
“I did, my lord,” said Brackenbury. “He said to tell you he has other sons.”
Richard stared. It was impossible! Inconceivable! Could a father care so little for his own son? “Catesby!” roared Richard, eyes blazing.
“Aye, Sire?”
“Execute George Stanley!”
Catesby paled. “My lord, if we do, we’ll force the Stanleys to throw in their lot with Tudor—”
“They plan to do that anyway. Carry out the execution!”
“Aye, Sire,” said Catesby miserably, turning his horse.
“Catesby, wait!” He couldn’t do it. How would he go on, if he couldn’t do what had to be done? “Let the battle decide his fate.” He trotted his horse forward to where the knights of his household waited in their shining armour. Behind them stretched the ranks of his reserves, a thousand strong.
A chorus of blood-curdling yells erupted. Battle was joined. The Earl of Oxford appeared beneath his banner of the Star and Streams, guns thundering. Stone cannon balls bounced against Howard’s position on the hill. Howard answered with a rain of arrows and a burst of cannon fire from his one gun, taking a toll on the Lancastrian front line. Richard cursed himself. He had not thought of bringing more guns, since guns had never proved much help to Warwick. Oxford’s foot soldiers gained ground rapidly and poured half-way up the hill. The two armies clashed on Ambion Hill with an earth-shattering din of metal. Though Oxford was protected on his right by the swamp, his left flank was open—unless William Stanley supported it. Richard glanced over to his right. The Stanleys hadn’t moved.
He scanned the reserves behind Tudor’s lines. Henry Tudor was there somewhere. Watching. Hiding. He was no soldier. He wouldn’t risk his neck. That kind never did. Richard turned to his men. “Find out where Tudor has stationed himself!” He focused his attention back on Howard’s side. The armies were locked in fierce combat. Tudor had committed the bulk of his troops to Oxford’s vanguard, and Howard’s line was weaker than the enemy. In the centre of the fighting, the Silver Lion bobbed against Oxford’s Stars and Streams, now and again pushing forward, but more often giving ground. Despite the fire maintained by Howard’s archers, Oxford continued to advance. Howard’s bow shape turned into a crescent, thinned dangerously.
“Send reserves to Norfolk!” commanded Richard. He watched, his heart pounding.
The centre held. Slowly Howard recovered, began to beat Oxford back. Oxford’s trumpets blared retreat. Commands sounded above the noise of battle. The enemy fell back. There was no more clash of steel. No arrows flew. A lull descended on the field. Could Oxford be withdrawing after only a half-hour battle? Why wasn’t Howard in pursuit?
Richard’s men were murmuring the same thought. He rose in his stirrups to gain a better look. Howard was evidently confused, thought it might be some kind of a ruse. Richard could see him looking along his line with his son, the Earl of Surrey, and his captains, the lords Zouche and Ferrers.
Oxford’s men gathered around their standards. He was getting reinforcements and reshaping his army’s ranks into an arrow-head pointed at the hill. Howard had missed a chance for a rout! He must have realised his mistake, for Zouche raised a steel-gauntleted arm and the royal trumpets sounded the battle call again. Howard led his men in a charge down the hill. They threw themselves on the enemy. Richard could see the barrel figure in shining silver armour exchanging sword thrusts with a knight in the thick of the fighting. Howard was discharging himself like a true lion, thought Richard, his mouth softening. His eye went to two other men nearby, fighting side by side; yeomen, from the look of them, with their leather jerkins and rusty steel sallets. They fought like war gods, bringing men down quickly with a few well-aimed lance-like thrusts of their pole-axes. A knight rode up, raised his sword to cut one of them down, and was somehow unhorsed. Those two had felled a knight in full armour! Richard almost cheered. There would be a knighthood for them!
“Anyone know those men? Richard asked.
“I know them, Sire!” a young knight called from behind him. “They are the Brechers, father and son, from the West Country.”
Somewhere a distant memory stirred. Richard’s heart constricted. These were the people who had given them shelter when he and Anne had run away from Barnard’s Castle and were lost in the rain.
“I know them, too,” he said, softly.
“Sire!—”
Richard twisted in his saddle, looked down at the man.
“Sire! We’ve found him for you—Henry Tudor!” cried the scout. “There, to the west, on the rising ground opposite—” He ran forward, pointing.
Richard trotted White Surrey a few paces and peered into the dusty air of combat. “The one standing by the red-dragon standard?”
“Aye, Sire!”
As he watched, a messenger ran up to the figure, did obeisance.
Tudor!
Richard clenched his teeth, tightened his grip of his reins. Hate swept him with such force, he could almost taste its vile bitterness in his mouth.
“Richard, what is it?” Francis’ voice.
“That’s Tudor,” he said, without turning.
Francis followed his gaze.
“He won’t get away this time,” Richard said. “I’m going to slay the dragon.”
Francis grinned. “Allow me to give you a hand.” Richard looked at him gravely. With a calmness he himself knew to be strange under the circumstances, he said, “You won’t be at my side, old friend. You can’t take part in the fighting. If anything happens to me, you have to be there for Jack… and Warbeck.”
“But—” Francis fell silent. Their eyes met and held. He gave a nod, swallowed visibly and transferred his gaze to the fighting on Howard’s side. All at once he gave a bounce in the saddle. “A mute point, Richard! Looks like Howard will slay the beast for you!”
Howard’s lines were still washing back and forth like a tide, but he was fighting fiercely, gaining steady ground.
Forward, my brave Lion
, urged Richard silently. Forward! Then, before his eyes, Howard disappeared and there was a swirl of fighting around his banner. Shouts arose. Howard’s son, the Earl of Surrey, was swinging his sword furiously but the royal ranks were giving way. Richard rose in his stirrups. He still couldn’t tell what was happening! A messenger galloped up, reared to a halt.
“The Duke of Norfolk has been slain, my lord!” cried the man. “The sun was in his eyes—he didn’t see the arrow coming!”
Richard reeled. He collapsed into his saddle, tightened his hold of the reins.
The sun was in his eyes
. He hadn’t considered the sun when he’d faced his army south! He hadn’t considered a lot of things. It was his fault Howard was dead.
His fault.
He’d never fought a pitched battle of this magnitude, and now good Howard, the Friendly Lion, was gone. Just like that. His eyes stung. If John had been at his side this would never have happened. John had never lost a battle, except Barnet, the one he’d had no heart to win.
He swallowed on the constriction in his throat, found his voice, “Send reserves to Surrey’s aid!” As one of his esquires galloped off to give the order, another messenger rode up. Richard held his breath.
“Lord Ferrers has fallen, my lord!”
Black rage swept Richard. He cursed, turned his head, sought Tudor. A horseman was galloping furiously across Redmore Plain. That would be Tudor’s messenger, bearing the news of Howard’s death to Stanley. The foxes smelled blood. “Send to Northumberland!” ordered Richard. “Command him to advance at once in support of the royal army!”
~ * ~
Flies whined in Richard’s face. The day had grown hot…. so hot. He felt dizzy, could barely breathe beneath his armour, and his throat ached. He needed water.
A small crowd stood around the well behind his standard. He slid from the saddle. They rushed to assist him. He shoved them aside. He could stand. He just needed water, that’s all. Someone offered him a cup. He drank, but it was not enough, did nothing to assuage his thirst. He removed his helmet, passed it to Gower. He stumbled to the well, leaned his weight on the rough stone edge until he managed to catch his breath. He grabbed the bucket and drank greedily, spilling more than he swallowed. That was better. He looked up at the sky. Dust. No birds. His standard of the White Boar and Edward’s Sun-and-Roses beat loudly in the wind.
Howard was dead. Ferrers was dead. And maybe Zouche— How many more? He rubbed his bleary eyes. That damn Tudor.
Lucifer
. He had to do something before they were all dead. All his knights.
Rob rode up, flung himself from his saddle. “Richard! Are you all right?” Richard gripped his shoulder, as much to support himself as in friendship. “I’m going to get him, Rob. I need to get him.”
“Tudor?”
“Help me into the saddle,” he whispered.
“Richard, you’re in no condition—”
“I’m tired, that’s all. Help me, Rob—”
Rob assisted him onto White Surrey. No sooner had he taken his reins than his men shouted that a rider was approaching from the north bearing the Silver Crescent badge of Henry Percy on his helmet. Richard held himself very still; the muscles of his forearm tensed beneath his armour. Percy’s herald dismounted, bent a knee. Impatiently, Richard motioned him to rise.
“Your Grace…” said the man uneasily, “my Lord of Northumberland bids me tell you that he feels it his duty to remain in the rear in order to guard against Lord Stanley, in case he moves against your flank.” He looked down at the trampled grass at his feet.
Men cursed; others spat. Two men seized the herald; a dagger flashed. Richard raised a hand. Silence. Richard stared at the man’s bent head, at the Silver Crescent he bore. Richard had displaced Percy in the North and Percy had never forgiven him. Despite all the favour he had shown him, all the generosity and the courtesy, there had been no gratitude. Only resentment; a bitter, grim resentment. He turned and looked at Percy, far in the distance, sitting still as a statue on his horse, glum and sullen. It should be John there, he thought. If John were Earl of Northumberland, everything would be different. This was Edward’s doing. His revenge from the grave. By sacrificing John all those years ago, he had reached out into the future and sacrificed him as well. Richard was surprised that he should feel no emotion; nothing at all. No fear, and no hope.
Let what will be, be.
He looked at his men. Others had joined him: noble Ratcliffe, fair Clarendon, gallant Conyers, gentle Brackenbury, faithful Kendall, and many trusted retainers and esquires. And there was dear Rob. And Francis. Francis; ever at his side.
Catesby ran up, pushed his way through to Richard. “Sire, Lord Zouche is dead! The battle’s all but lost! The Stanleys will advance against us at any moment. You must seek safety in flight!”
Richard smiled. They all looked at him strangely. They didn’t understand. “I’m going to charge Tudor’s position,” he said.
There was disbelief for a moment, then gasps and shocked murmurs.
“Sire, it’s too dangerous!” protested Conyers. “To get to him, you must pass directly in front of the Stanleys’ position!”
“For that reason I’ll not order any man to come with me. I ride to seek Tudor. Alone, if need be. You can each choose whether to follow.”
After a moment’s silence, Rob trotted his horse beside Richard. Clarendon raised a mailed arm in salute. “
Loyaulte me lie!
” A chorus echoed his refrain.
Loyalty binds me
. A smile lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth. Men burst into action. Horses were led forward; knights and squires calmed their excited mounts, tightened armour plate and saddles. Gower put Richard’s battle-axe into his grip. Their eyes locked, grey to brown.
Farewell, friend; and thank you.
Richard slammed his visor shut. He drew himself up in his saddle, saw Francis standing by the boar standard, watching him. Richard sat very still, his eyes soft. He nodded his crowned helmet in Francis’ direction, in farewell.
“
Loyaulte me lie!
” he cried, turning his horse.
~ * ~
South-westward down the hill he led them, gathering speed, a bright figure in shining white armour on a white horse, his golden crown flashing on his helmet. In a wide arc he swept them past the southern end of the battle line. Ahead lay the flatland of Redmore Plain. The noise of the battle on Ambion Hill faded, grew ever more distant. He felt at one with White Surrey; at one with his men. They were all with him, all the men of his household, almost a hundred brave, loyal knights, ready to battle the mass of the enemy reserves. To kill the dragon leader.
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King—
This was what it was all about. Loyalty. Justice. To fight for right.
Through the eye-slits of his visor, he glimpsed the banner of the White Hart, William Stanley’s blazon. Straight across Sir William’s front, he galloped, hoofs thundering behind him. Stanley’s men were a stream of blood-red jackets on his right, hundreds and hundreds of them, all staring, mouth agape, scarcely a bow-shot away and unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes. He felt exhilarated. He wanted to laugh. To roar with laughter. He wanted to clasp every one of his men to his heart and tell them he loved them.