‘Over your body?’ Henry said. ‘Can I not just step over you, then? And let you keep your oath?’
Captain Rhys ap Thomas blinked at him.
‘Step over me?’
‘If that is the oath you took. If you gave an oath to let me in only over your body, then you should lie on this road. My army will step over you – and your oath is unbroken.’
‘I am not lying down on the ground,’ Rhys ap Thomas said. ‘It would be a great burden to watch your men step over me. I think I won’t do that.’
A little way behind, Jasper’s smile of incredulous delight began to fade. He’d thought for a moment that Henry’s odd way of looking at the world had achieved the impossible. To see it snatched away once more was a cruel blow. As Jasper watched, one of the Welsh captain’s men brought his own horse in and leaned to murmur in the ear of Rhys ap Thomas. The man’s eyebrows rose in surmise.
‘There is a bridge nearby, so my lad says, where the river has run almost dry this summer. If I stood in the riverbed, your army could ride over the bridge. I could keep my oath in that way – and still let you in.’
‘I accept,’ Henry said, as if it had been a definite proposal. In that moment, he made Rhys ap Thomas consider it as if it had been. At last the man nodded.
‘Very well, my lord. You can say you came to Wales over my body.’
‘I will not say that, Captain Thomas,’ Henry replied. ‘I will say you delayed me half a day with foolishness.’
The man’s pride wilted at the rebuke and Jasper felt a twinge of pity for Captain Rhys ap Thomas, having come to like him.
‘How many men are yours, Captain Thomas?’ Jasper called, in part to distract him. The man turned away in something like relief from the cool gaze of Henry Tudor.
‘Twelve hundred in all, my lord, though I have only eight hundred of them with me here. I’ll bring the rest tonight and they will send the call for more. Wales will give its sons to your care, my lords, to follow the red dragon.’
Richard sat alone in the audience chamber at Westminster, looking out on the Thames as it wound its shining path through the clusters of buildings and warehouses springing up all along its banks, new ones every year. From that high room, he could see the marks of man spreading out into virgin fields, taming the wild moors with roads, felling trees for charcoal and construction, cutting great swathes through land that had grown nothing more than nettles and beggars before. Lines of smoke rose from a hundred bonfires, or chimneys browning malt for beer, or forges melting iron in a greater heat, or town houses standing proud on clean streets of stone. It was all rather beautiful, he thought.
The room was silent, with even the servants who might have stood to answer his whims dismissed. He had never
been a solitary man, but it had crept upon him even so. His father had been in the ground for more than twenty years, killed in the struggle against Lancaster. His three brothers had gone, murdered or executed for treason or at the last, broken by some great paroxysm of the brain. The only other man Richard had admired had been Earl Warwick. He had fallen in battle, standing against Richard as his enemy, bent on his destruction. That had been as cruel as all the rest.
His son had been the sharpest cut of all, he thought. He had adored the boy, though he had not shown too much of that. It had been the strangest thing, to take such joy in the mere existence of his son, Ned, yet still have wished not to show it, for fear of ruining the boy. Gentleness and love did not make a strong man, certes not a strong king. Richard knew that well enough. He had been made the man he was by pain and by loss, so that when his wife died, it was no more than a sting compared to all the rest. Of course Ann had slipped away. How could such as he be left with anyone to love? It seemed of a piece, that somewhere it had been decreed that King Richard must be utterly alone.
He missed them all. He was the last man of his line, he thought, savouring the sadness of it. He was the last Plantagenet.
‘Your Highness, there is a herald, asking to be admitted to your presence.’
‘Has he been searched?’
His steward looked affronted.
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘Send him in then,’ Richard said. He turned away, leaning his chin on his palm and his elbow on his knee. He looked out over the setting sun at London, the warmth still in the air as birds came to roost.
He did not look round as the herald came into the room, bringing a scent of fresh mud and the outside into that still air. Richard heard him kneel and waved a hand for him to speak.
‘Your Highness, I have come from Ludlow. A man came in from the western coast, exhausted almost to death.’
Richard felt the great sluggish weight of his thoughts pinning him down, so that it was hard to do anything but stare out at the golden light of sunset over the capital.
‘Go on,’ he murmured.
‘He said a great force landed on the coast, of French and Welsh, he was not sure. He said they were Tudors, my lord, come under a red dragon.’
Richard raised his head, pulling in a slow breath.
‘What news of my captain there? What was his name? Evans? Thomas?’ he asked. The herald apologized and muttered that he did not know.
It did not matter, Richard knew. He would send for his most loyal lords, as he had during Buckingham’s rebellion. He would summon the greatest army he could put in the field and he would … He stopped the rush of thoughts and considered.
‘The Tudors? For Lancaster, is it? But they have no right of claim. Why would anyone follow that family?’
‘I do not know, Your Highness,’ the herald stammered.
‘You have done well enough, sir, with what you have told me. How long is it since the landing, did you discover that much?’
‘I was six days on the road, Your Highness. I believe the man who reached me at Ludlow had ridden for four or five.’
‘Eleven days then, or thereabouts,’ Richard said. ‘Go now, with my thanks, sir. I will make myself ready.’
The herald made his way out of the royal rooms and
Richard sat in thought for a time, letting the silence seep back into him. He had no one: no wife, no heir, no brothers. He was utterly alone. If he fell in battle, it would be the end of his house, his family, his line. In that instant, he accepted it, however it turned out. He called for his steward once more. The man appeared instantly, having been standing just outside.
‘Bring me my armour,’ Richard said. ‘I have been challenged.’
There was the faintest haze in the air as the sun rose. The army of Welsh and French soldiers had tripled in size since their first landing almost a month before. As they’d come east, Rhys ap Thomas had proved the most earnest advocate of Henry Tudor, calling on men to follow the red dragon, or the
Mab Darogan
, in every village they passed.
Six thousand marched along the road at the end of August, in a great triple column across the land. The Earl of Oxford reached them, bringing horsemen and archers as well as his own much-needed experience. There were simply no other great names, which made Jasper Tudor privately furious. He’d sent letters to every lord who had stood for Lancaster in the past, but the replies had been few. Perhaps it was that they were afraid of King Richard, who had triumphed at Barnet and Tewkesbury, who had made Buckingham’s rebellion look like a child’s challenge. Or perhaps it was just that too many of them owed estates and titles to the house of York and were loath to gamble once more with all they had won.
Whatever the reasons, public and private, the Lancaster force was weaker than it might have been. The scouts said King Richard had gathered ten thousand to himself, or even more. Jasper still hoped the tallies were exaggerated, but it did seem as if he and his nephew would be outnumbered. As a result, Jasper Tudor could not escape the sensation that they were marching cheerfully to their destruction.
Apart from the men under Rhys ap Thomas, the rest of
those who had joined them were untrained Welsh lads. They were strong enough and fit, of course. Any man who had butchered a hog or cut down a tree could wield a falchion blade or a billhook with some sort of ability. The most valuable of them carried longbows and a quiver of arrows fletched by their own hand. Yet such things were not sufficient preparation for war.
Trained men knew when to seek cover, where to strike a man in armour to kill him or render him helpless, how to respond to a horseman bearing down, to give you some small chance to survive. They understood discipline on the field and the giving of trust to those who led them. An army was not a rabble, not a mob. They would slaughter a mob.
There was also a reason soldiers trained to brutal fitness, far beyond the wind and stamina of farmers. The ability to stand when others were dropping in exhaustion would save their lives, it was as simple as that. It was not enough just to swing a piece of iron with strength and courage. War was a hard trade, a brutal craft. Jasper had seen the results once before, when an enemy had all the advantages. He could still recall Edward, Earl of March, stalking the battlefield of Mortimer’s Cross in red armour, shining with it. A giant of an earl who had eaten meat and fish and trained hard all his young life, with weapons and armour and horses. Jasper did not talk much of that day, but he remembered it only too well.
Henry Tudor sat in full armour, with his uncle alongside him in the centre. Captain Thomas oversaw the left wing and de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, held the right. The ranks had fallen silent as they moved across the open land. They could already see the forces of King Richard on the rising hills ahead of them. They had manoeuvred for days in the approach, but the royal force of King Richard the Third had found themselves a fine hill and plain before it.
Henry Tudor was the one who had come to take his crown from him, after all. The king of England could choose a spot anywhere that suited him – and they would still have to come. Richard had understood that only too well and had scouted the ground for forty miles. He had found a perfect spot to offer battle, with green wheat turning gold in the fields.
Jasper turned his head back and forth and narrowed his eyes, but he could not make out the banners at over a mile distant. He saw Richard’s force of knights on the hill as a blur and it hurt him to have to ask his nephew for details he would once have seen like a hawk wheeling above a field of stubble.
King Richard had gathered his army on a ridge almost, a natural rise of the land that allowed ten thousand men to stand in ranks of horsemen and archers. Jasper swallowed at that, thinking how much further the arrows would soar when they rained down. He knew the sound better than most men, as he had endured the battering of them against his armour, his life in the hands of fate and luck and curved iron. He could not help wonder if the French men-at-arms had heard of Agincourt as they marched along beside the men of Wales and England. They had not fared well before against bows the height of a man.
‘It looks like Percy arms on his right. Northumberland,’ Henry said, squinting. ‘That is a blue lion on the coats of arms and shields there. I thought they might stand for Lancaster.’
‘They should have,’ his uncle said sourly. ‘They did before, from the beginning. I thought they would now as well. I do not doubt Richard has their sons as hostages back in London, held as an earnest of loyalty. It is what I would do.’
‘King Richard holds the centre then, with Northumberland on his right and … Norfolk on his left.’
Jasper shrugged. ‘That is a withered line, that once was greater. I do not fear the Norfolks, not at all.’ He spoke to raise his nephew’s spirits, in case Henry was feeling overawed at approaching a force on superior ground and under royal banners, a force that outnumbered them by almost two to one.
Henry appeared completely calm. Once more, his uncle could not decide whether the young man was an innocent fool, a master of appearing confident to the men, or some strange third choice perhaps: a man who believed he truly was the Man of Destiny, the Red Dragon returned out of Wales to fight for the throne. As he watched his nephew staring up at the great ridge and the army there, Jasper saw a spark in Henry’s eyes, a savagery he had not expected.
They had marched just a few miles from their camp the night before. The men had eaten and emptied their bladders and bowels before setting off. The day was fine and the sky remained clear. They did not stop as they approached the army on the hill. As Jasper watched, parts of it began to creep down the slope. The men there were eager and he could hear the thin voices of their captains and serjeants, calling them back, telling them to wait and wait. They knew they had the advantage and he could imagine them readying their blades and axes, leaning forward like leashed dogs, wanting to run in. For some young men, it would be the most exciting morning of their lives. They did not fear death; it would not come for them. They trusted in their vigour and their strength, never yet tested as it would be that day.
Horns sounded to halt the Tudor columns, half a mile out. They formed in good order into fighting squares, ready to push up the hill. Jasper felt a shiver run through him and he crossed himself and said a silent prayer of penance for his sins. It had been a while since his last confession and he
could only ask for mercy. He had seen war before and he was no longer young.
On Henry Tudor’s right, the Earl of Oxford rode along the face of his fighting square, two thousand men in all and composed half and half of French soldiers and Welsh. The French at least were experienced, well armed and armoured. The Welsh had been given long spears and heavy-bladed cleavers any butcher would have recognized.
Eight hundred archers gathered on the outer wing, already seeking targets and pointing them out to friends. There was a slight breeze blowing and they did not look content with the sight of an army on the ridge. It would be no easy task and they had no wooden mantlets to stand behind as they shot. There would be a great band of ground where they came within range of the enemy but could not reply.
Oxford saw the danger and was considering his best approach as they advanced. He had known the confusion of battle in the fog at Barnet and he was determined to make the best decisions, only too aware that the best commanders were not those with a plan, but those who made the right choices when opportunity presented itself. As he rode in the second rank, surrounded by knights and burly men-at-arms, he saw Norfolk’s forces begin to come down the hill ahead of him. Earl Oxford looked left and right along his own lines. They were moving along in good order, spears held out like sharp spines. He was slightly ahead of the Tudors in the centre, but not overly so. Further over, Oxford knew the last of their army was marching along under Rhys ap Thomas, the Welshman keen on the fight.
Oxford was pleased to see the enemy vanguard give up the advantage of high ground, though it spoke of their confidence. The line of Norfolk soldiers seemed to leap ahead.
The slow and measured approach became a rush down the slope as those behind pushed forward and those ahead went in fear of being trampled. They were at three hundred yards when Oxford roared for his archers. They had been ready, staring at the commanding earl and willing him to snap out of his trance. Whatever forces of bowmen King Richard had were up on the ridge and out of range. It was every archer’s dream to face a charging line with just a quiver and a bow – and an army to fall behind when they were done.
The arrows snapped out in a great clatter, as fast as the men could put a shaft on the cord and pull. There was no great skill in aiming at that closing distance, but they showed their training in the huge strength that didn’t fade after a few shots.
Norfolk’s men were running into a hail of fire. Worse, as they tried to push past it, those who fell brought down the men behind. For a few vital moments, it was the sort of slaughter Agincourt had been, with piles of howling, dying men crushed under the weight of those trying to climb over them, desperate to get past.
The arrows rattled away to nothing, until there were no more than a dozen of the slowest archers left, older men who wet thumbs on their tongues and fitted shafts with slow precision. They were fearsome in their accuracy and men still died as they closed the gap, but the great breaking of lines and massed slaughter had come to an end. The rest of the archers fell back at a run, laughing and calling to the men-at-arms to try and match that. Those soldiers looked on in envy at the peculiar status of such men, without armour and without shame as they loped off and left others to the work.
Oxford’s lines bristled again with spears. Many of those who still came down the hill had been wounded by arrows and marched with shafts still in them. That part of the
battered charge was cut down in turn. His men used their spears until they were broken, then took out the falchion cleavers.
Oxford had no idea how many hundreds his archers had ripped from the royal ranks – and he knew any advance on the hill would suffer at least as much. Yet his men had started well. Some of those who had come racing down had so disliked the welcome he had given them that they had retreated, creeping away around the hill with their heads down in shame. In comparison, Oxford felt pride soar as he looked along the lines, hoping the Tudors had seen.
The Duke of Norfolk had come down with his men in that reeling charge. His armour had saved him from the barrage of arrows, but his coat of arms had been torn and there was blood showing on his thigh, though whether it was his own or another’s was unknown. He was still ahorse when Oxford saw him, cutting wildly down at men-at-arms. They had little answer against armour of that quality and Norfolk had smashed a gap for himself. His men were rallying to him, seeing his coat of arms and calling each other to that spot, to support their feudal lord.
Oxford made his decision. He had a chance to tear the heart out of Norfolk’s entire wing, not twenty yards from his position. He sent a messenger racing off to the Tudor centre and slammed his visor down, drawing his sword and spurring his mount forward. It reared as it went and the kicking hooves made his own men fling themselves aside rather than be struck.
Norfolk looked up to see the Earl of Oxford coming, trampling and knocking soldiers from his path with the horse’s plating of iron. Norfolk was in full armour and yet the first blow unseated him, sending him tumbling out of his saddle in a great crash. His horse bolted and his leg was held for
a breathless heartbeat before the leather snapped and he fell to the ground. Norfolk landed awkwardly and hard, with his helmet buckled and broken. One hinge of his visor had snapped and he could not see as Oxford dismounted and battered him with blow after blow.
‘Wait!’ Norfolk shouted furiously. He backed off and yanked at the twisted visor, heaving it back and forth until the second hinge snapped. He tossed it away then and stood tall, panting, to see Oxford waiting for him. Norfolk could feel blood seeping from a dozen gashes, stealing his strength. He swallowed.
One of the last archers on the field was no more than a dozen paces away, still thumbing his last two shafts. Old Bill had held back to watch the lords fight because he liked the idea of taking a fine nobleman with his old bow. He didn’t understand why Earl Oxford had stopped attacking, why he stood there waiting for an enemy to recover enough wind to go on fighting. Old Bill closed one eye and sent his last but one at the Duke of Norfolk. The archer laughed in delight when it flew like a bird into that open visor.
The duke stood stunned for a moment and Old Bill had the sense to turn away and lower his hands as he felt Oxford’s gaze searching for whoever had done it. Bill pushed his last arrow into the ground then, as an offering. You didn’t do better than that and none of his mates would believe him, more was the pity.
On the ridge, King Richard watched with a resigned expression as the Duke of Norfolk fell and more of his vanguard turned away from the carnage and destruction. Norfolk had lost the slope, then the men and finally his own life. It saved Richard from having him executed afterwards, that was the only fine thing about it.
The king scratched in thought at one side of his mouth, stretching the part of his back that ached the worst that morning. Even without Norfolk’s wing, he knew the force he had gathered still outnumbered the rebels. Around him on Ambion Hill, he had a personal guard of fifteen hundred knights and men-at-arms in full armour, a great tide of silver metal on the most powerful horses ever bred by man. He
wanted
to charge with them, just to hear that thunder. The very thought made him smile.