White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (54 page)

‘Richard, that is not so, I am sure! You are depressed, your spirits are low, which is not surprising after the dreadful two years you have endured. You are letting your own misery cloud everything!’

‘Maybe you are right. You do see to the heart of things, Francis. But seeing the situation as it seems to be—though you assure me I am mistaken—does not help me deal with it. The question is will enough men actually come to fight this invader when we meet him on the field of battle? I have really no way of knowing! I am forced to take a chance, not only on the outcome, but on my life!’

Henry Tudor, Tamworth near Lichfield,
Staffordshire, 20 August 1485

‘You have no idea how pleased I am to see you, Uncle Jasper! Last night was one of the worst of my life!’

‘What mean you, Henry? What happened? We began to get very worried, boyo, as you seemed to have disappeared! Even began to wonder if you’d been captured by a contingent of the king’s men!’

‘No. I am ashamed to tell you that I got lost on the road to here! It was pitch dark and we could not see a welcome light anywhere. Had to spend the night in a wood! Thank God it is summer, for it was uncomfortable enough, I can tell you. I would never admit it to the Earl of Oxford or any of my other commanders, as I feel so foolish.’

‘How did you come to lose yourself, whatever?’

‘Well, I had at last managed to arrange a meeting with Lord William Stanley at Stafford. You had gone on ahead with Oxford and the main army to Lichfield, while I stayed behind to see William privily. I just had a small band of twenty bodyguards with me. We planned to follow you soon after. You know how anxious I have been to find out whether he and his brother, Lord Thomas, are definitely coming in on our side to fight the king’s army? Anyway, I met him at an inn. He was alone. There was no sign of his brother, annoyingly. But he did tell me that Thomas has been very ill the last week or so with this sweating sickness which has broken out everywhere and could not come to see me yet. But he assured me that both of them were sure to support me when it actually came to the battle, but not openly before. I think they are afraid the king will attaint them, and they have much to lose! Also, Lord Thomas’s son, Lord Strange, is held as hostage by the king! As an assurance of his father’s good faith, I suppose. And where does that leave me? I can understand Thomas does not want Richard to have his son executed, but I told William I would be happier to have both armies immediately. It would assure me an extra 5,000 fighting men. But he did nothing but prevaricate, would make no definite promises, just said that Thomas and he would join us with their armies “when the time was ripe”—whatever he meant by that.

No wonder we lost our way, as we set out after this most unsatisfactory meeting. Darkness had fallen long since. It was very late. Although it is only seventeen miles from Stafford to Lichfield—and we managed that all right—I was not concentrating on the road. It was in the last three-mile stretch to Tamworth we got hopelessly lost after we skirted Lichfield. Stupidly, I decided it would be best to avoid the town in case we were detained by any of Richard’s supporters there, and we left the road in the darkness. That was a huge mistake, as I learnt to my cost! I was deep in thought and feeling very frustrated about these Stanleys, who are so difficult to pin down. They promise everything but actually do nothing, it seems to me. Somehow, we found ourselves wandering around in open fields in the pitch dark.’

‘They are well known for sitting on the fence, lad. That is nothing new. They have avoided actually fighting in several crucial battles already by taking this stance. No doubt they have told King Richard the same thing as you!’

‘What—that they mean to join him if—and when—it is convenient for them?’

‘Exactly. Do not count on either of them, Henry. You may be let down badly.’

‘But we need their hosts, desperately! Thomas is my uncle by marriage, for God’s sake! Surely my strong-willed Lady mother will have made sure he intends to support me?’

‘Who knows? He may have lied to her, to keep her happy. A self-willed and ruthless man like that would never give in to a woman’s wishes! We will only know the Stanleys’ true intentions on the day of the battle, lad—perhaps they do not even know themselves what they plan to do! They will wait to see how things work out and decide at the very last moment, I expect.’

‘That is just not good enough, is it? It makes me feel desperately vulnerable! I know I have you and Oxford and several other seasoned commanders to help me plan what to do, but without a lot more soldiers, we cannot hope to win, surely? Richard is a brilliant soldier and commander, and I am a complete novice when it comes to battles. I am beginning to wish we had never set out on this uncertain venture! I was pushed into it for years by my Lady mother and you. Can I really hope to win in the circumstances?’

‘Circumstances can change, boyo! In the balance, I would say the Stanleys are more likely to join with us in the end. They have more to gain with you as king. There is no love lost between them and Richard and they have many grievances against him. And what is in it for them in any given circumstances has always been their guiding star!’

‘I can only pray that you are right, Uncle. You have more faith than I in the outcome of it all. It is awful to have to depend on such shifting and uncertain loyalties!’

‘I expect King Richard is feeling exactly the same way as you at the moment with regard to those two shifty characters, if that can give you a little comfort! It is in the hands of God now, boyo!’

Richard, Leicester, 20 August 1485

My Dear Mother,

Though pressed for time, I made up my mind that I would write to you at Berkhamstead just before the battle which will decide my fate. This is now imminent, and we expect to meet with the rebels soon after tomorrow.

I do not know how all will turn out—that is in God’s hands—and I beg you, pray for your son. I can do with as many prayers as I can get. For all I know, this may be the last letter I shall ever write to you, as, for the first time in my life before a battle, I am not entirely confident of winning.

It is not that my army is lacking in skill and determination. I am sure we will have mustered sufficient men to fight and overcome what we have been informed is nothing more than a rag-tag rabble from the gaols of France, let out on the understanding that they fight for Tudor. These are supplemented by mercenaries, who have no real loyalties—except to their pockets! In theory, he has no chance against my well-trained, loyal, and disciplined forces and he is a complete novice in war, after all, though he does have that renegade Earl of Oxford as his main commander, who escaped from Hammes Castle, where I had him in custody for taking part in Buckingham’s rebellion.

But there are other worrying factors in the situation. I fear that I am the victim of treachery! And from those who should be my most staunch supporters!

I grow ever more perturbed at the developing situation. On the evening of 16 August, just after I returned to Beskwood from some hunting in Sherwood Forest, aimed at taking my mind off the coming confrontation for a while—a little light relief, as it were—two exhausted messengers arrived from York on urgent business. I barely had time to bathe the day’s sweat and dust off me and was about to sit down for supper when they came.

What they had to say filled me with the greatest trepidation, to put it mildly, and made me realise that others, apart from the shifting Stanleys, may plan treachery against me! They were men of York I knew well, John Sponer, the sergeant mace-bearer, and John Nicholson, messenger of York.

The mayor and aldermen were very puzzled. They knew that the rebels had landed on 7 August, but no word had come of any kind with instructions to prepare an armed force to join me in helping to deal with the invasion. They just could not understand it, especially as they knew I regarded this, my favourite city, as full of my most loyal men! Had someone omitted to bring word to them or, more ominous, had it been deliberately decided not to inform them at all? But for what possible reason? Could it be because of the plague which had broken out there that they had not received orders of array?

At once, I saw what could be behind this omission, though I prayed that it was not so, was not deliberate. Lord Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was responsible for sending requests to York on this matter as the Commissioner of Array for the East Riding of Yorkshire. And he patently had not done so! Why? I hardly dared to ask myself the reason; it filled my mind with such ominous fears. Had Percy decided that he did not want these men in his forces? They are so zealously loyal to me I am sure he realised they could not be relied upon to obey him, like his own personal army directly under his command, if he decided to play me false? It stunk of treachery, the whole thing, though I tried to tell myself that I was now being paranoid and that it was just because of this sweating sickness plague which has broken out there, as well as in many other parts of the country. After all, it only needs one plague-infected man to cause this new dreaded disease to run round the entire army like wildfire and decimate it—meaning disaster! Or maybe he had just not got around to sending the message to York yet. But that was too far-fetched, surely? I had sent out orders far and wide the day I heard that Tudor had landed. Even if Northumberland had been in the northermost parts of his great estates, he would have received my message very quickly, as this system of scurriers I brought in—my brother Edward’s idea in war—ensures quick delivery. And he would have used quick messengers himself to do my bidding.

I said nothing of my fears to the two tired men of York but assured them that of course I would be most grateful to receive as many men as their city could muster to support me. They were to make their way to Leicester, where the main rally is taking place. I did not really think their soldiers could be there in time now, but I did not tell them that—what was the point?

Then I instructed them to rest and refresh themselves and start back the next morning with fresh horses—the ones they had were well-nigh dead with exhaustion. John Sponer chose to remain with me to fight, while Nicholson was to take the answer to the mayor on the morrow.

I rode back to Nottingham Castle on the morning of 17 August, my mind full of dark thoughts and forebodings. But in spite of the mounting threat of treason, I still knew it was possible to outwit not only the rebels, but the possible treachery within my own ranks by some careful planning and fast action. I have always been aware that God has given me gifts as a general and commander of men and as a tactician. Now was the time to bring them into play!

If forced to it, I could always arrest Northumberland—even the Stanleys—on the basis of the suspicions of treachery I already had about them. I have not done this as yet. I am loath to do it. I would rather give men the benefit of the doubt. After all, the only thing I have as possible proof for their treachery is assumptions, based on their actions or lack of action. I want to trust them in the end to do the right thing. They swore loyalty to me when I became king. Surely they will not break their pledge?

I have been playing up to this devious and arrogant Percy for nigh on fifteen years. I have had enough of his slippery ways. I know he resented me taking away much of his inherited autonomous power when I set up the Council of the North. Perhaps he hopes that I will be defeated so that he can resume the proud traditional sway of his vast northern lands? Well, he will not find me so easy to overcome. If I act decisively and quickly—as has always been my wont—I can outwit him yet! I must put him to the test—get him to show his hand before the battle! For a start, my armies stand between him and the rebels. Perhaps I can manoeuvre him into taking a definite stand for one or other of us before the day of the battle? Then, if that does not work, take him into custody? Most of his Yorkshiremen would happily follow my banner if it became necessary to deprive Northumberland of his command!

With luck, could I not also force the Stanley brothers to make up their minds and unite openly with the invader at once? At least I would know where I stood then! Many of the men in their armies would take that very ill and refuse to obey orders for a last-minute turncoat attack during the actual battle. They are loyal to me as Northerners, I am sure!

Today, we had a last minute council of war here, at the White Boar Inn, where I lay, as most commanders have arrived here now with their hosts: The Duke of Norfolk, Jockey Howard, and his son, the Earl of Surrey have come. Francis Lovell, my dearest friend, was first to come to me in Nottingham, where he had ridden post-haste from Southampton, after his abortive waiting game for the rebels, who were expected to land in nearby Milford, but landed in Milford Haven in Wales instead. We still await the Stanleys and Northumberland, but that is no surprise! I have been told that they are encamped a few miles off, having approached us from the west.

We have heard that the rebel army is only a short distance away, near a village called Market Bosworth, by a marshy plain called Redmore. There is a hill there called Ambion, which sounds ideal for our purposes. If we can occupy it quickly, we will have the advantage of height over the rebels.

We will wait here one more day to see if the rebels change the direction of their march and to await Northumberland and other captains—and the Stanleys. There is no sign of my faithful men of York yet. I doubt they will come before we have to engage in battle. I know they will be anxious to catch us up and take part.

Men are still streaming in from all parts, thank goodness, and we are very busy assigning them to their ranks. We have a problem in accommodating them all in quarters in such a small town.

Another shock revelation has just greeted me. My faithful Thomas Brackenbury, Constable of the Tower, who has today arrived from London, informs me that Thomas Bourchier, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Walter Hungerford—two of my chief councillors—have slipped away to the rebels on the way here at Stoney Stratford—that place which has such bad associations in my memory! It was there that I feel my life took a wrong turning. From that moment, nothing has seemed to go right, however hard I tried. And tragedy has dogged me endlessly too, since that fateful day. I cannot help thinking it is all the judgement of God for my sins! I have no time to write more, my dear mother. I pray that I will be able to meet with you soon when all this is over.