Authors: Paul Murray Kendall
Straight across Sir William Stanley's bristling front King Richard galloped with his fellowship of steel. Through the eye-slits of his visor he caught a glimpse of hundreds upon hundreds of mounted men in bright red jackets, scarcely more than a bowshot to his right, with Sir William's banner of the white hart at their head. Up a slight slope now Richard's destrier raced, straight toward a milling mass of horsemen. The noise of the combat on Ambien Hill was dim, remote. Beyond, in the enormous silence of a kingdom waiting and wondering while the King charged upon the mightiest of his enemies, many hundreds of soldiers, like the men of York, were moving along the roads to his support; hundreds of thousands more, like John Paston and the Duke of Suffolk, stayed at home indifferent to the issue.
Now Richard heard cries, volleys of shouted orders. Horses reared as their desperate riders forced them into a line. The steel ranks of Henry Tudor's guard surged forward. A mighty figure loomed up in Richard's path—Sir John Cheyney, noted for his girth and height. With a shock they crashed together, the giant
and the frail King, Richard swinging his battle-axe in a flashing arc. The giant reeled, fell to the ground. Richard drove onward, cutting a path with his terrible axe. Around him steel crashed on steel; there was shouting; horses squealed in pain; dust swirled up from the earth like yellow fog. Lovell and Sir Robert Percy and others had forced themselves to his side. Still forward thrust the troop, cleaving to the heart of the Pretender's guard. Richard was hewing his way toward the standard of the red dragon, borne by the stalwart William Brandon.
Behind, jerking his horse about, Henry Tudor precipitately recoiled. It was the most dreadful moment of his life. The slight figure wielding a battle-axe with the strength of Hercules was death itself, yet he dared retire not a foot farther lest his army see and lose heart from its leader's cowardice.
Richard caught one glimpse of him, then he had reached the red-dragon standard and was whirling his axe against William Brandon's sword. A blow on the helmet he scarcely noticed. He struck again. . . . Down went the dragon of Cadwallader, and Brandon rolled dead in the dust. In a tight arc about Richard his men were slashing their way onward. Only a few more yards now to Henry Tudor— A squire seized Richard's bridle as Rat-cliffe and Percy and others thrust their horses and their bodies before him.
The squire was shouting and pointing. . , . In the steel pocket his troop had forged for him Richard turned, made out through the dust the red jackets of Sir William Stanley's cavalry thundering upon him.
Another squire led up a fresh horse. Someone clutched his arm. Shaking his head, Richard shouted an order to Ratcliffe. A part of the little troop that remained swung round to meet the onslaught of Sir William Stanley. Forward again Richard spurred his mount, forward toward the figure, so close now, who was Henry Tudor. But as he hewed his way, he became aware that all about him his men were falling, overcome by masses of weapons. "Treason!" he shouted suddenly. "Treason! Treason!" Swinging his battle-axe he thrust onward.
He heard yells ... a shock of steel. Stanley's cavalry had
BOSWORTH FIELD
crashed against his tiny fellowship. "Treason!" he cried again, even as he struck with his axe, releasing his heart's anguish in one breath, crushing the predicament of his life into a word. None of his Household remained at his side. He was beating about him against a thicket of spears and swords, rocked by blows he could not feel. And still on his helmet shone—through the dust, through the flailing steel—the golden circlet of his
crown. "Treason!" he shouted, swinging his axe
A dozen weapons smashed through his armor. In the midst of his foes, alone, he was beaten lifeless to the ground, leaving his kingdom and his fame to the hands of Henry Tudor. 8 *
He was thirty-two years old, had reigned two years, one month, twenty-eight days. The only language, it turned out, in which he had been able to communicate himself successfully to the world was the terse idiom of courage, and the chief subject he had been given to express was violence. It had begun for him as a child in violence and it had ended in violence; the brief span between had been a tale of action and hard service with small joy and much affliction of spirit. If he had committed a grievous wrong, he had sought earnestly to do great good. And through his darkening days he had kept to the end a golden touch of magnanimity. Men did not forget how the last of the Plantag-enets had died. Polydore Vergil, Henry Tudor's official historian, felt compelled to record: "King Richard, alone, was killed fighting manfully in the thickest press of his enemies."
A handful of the King's companions managed to escape, including Viscount Lovell and Humphrey Stafford. When the word ran through the royal ranks on Ambien Hill that their sovereign had fallen, all knew there was no hope of anything but survival. Some broke away northeastward toward the hamlet of Cadeby; others plunged southward through the swamp to Redmore Plain, pursued by the rebel cavalry as far as Stoke Golding. Soon the victorious army gathered on a hilltop near that village. Sir William Stanley had managed to get his hands on the battered crown plucked from the dead king's helmet.
While the troops cheered, the rescuer of Henry Tudor—or perhaps his brother, Lord Stanley—placed the crown on Henry's head and hailed him King.
Northumberland, all the while, sat still in Button Cheney until summoned to appear before the new-crowned monarch. Gravely he knelt in homage and gravely was his homage accepted; but he was taken into temporary custody, probably at his own request. He was the shame of the North, and four years later the North would avenge its shame by killing him. A few days after the battle, William Catesby, captured while fleeing, was hanged in a sweat of fear, and with him were hanged the Brecher father and son, West Country yeomen.** Norfolk and Ratcliffe, Brackenbury and John Kendall, and many others were beyond King Henry's reach.
From the first movement of Richard's army onto Ambien Hill, the battle had not lasted more than two hours; the actual combat, less than half that time. In the afternoon Henry Tudor and his host triumphantly entered the town of Leicester. A little after, arrived the last King of England to die, or fight, in battle, 10 * Stark naked, despoiled and derided, with a felon's halter about the neck, the bloody body was slung contemptuously across the back of a horse, which one of the dead king's heralds was forced to ride, As it was borne across the west bridge of the Soar, the head was carelessly battered against the stone parapet. For two days the body lay exposed to view in the house of the Grey Friars close to the river. It was then rolled into a grave without stone or epitaph. 11 *
The day after the battle, John Sponer galloped into York to bring news of King Richard's overthrow—the eighty soldiers of the city had not got as far as Leicester.
To the Mayor and Aldermen, hastily assembled in the council chamber, "it was showed by ... John Sponer . . . that King Richard, late mercifully reigning upon us, was . . . piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this City. . . ." 12 *
This is the unstudied epitaph of the men who knew him best.
Epilogue*
The day is ours . .
IN THE late spring of 1487, Henry Tudor, now King Heory the Seventh, found himself, after almost the same length of rule, in much the same predicament that had confronted King Richard in the summer of 1485. A Pretender was about to invade the kingdom in order to claim his crown. He was a shabby Pretender at best—Lambert Simnel, the son of an obscure Oxford tradesman, who had been tutored in his role by a priest—and his assertion that he was Edward, Earl of Warwick, the very son of Clarence, was a thin masquerade, for there were many who knew full well that the real Earl of Warwick was a prisoner in the Tower. But Henry recognized that the challenge to his shaky throne was formidable. The Irish, in their devotion to the House of York, had given Simnel an enthusiastic welcome, led by the Lord-Deputy himself, the Earl of Kildare; the Earl of Lincoln, Richard's heir, had fled from Henry's council board and Francis, Viscount Lovell, Richard's Chamberlain, had escaped from hiding, to seek aid for the cause from Richard's sister Margaret, Dowager Duchess of Burgundy. She provided them with the means of hiring 2,000 German mercenaries commanded by a redoubtable soldier, Martin Swart. On May 5, Lincoln and Lovell and thek troops were triumphantly received at Dublin; Lambert Simnel was crowned King Edward the Sixth in Christ Church; a Parliament was summoned and coins were minted in his name; and large numbers of the Irish flocked to his standard. Some of his partisans apparently believed in his authenticity, but not Lincoln and Lovell. Since the conspiracy was thriving by the time Lincoln elected to join it, he had probably determined to act as Simnel's supporter until victory gave him the opportunity of assuming his position as the true heir of the
RICHARD THE THIRD
House of York. On June 4, Lincoln and his army landed on the shores of Lancashire near Furness.
King Henry was not taken unawares. Since the beginning of the year he had been bending all his energies to meet the impending attack, for he was mistrustful of the issue and even of the loyalties of his supporters. Though the Queen Dowager was his mother-in-law, he seized the meager estate he had allotted her and immured her in the convent of Bermondsey. What Richard had not done with Lord Stanley, Henry did with the Marquess of Dorset—clapped him into custody, with the comment that if the Marquess were a true friend, he should not resent a temporary spell of imprisonment for the good of the realm! As spring advanced, the King moved into East Anglia, anticipating an invasion from the Low Countries; but when it became clear that the blow would come out of Ireland, he emulated Richard and took his stand in the Midlands. Unlike Richard, he had by this time called up an army, composed of his surest followers. He made his headquarters at Kenilworth Castle, while his host assembled at Coventry. Stringent orders were issued that the rest of his subjects were to be ready to join him at an hour's warning.^
Five days after his enemies had landed, Henry was able to begin his northward march with perhaps 4,000 men. His journey to Nottingham was slow, apparently hampered by want of discipline and of enthusiasm in his troops and by rumors of disaster spread by rebel sympathizers. To his relief, Lord Strange appeared at Nottingham with the Stanley contingent of 5,000 men or more, which doubled the size of the King's army. Henry received few other additions to his strength; the kingdom, in no mood to rush to the support of its new King, was willing to wait and see. The Earl of Oxford led the royal host, with Jasper Tudor, now Duke of Bedford, second in command. The Earl of Northumberland was apparently sitting ambiguously upon his estates, surrounded by a force of trusted retainers. Not long after Henry reached Nottingham, he learned from his scouts that his enemies were advancing southward by the eastern, rather than the western, route. On June 15 he moved nine
EPILOGUE
miles eastward to the village of Radcliff e, preparing to march up the Fosseway in order to block the rebels' approach.
Lincoln's forces had been joined soon after their landing by Sir Thomas Broughton and other men of the northeast, but there was no popular rising. It was Stanley territory; people disliked the "wild Irish"; and "King Edward the Sixth" was a doubtful entity. Nevertheless, Lincoln advanced resolutely eastward across the Pennines, issuing strict orders against plundering or molesting the inhabitants. Richard still reigned in the hearts of Yorkshiremen; the North was discontented, restless. Lincoln could hope for a great accession to his strength. As he descended into the plain of the East Riding, however, he was confronted by a difficult decision, If he made for the city of York, he might have to fight Northumberland, but he was certain to swell the numbers of his army and he could probably stir a rising to his cause. On the other hand, having heard from his scouts that the King was beginning to move toward him, he saw that he must strike southward quickly if he hoped to force Henry to a battle before the royal army reached its full strength. Valiant and quick-spirited, aware that the morale of his host was high, Lincoln chose to try the advantage of immediate attack. It was the sort of choice on which subsequent victory bestows the accolade of "genius," and defeat, the reproach of "rashness." Lincoln swung his men boldly to the south and advanced by way of Doncaster, or Rotherham, to Southwell, where, on June 15, he turned eastward and crossed the Trent at Fiskerton Ford, four miles south of Newark, in order to reach the great thoroughfare of the Fosseway. Hearing that the King was issuing from Nottingham, Lincoln pitched his camp that night not far beyond the ford on a ridge over which the Fosseway passed. Next morning he drew up his battle line with his right flank resting strongly on a height above the river and his center blocking the road. He had about 8,000 men, of whom at least half must have been Irish, eager for the fray but naked of armor and primitively armed. The power of the army was Martin Swart's 2,000 Germans and perhaps an equal number of English adherents.
Up from the south, a little before nine in the morning, came the forward wing of the royal army, mustering about 6,000 men —more than half of Henry's total strength—and deployed in line of battle beneath the standard of the Earl of Oxford. The center and rear wings of the royal host were lagging well behind. As soon as Oxford's line reached the foot of the ridge, Lincoln and Lovell and Swart gave the signal to attack, and the invaders flung themselves down the hill upon their enemies.
Precisely what had happened in the royal army that morning and the night before remains obscure. After it reached RadclifTe, a disturbance of some sort occurred, and numbers of soldiers deserted in the night. The countryside round was buzzing with ominous rumors; some contingents marching toward the King were persuaded to disperse, so they afterward averred, by rebel agents or sympathizers who spread reports that Henry had already lost the battle. To meet this crisis, uglier even than Richard's before Bosworth, Oxford concentrated the most trustworthy troops in his forward wing. The King, who had courage but knew how to lace it with prudence and was of no mind to risk all on a single engagement, chose to follow with the center ward. Since Oxford's division was the most zealous and no doubt the most soldierly, it deployed into line of battle on the morning of June 16 much more speedily than the center and rear which had little will to fight for Henry's cause.
Thus it was that Oxford's vanguard alone met the shock of Lincoln's attack. A long and savage struggle ensued. Oxford was outnumbered perhaps three to four, but his soldiers were far better armed than the Irish half of the rebel host. In the first wild moments of the encounter the royal vanguard was badly shaken; men began a flight to the rear, crying that the Tudor's cause was lost. But the superiority of Oxford's weapons gradually became evident, and when captains of the center ward managed to bring up a few reinforcements, the royal line stiffened. Lincoln and Swart fought with a valor and skill that commended itself even to their enemies, and the 2,000 Germans showed themselves peerless warriors. But the Irish, though they "fought hardily and stuck to it violently," could not match their
EPILOGUE
clubs and scythes against plate armor and swords, and they began to fall in numbers, slain u like dull and brute beasts." Gradually the weight of weapons told. With most of the Irish slaughtered or in flight, Oxford's men closed upon the diminishing band of English and Germans. Lincoln and Swart and Sir Thomas Broughton perished where they fought, and most of the Germans with them. Lovell either was drowned trying to cross the Trent or later starved to death, somehow walled up in his own cellar. Half the rebel host was slain; Oxford's losses were almost as severe. King Henry, like his center and rear, took no discernible part in the battle.
It had been a very close call for Henry. Except for his own party, the realm had given him little support and the contagion of treason had apparently run through a goodly part of his army. Had the Stanley interest not come in or had circumstances been but slightly altered, he probably would have been defeated by a challenge which, though spirited, had perhaps by no means mustered all the strength of its cause.
When this battle was fought, Henry's reign had lasted almost as long as the full span allotted to Richard. Both men seized the crown, both were confronted with an insurrection a few months after ascending the throne, and both had summoned one Parliament. A survey of Henry's accomplishment during this period should provide, therefore, an apt comparison with Richard's.