Yet he had Lord Percy, Earl of Northumberland, still on his right, in command of three thousand men, waiting in silent ranks with the flags fluttering overhead. They were not dismayed by Norfolk’s failure. Battles could be won in the first charge, or they could be slow and bruising things that took all day and came down to will. The king’s left wing may have been battered back, but his right wing was ready to move. Richard shifted in his saddle, straining his eyes to see into the distance.
‘And there you are,’ he whispered to himself. His brother Edward had taught him the power of a reserve, used properly. The Tudor forces had been so intent on his army perched on the ridge that they had marched straight at his position. Yet his entire army was not on the ridge. He smiled at the sight of marching ranks shimmering. Lord Stanley was about two miles away and he doubted the Tudors were even aware of them. Richard had the man’s son secure in London. Lord Stanley would not falter. Very well. It was time to bring the Tudor dreams to nothing.
Richard gestured to a herald, so that the man came racing on a light gelding.
‘Lord Percy is to engage immediately,’ Richard said. ‘My orders are to sweep Rhys ap Thomas from the field and then turn against the Tudor centre. I will meet him there.’
The young man raced away and Richard could only envy him his youth and enthusiasm. His back was growing worse in the cold wind. It would need a good soak that night, with oil and wine to sleep. If he could sleep at all, of course.
He waited, staring down across the plain. The Tudor army looked too small to be a threat. They had no more than six thousand and he had as many approaching them on their flank. He only wished his brother Edward could have been present to see it, or perhaps their father.
Down on the plain, a small group broke off from the centre, no more than fifty men. Richard’s attention fixed on it immediately. They carried the Tudor banners and he felt a twinge of cold in his gut as they rode straight at Lord Stanley’s force. He had missed something, or been betrayed.
In sudden panic, Richard looked up. Northumberland’s wing had not moved an inch, though Earl Percy had surely received his orders. Yet they stood there, on horse and on foot, with the wind blowing across them and not a face turned his way, all looking down at the movement of men below.
Richard swore to himself. He sat a destrier with fifteen hundred horsemen in armour, an iron mace greater than any force on the field. He called left and right to his captains, needing them to pass on the orders.
‘Close formation on the king! Engage the Tudor centre. Ready!’
He waited with his eyes closed as they repeated his orders and the riders gathered in their reins and lances. Horses whinnied and stamped and still Lord Percy’s right wing remained in silent ranks. Richard cursed them as he dug in his heels, drawing his sword and pointing it at the small group riding across the Tudor lines. He would crash through them before they reached Lord Stanley. He loosened his
shoulders as he leaned over the saddle, letting the horse build speed to a canter on the gentle slope down. He had picked the ground just for this and he revelled in the speed.
Fifteen hundred horseman came down off the slopes in a single mass like a spear, aiming for the suddenly terrified Tudor centre as it came to a halt. No one there had ever seen such a charge before and the thunder of it shocked men to stillness. The soldiers of France and Wales below were already bowing back from the massed line of knights and iron coming in at terrible speed towards them. They raised spears and dug shields into the earth to crouch behind, but they were afraid.
Out ahead of the Tudor centre, Henry and his uncle turned to face the silver horde pouring off the ridge. There was no doubt where they were aiming and they could see King Richard himself riding at the head, his surcoat quartered in red, gold and blue. Jasper felt his mouth dry in fear and it was Henry who halted and called up the biggest men, with shields to take the first blow. They could not reach the Stanley forces, not then.
They waited, and as they waited, the army behind them suddenly came forward. Henry and his uncle had been out in front, halted ahead of the rest. In one sudden movement, the captains and serjeants stepped forward and the line enveloped them. Men held up shields and closed their eyes for an impact they knew they could not withstand. The long lances would break the lines and the horses would smash through, half a ton at full speed.
Henry held his breath and drew his sword. The man in front of him raised his banner high, though it meant he could not hold a weapon. It was an act of madness and bravery. On Henry’s right hand, a huge warrior loomed, Sir John Cheyney. The man nodded to him and winked as he pulled down a
visor and turned to face the galloping wall of horses and knights, spitting clods of earth into the air that fell like rain. They could see King Richard there, behind the front rank then, hemmed in by knights who had driven themselves to exhaustion to stay out ahead of him.
The world grew quick, for a time, though Henry saw clearly enough. He did not flinch or look away as men went flat, suddenly, smacked down so hard it was as if they disappeared into the air. Horses bore iron plates against the spears and crashed past them only to collapse and skid on broken legs against crouching men behind. The speed and power of the charge was soaked up in death and broken things, and sound enough to fill all Bosworth Field.
Richard saw the Tudor banner flutter down from where it had streamed overhead. He and his knights had punched right through the first few ranks, smashing them down. Some horses had fallen, some of his knights had been impaled or spun from their feet, but the rest had plunged deep into the Tudor centre, against their strongest knights.
Richard could
see
the man they followed, waiting like a statue while others fought to keep him alive. Henry Tudor sat with an expression of infuriating calm while lives were ripped away within his arm’s reach. The very last of the breed.
Richard jabbed his spurs in, though his horse was held tight in the press of men. In fury, he hacked down at someone as they squeezed past his stirrup. The man crumpled under the hooves and Richard looked up to see his view of Henry Tudor had been blocked by a huge mounted knight, broad as a door and sitting a horse of astonishing size.
The giant’s visor was up and Richard knew he would expect a thrust at that weakness. The fellow was ready for it, his eyes bright with pleasure as he saw he faced the king himself. Sir John Cheyney had an advantage in that almost every man he faced was smaller than he was. Yet Richard had learned to spar against his brother Edward. He had more practice than anyone else alive in withstanding the force of a big ox in armour.
The fighting went on around them and both men had to keep some part of their awareness for a chance spear thrust,
or a mace blow from the side. Battles could turn on luck or slipping in entrails as much as loyalty and strength.
‘Get out of my way,’ Richard snapped to Sir John Cheyney. As the massive warrior began to reply, he hacked down at Cheyney’s sword arm, aiming for the hand or wrist to break small bones and perhaps disarm him. The blow struck well enough to make the big man curse and grumble, but Sir John kept a grip on his blade and stabbed back with it, aiming to break the plates at Richard’s hip and groin. Their horses lay alongside each other and Richard’s point of view was filled with the larger man. He batted the blow away and struck out with his gauntlet, jamming outstretched fingers into the open visor. Three of his ironclad fingers scrabbled within and Sir John Cheyney roared in pain. When Richard pulled his hand back the man’s face was running with blood. The giant knight flailed in panic as he tried to blink some sight back. His sword struck Richard’s horse on the head and left a terrible wound so that the animal staggered, dazed.
Richard ducked under a blade and struck his sword against the knight’s helmet, a blow with all his strength behind it. It knocked Cheyney senseless and tumbled him from his saddle, sending him to the ground.
The battle was whirling all around him as Richard felt his horse fail. He dismounted quickly and the animal went to its knees, snorting blood. On foot, Richard roared for his knights, praying they would see him before the men-at-arms of Henry Tudor. Down in the chaos of the fighting line, he lost his sense of how the battle was going and he was alone, with men fighting and snarling on every side.
In the distance, Richard caught a glimpse of Lord Stanley’s banners, swaying over the heads of those on foot or still ahorse. He took hope from that. Yet on the hill above him, the Percy ranks still stood unmoving. Richard prayed then
only to survive, so that he could bring a fine vengeance on to them.
‘The king!’ Richard heard. ‘There! There he stands!’ He turned to face the sound and was attacked by two knights in Lancaster coats. In anger, he batted away their swords. He needed a horse, anything to take him away from jabbing punch-blades and the mud that sucked at his feet. He spun and ducked, using his armour as a weapon, crashing any part of him that was encased in iron against the enemies he faced. None of them were so large as the giant knight had been, but they were many and their armour meant it was hard to land a killing blow, so that they kept coming against him. He could feel no pain from his shoulder, which was a relief, though he knew he was growing weary. One of the knights attacking him slipped and screeched at a broken leg. Richard kicked at the man’s helmet and smashed it free, knocking him on to his back.
He was breathing so loudly he could not hear the steps of those around him. He could see only a little through the visor’s slot and he turned in place, sword cutting the air, surrounded by enemies. Richard could not see the Tudor position any longer and it seemed his armoured knights had moved on, leaving him to stand alone in the chaos. He only prayed then that Lord Stanley would crash in from the wing and save him. It was his last spark of hope. He did not hear the man who swung a pollaxe hammer in a great looping blow against the base of his skull, shattering the bone. His eyes turned up but there was no life in them as he fell. A dozen men darted in then, hacking and stabbing at the dead king.
Henry Tudor was breathing hard, muddy and battered as he rode the last hundred yards to Lord Stanley’s forces. He was
pleased to be out of the blood and death he had witnessed. Six thousand fresh men watched the maelstrom he had left behind, staring in grim fascination and knowing they could be asked to march right into it at any moment.
Lord Stanley came out from the ranks on a glossy brown mare. He wore armour but no helmet, preferring to breathe freely unless he was actually under attack. His beard hung down the front of his surcoat, almost to his navel. At his side, his banners were held by a knight and two more held warhorses on tight reins just behind him, ready with weapons in case of treachery. Jasper and Henry looked at each other.
‘Welcome home,’ Lord Stanley said. ‘Your mother sends her love, Henry.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Will you accept my command?’
Lord Stanley inclined his head.
‘As I have given my oath, yes, Henry. You know my son is in King Richard’s custody in London?’
Jasper saw his nephew grow still and his heart sank. There was a moment of silence from Henry as he considered.
‘Is your loyalty conditional then, Lord Stanley?’ Henry called to his stepfather. ‘Are you mine only if I save your son?’ Lord Stanley stared for a moment, then shook his head.
‘No. My loyalty is promised, however it comes out. I have other sons.’
Henry smiled tightly.
‘That is the right answer, Lord Stanley. However, if it is in my power, I will see your son returned safely to you.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Lord Stanley said, blinking.
‘Now. Lead us in,’ Henry said.
Jasper and Henry turned their mounts and rode back in a line of marching men, readying axes and swords as they went. A great roar went up in challenge and King Richard’s knights looked up in dismay from the fighting.
The armoured knights who had come down that hill had been battered and overwhelmed by too many men. Without the right wing of Lord Percy, they had been hard-pressed from the beginning, a last desperate gamble by King Richard to reach the Tudor heart. At the sight of Stanley’s vast force of six thousand coming in against them, many of them turned and raced away or threw down their weapons. Some were allowed to surrender.
They found Richard’s body, broken and battered in its armour with a dozen wounds. The helmet had borne a circlet of gold and one of the welds had come loose so that it hung askew. A knight tugged it free and it went rolling under a stunted bush. Sir William Stanley stabbed it through with his lance, lifting it so that it spun around and down to his hand.
They brought it over to Henry Tudor and Lord Stanley. The younger Stanley handed the twisted ring to his brother. Lord Thomas Stanley took the simple crown and pressed it over Henry’s long hair. His uncle Jasper was the first to kneel, with tears bright in his eyes. The men began to cheer the name of Tudor and Lancaster, together, in a great sea of sound.
Jasper Tudor swallowed uncomfortably as he looked across Westminster Abbey. The open space was lit by huge numbers of candles and so crowded that even that vast and vaulted room had become warm. He felt a line of perspiration trickle down his neck and wondered if he could possibly hand the crown of England to one of the servants while he dabbed at it.
He turned his head when he smelled violets and, at the same moment, felt cool fingers against his throat. His collar was so tight and high he could hardly look down, but he smiled even so at the sight of Margaret Beaufort reaching up to dry his gleaming skin.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He still remembered the girl she had been, so many years before, with no friend in the world and all the world in flames. He had thought then that he had saved that green slip of a thing, when he found her another house and a husband. Margaret had outlived his brother Edmund and her second husband to find a third. That man, Thomas Stanley, had been made an earl. He stood not forty yards away at that very moment, resting the sword of state on his wide shoulder. Jasper could only wonder at how well Margaret had managed.
‘Thank you for looking after my son, Your Grace,’ Margaret said softly. Jasper smiled, still delighted by his new title. A king’s uncle could be Duke of Bedford, it seemed. He would never want or go hungry again. He had been to Pembroke Castle and found it abandoned, with all the fine
tapestries taken away. He had not yet decided if he would restore it.
‘You gave him hope over the years,’ he said, turning to her. ‘With your letters.’ At the heart of the crowded hall, a psalter of bishops laid hands on Henry Tudor, blessing him. The Bishop of Bath and Wells was there, with Morton, Bishop of Ely, back from disgrace to help the elderly Archbishop Bourchier fulfil his duties.
‘And it is my hope to know him now, Jasper. Now that I have the time. England is at peace, after all, long may she remain so.’
Jasper looked across the hall, waiting for the moment when he would be summoned. The crown was very different from the rough circlet his nephew had worn at Bosworth Field. The men had cheered the sight, but that battered ring had not been a crown for a coronation. The one Jasper bore glittered with pearls and rubies studded on crosses of gold. It rested on a velvet cushion and was the work of master goldsmiths and enamellers.
It was very heavy, seeming to weigh more than the mere metal. Jasper looked along a lane laid with carpet, between rows of seated lords and ladies. He knew if he tripped and fell, it would probably be the only thing they remembered.
‘There can be peace from exhaustion, my lady, of a sort. I do believe these people are wearied by thirty years of war.’
‘As they should be, Jasper. Either way, we shall give them a fine royal marriage to join my son with Elizabeth of York. Her mother is a … practical woman, I believe. And she has lost more than anyone. It is my hope that seeing her daughter safely wed to Henry will bring her peace as well. There is no one else left, after all. My son is the last of Lancaster and Elizabeth is the heir of York.’
‘Ah, your son is many things,’ Jasper said. ‘A leader of
men, to my surprise. A gentleman and a scholar-king. But he is a Tudor, my lady, and he will make his own house now. It is only right. He is the
Ddraig Goch
, after all, the Red Dragon – and perhaps, just perhaps, the
Mab Darogan
as well.’
‘The Man of Destiny?’ Margaret replied, reminding him that she had spent years amongst the Welsh. ‘Why of course he is, Jasper. He won. That is all that matters in the end.’
Jasper was turning to whisper a reply when she pushed him and he realized hundreds of faces were turned his way. He swallowed and stepped out into the hall, bearing the crown for the young king.