Authors: Sandra Worth
A marriage with the Duke of Lancaster’s great-granddaughter Johanna of Portugal, to unite the white rose with the red. Johanna, who wished to be a nun, who spoke no English; who was nothing like Anne. Was this the redemption he had begged God to grant him? To live in a world without love; to rule in a realm without loyalty?
He felt like a man shipwrecked, and the lightless years stretched before him like an endless sea. He lifted his head, gazed at his senior statesman. Tawny hair, now tinged with silver at the temples, eyes blue as sapphires, strong jaw, a mouth made for smiling. A noble countenance. Aye, there was much Neville in this Robin of Redesdale; much to remind him of John. Would this be John’s counsel if he were alive? If he had not been sacrificed by Edward?
Edward.
Out of the distant past, Warwick’s words echoed in his ears:
What man ever trusted Edward and was not deceived?
He had given Warwick’s warning scant thought at the time, but now he saw Edward at Barnet, fog rolling in at his feet, and heard him laugh,
’Tis a fool thing Warwick’s done, to come to me when all he had to do was wait—he’s played into my hands!
In his mind’s eye, he saw Warwick in a tent at St. Alban’s, cradling his head. Why had Warwick chosen chance over certain victory by turning south to his enemy, Edward, instead of north to his ally, Marguerite? At the end of the long, hard road, had betrayals left him bereft of hope, yearning for death?
Don’t let them destroy you, too, Dickon
, he had warned. Had he meant to include Edward with the Woodvilles? Edward, who had made Bess his queen, and by so doing doomed all who had trusted in him?
His eye fell on Caxton’s book on the table beside him where he had dropped it. He fingered the leather cover. A line from Malory drummed in his head:
My house hath been my doom
. King Arthur’s words. He roused himself from the numbness that weighed him down and forced himself to his feet.
“You give wise counsel and no doubt you’re right. There’s only one thing—” Flies buzzed in the hot, humid room, the walls wavered in his sight and the gloom grew so oppressive, he wanted to cry out. His breath quickened as the familiar, desperate realisation swept through him: his friends were at his side, but he was alone. He would always be alone. “I cannot wait.”
~*~
As Richard stepped out into the open courtyard and the pouring rain, several Esquires of the Body ran to join him and startled grooms appeared from the stables. “My horse!” Richard shouted. He knew he was a frightful sight with his wet hair clinging to his face, but he didn’t care. White Surrey was rushed out. He mounted. His men-at-arms scrambled into their saddles. “I ride alone!” he yelled over the crackling thunder.
“But Sire—Tudor—”
He swung on them, eyes flashing with fury. “Do you see an army here?”
The men exchanged nervous glances with one another. “Nay, Sire—nay.”
“If I were afraid of that damned Welsh bastard, do you not think I’d have an army here?” he shouted.
“Aye, Sire, aye!” they replied in unison.
He spurred White Surrey into a wild gallop, past the raised beds of flowers and herbs, beneath the branches bowed low with rain and fruit. Down the hill he galloped, into the meadow, past houses and fields where sheep huddled for shelter beneath the trees. The distant hills disappeared into drenched green foliage. On he flew through Sherwood Forest. He didn’t realise how far he’d gone until White Surrey reared beneath him in protest, foaming at the mouth. He reined him in, stroked his soaking neck.
For the first time since he’d left the lodge, he became aware of his surroundings. He had emerged into a clearing. The rain had ceased and the sun was struggling through. In every direction there was nothing but forest and sky, and where the green swept up the steep hill perched Beskwood Lodge, wreathed in greenery and barely visible through the trees. Though dark clouds hung over it, to the west they were edged with pink and the sun broke through in shafts, sending rose-coloured light falling to earth.
He raised his face to the sky and watched a flock of blackbirds fly across the rolling clouds. Their cries pierced the silence and seemed suddenly more melodious than all the songs of minstrels at court. For an instant his heart soared with them. He closed his eyes to smell more deeply of the damp, cleansing freshness of the earth and lifted his face into the wind. The rustling of pines came to him loudly. Middleham…. His lips lifted at their corners.
Middleham.
His eyes flew open as pain exploded in his breast and the wind turned vile in his nostrils.
Vile with incense that failed to mask the stench of rotting human flesh.
He spurred White Surrey into a gallop. The clearing disappeared into the thickness of woods. Cold wind blew at him; thorny branches caught at him. Bruised, bleeding, breathless, he sped White Surrey out again. He raised his stained face to heaven. “My house—” he cried, his voice breaking, “has been my doom!”
~ * ~
Chapter 31
“Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
Have err’d not, that I march to meet my doom.”
Sunday, the twenty-first day of August, dawned bright and windy.
To the marching tunes of drummers and pipers, the royal cavalcade trooped out of Leicester where they had spent the night and headed to Market Bosworth, clarions blaring, baggage carts rumbling, pennants flying. In the narrow streets, the townspeople watched silently. Clad in full armour and riding his proud white war horse, Richard bore a golden crown upon his helmet so that all might know he was King. Above him floated his banner of the White Boar, displayed along with the Cross of St. George and the White Rose in a sunburst of the House of York. Ahead fluttered his little nephew’s banner of the Dun Cow, carried by a herald in a tabard quartered with the royal lilies and leopards.
There had been no response to his summons to arms from Stanley, the mightiest of his lords. Percy had finally arrived late the previous evening with his excuses. Many other nobles had not answered his plea, but Howard and his son had been waiting in Leicester with their contingents, true to their word.
Good, trusty Howard has always been loyal to York
, Richard thought, warmed by affection as he glanced at the barrel figure riding next to him. The man he had in childhood nicknamed “the Friendly Lion” rode bareheaded, his thick mane glistening with crystalline brilliance in the sun. Richard suddenly had a sense that he’d been here before, done this before. Aye, indeed he had, he thought; as a twelve-year-old he’d ridden to Bosworth with Howard at his side, just so, leading an army to his brother Edward. He remembered being captivated by the faery beauty of the tiny village, while Howard had sensed menace. They had shared much together since then, and with his caring ways and jovial manner, the old duke had done much to fill the hollow space in Richard’s heart that his father and John Neville had left behind.
He turned in the saddle to look at his many friends. All the northern lords and most from the midlands had answered his call: Zouche; the Scropes of Bolton, of Upscale, of Masham; Ferrers of Chartley; and Dacre. As for Greystoke, that good man had brought a mighty contingent with him. Even Brackenbury was here, though the gentle Merlin had had to lash his horse from London to reach Leicester in time. His gaze ran along the length of spikes and spears stretching behind him as far as the eye could see. Men had streamed in to join the royal army until late into the night. Loyal men, Richard thought; and tomorrow, many of them would pay for their loyalty with their lives. He glanced at his boyhood friend, Francis, riding at his side. “Since Roman times armies have marched along this road, men to kill other men, Francis. When will it end?”
“When greed ends, Richard. And that, I fear, will be never.”
Greed, Richard reflected, swaying in the saddle to the rhythm of his horse’s hoofs. Greed for power and material gain had driven Marguerite d’Anjou and the Woodville queen, splintering the realm. Greed had fuelled his cousin Warwick’s ambitions, and his brother George’s follies. Now greed propelled the bastard Tudor to reach for a Crown to which he had no right.
“Aye, Francis. Greed is surely the root of all evil.”
They were nearing the west bridge over the River Soar. All at once White Surrey balked. Rearing and plunging as if he’d seen a phantom, he neighed wildly and refused to cross. Richard slammed his knee and struck his golden spur against a stone column as he fought to restrain his spirited destrier in the narrow space. At length he subdued the proud beast and they clattered across. Barely had they cleared the bridge when a disturbance made him turn. Amid shouts, someone had raised a sword.
“Halt!” roared Richard over the din of marching men and music of minstrels. The sword froze in its hand and was lowered. A handsome knight galloped up through the ranks.
“What happened there, Clarendon?” demanded Richard.
“My lord,” said Clarendon angrily, out of breath, his armour glinting in the sun, his fair hair shining. “There was a wise-woman sitting by the bridge, and I asked her of the success of our enterprise.”
Richard looked at him steadily. “And what did she say?”
“My lord, she said—the accursed witch said that where your spur struck the stone,” the knight swallowed visibly, “your head will be broken on the journey back.”
Richard sat very still, remembering another wise-woman who had foretold his early death, just as ancient prophecies had warned King Arthur of his doom. What had been Arthur’s reply?
But let what will be, be.
He squared his tense shoulders, ignoring the old wound from Barnet that ached again. He glanced towards the stone column of Leicester’s bow bridge that White Surrey had refused to cross, then at Clarendon whose green eyes blazed with outrage. “For this, you wished to strike her dead?”
“Aye, my lord, for she lies!”
“Soon enough you’ll have your fill of bloodshed.”
Richard jerked his tasselled bridle and spurred his war horse westward, to Market Bosworth.
~ * ~
Chapter 32
“Now must I hence.
Thro’ the thick night I hear the trumpet blow.”
A soft breeze blew. The moon was as fine as gold thread, scarcely a moon at all, and the sky glowed with stars.
Richard paced the far reaches of his camp, noting men’s faces in the firelight, the condition of their gear. He came to a halt near a thicket on the slope of Ambion Hill. Ahead in the distant dark, enemy fires glittered like stars in the night firmament, and across to his right, almost equidistant between Tudor’s army and his own, the fires of Lord Stanley’s men flickered uncertainly. From the horses tethered at the rear of the camp came neighing and snorts. He heard a dog bark, and thought of Roland, who had died a month before. Somewhere someone played a flute. The haunting melody floated over the murmuring of men’s voices and the chirping of crickets, evoking a deceptive tranquillity. The air smelled of smoke and cooked meats on the spit.
Tomorrow, Richard thought, it would smell of blood.
Men with torches climbed past him, moving horses and weapons, dragging supplies. He greeted them with a nod. They disappeared into the darkness. He thought of the last time battle lines had been drawn this way.
Barnet
. He shut his eyes.
“Such a night is made for love, not war,” said a voice.
Richard looked up with a start. Francis limped out of the shadows. Like himself, he wore a dark doublet and hose, unadorned save for a jewelled dagger at the belt, so that he almost melted into the night. His dark hair stirred in the breeze, and there was a pensive shimmer in his eyes as he gazed at him.
“It’s my fault we’re here, Francis.” Richard’s voice faded to a whisper.
“No, Richard. Fortune is to blame.”
“Fortune,” Richard murmured. “Have you thought, Francis? We struggle, we fight, we make choices, and in the end, Fortune decides for us… But for a chance meeting beneath an oak, there would be no battle tomorrow.”
Francis heaved an audible sigh. “Aye, Bess Woodville would never have wed Edward, but for that chance meeting. On such trifles do our lives turn… At least we outnumber them. That’s a comfort.” Richard turned his gaze on Stanley’s campfires in the southwest. “Depends how you count,” he said. “There are three armies here tonight. Who knows what Stanley will do?”
“You should have executed him for his first treason,” Francis grunted.
“I’ve mangled everything I’ve touched,” sighed Richard.
“Nay, Richard! You’ve done your best to set things right. Like Arthur.”
“And like Arthur I war on my own people.” He turned abruptly and strode up the hill. Francis fell in at his side. Their boots crunched on the hard earth. “They think we’re going to lose, Francis. That’s why they’re not here.”
“They’re not here because they think we’re going to win, with or without them. Those like Jack’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, have too much at stake should we lose.”
“If—the Saints forfend—Tudor is victorious,” Francis resumed when Richard made no answer, “it’ll stir the realm into action. Those who stayed home today will join your side tomorrow.”
“Not my side, Francis. This is my last battle.”
“So you say, yet you know that the loss of one battle need not be serious. Let strategy guide you instead of your heart.”
Men tramped past with their torches. Richard took in their expressions. “There’s been enough fighting, Francis.”
“Richard, for God’s sake, think of England!”
“I have done my best for England, Francis. Now ’tis time to look to my own heart… ’Tis time to end it, one way or the other. Englishmen have been killing Englishmen for thirty years. This will be my last battle. Tomorrow God will render final judgement.”
“If Tudor wins, I’ll fight on! For England! For York—”
“Men flock to the winner these days. If we lose, his army will swell like a belly-heavy dragon. Do what you must to survive, Francis.”
“I took an oath to you. Never will I bow to that bastard.”