by Clint Dohmen
“Well, of course a number of the bloody Welsh have joined him. You should have accounted for that.”
The spy glanced nervously at his compatriot, well aware that the king was known to be less than kind to bearers of bad news. Fortunately for the messengers, Richard seemed to be suffering from one of his increasingly rarer bouts of sanity, so he did not dwell on the late notice.
“The Welsh are the most untrustworthy race of creatures in God’s world, aside from possibly the Scottish. How many men does he have with him?”
“With him, he has four or five hundred Englishmen, including, most importantly, the Earl of Oxford. John Savage and Rhys Ap Thomas have been seen raising recruits. I think you would have to assume it is for Henry.”
“Since he’s a Welshman, I knew I was in danger of losing Rhys, but he has always been a man of his word. I had hoped that when he swore an invader would have to walk across his belly before landing in my kingdom, he might stick to his word,” Richard said, staring at the dead beast before him. “No matter, I think I can find horses strong enough to quarter the great Welsh rube when this is all over. Savage is a bigger concern, however, since he is Thomas Stanley’s nephew. That gives me less reason to trust Thomas Stanley; less even than the fact that Henry Tudor is his stepson. I want John Savage branded a traitor immediately, and I want Lord Strange, Thomas Stanley’s son, seized as an ‘added incentive’ for Thomas to do the right thing. What other forces have you seen?”
“Henry has somewhere near two thousand French mercenaries at best count, but no more.”
“How many Welsh does Rhys appear capable of raising?”
“Based on the musters across Wales that our spies have reported, I would say no more than three thousand.”
“That won’t be enough to save the upstart, illegitimate Welsh sheep shagger from the blade of my sword.” Richard glared at the spies. “And have any other English lords defected?”
“Only Gilbert Talbot looks likely to turn at the moment, Highness, but the guardian lords at the border of Wales, though they have not joined him, have not formed against him either.”
“Spineless pricks; I’ll have their heads impaled on spikes. Send messengers to Norfolk, Surrey, Nottingham, Lovell, both Stanleys, and Brackenbury. Have them meet me at Leicester immediately. And send word around the country, first to the north where at least I know I can rely on their loyalty; order the levies raised and have them join me without delay. Mark carefully any lords that do not appear to assemble with haste. After I have crushed this pretender, I will need to hire extra executioners for all the heads that are going to roll on Tower Hill. And that damned French bitch Anne and her thumb-sucking, frog-eating, pants-pissing little brother will pay for their interference, too, God help me.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The spies turned and rode away even more quickly than they had come, grateful to still have their heads attached to their bodies.
Chapter 37
August 20, 1485, Blue Boar Inn, Leicester
Richard III’s Headquarters
“ARE YOU INFORMING me that Lord Stanley is unable to attend this delightful gathering because he is under the weather?” Richard sarcastically queried his herald.
Richard had suspected the Stanleys of treachery all along. Or at minimum he knew they would weigh their options until the last second, as they always did. He’d already declared William Stanley, Lord Stanley’s younger brother, a traitor since William’s diplomacy had helped get Henry’s invading force across the Welsh border and into England without a fight.
With thirteen thousand men to Henry’s approximate six thousand, based on the latest information from his agents, Richard did not need the Stanleys, but their help would have turned the upcoming battle into a massacre instead of just a trouncing.
“But the scoundrel is still well enough to march this way with two thousand men?” Richard asked, again rhetorically. The herald was reporting to a counsel of war made up of the king; Henry Percy, the fourth Earl of Northumberland; Sir Robert Brackenbury, the Constable of the Tower; Sir Robert Percy, the king’s childhood friend; Sir Percival Thirwell, the king’s standard bearer; Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Sir William Catesby, and Baron Francis Lovell, the king’s three most trusted advisors; and John Howard, the Duke of Norfolk.
“Yes, Your Majesty, and his brother brings closer to four thousand. They are wealthy, after all,” the herald added unnecessarily.
“Really, you are so insightful. And how can I delicately put it? A bit too forthcoming,” Richard hissed, with a shark-eyed stare. “Do you think I am stupid? Does everybody in England think I am bloody stupid?”
“I am sorry if I have caused offence,” the herald said very, very nervously.
When Richard was upset, he tugged on the rings of his fingers. He was now tugging. The herald froze.
Richard was seething inside.
I’m in trouble, the herald thought, trembling.
Rumors were circulating about Richard’s mental health. He was spending much of his time alone in churches. He was always agitated, irritable, and on edge.
“I have Lord Thomas Stanley’s whore-bred son, Lord Strange, don’t I? That brazen family is tricky. I know Stanley isn’t here now, but he and his brother will both go as the fight goes. They always do. Neither of them is a lost cause yet, and if Lord Stanley doesn’t see reason when we meet Henry on the battlefield, I will send him his firstborn son’s head on a pike. I’m not going to worry about them for now. We can beat Henry without them.”
Richard looked around the room. He saw the terrified herald’s lips quivering. Was that a smile?
“Did you just smirk?” Richard asked with a quiet menace.
“No, sire,” the herald stuttered.
Richard’s lips tensed and thinned. His eyes flashed, and his fist hit the table. “I don’t care for your insolence or your unbecoming face,” he roared. “Guards, restrain that vile plebian.”
Two of Richard’s bodyguards seized the herald and held him firm.
Richard gingerly removed his three rings from his right hand. He placed them discreetly on an oak table. He daintily picked up a loaded crossbow and walked up to the herald so that he could stare into his terrified eyes. Richard’s gaze was chilling as he just stared, contemplating. He then raised the crossbow.
“Doctor Foster went to Gloucester,
In a shower of rain.
He stepped in a piddle,
Right up to his middle—”
At the word, ‘middle’ a bolt made of hazel flew from the crossbow. The herald’s right eye exploded. The bolt exited through the back of his skull, and he fell limp onto the cold stone floor. Richard finished the rhyme: “and never went there again.”
“Get that man out of my sight,” Richard ordered as if nothing of any consequence had just happened. He then continued with his battlefield deployment instructions.
Chapter 38
August 20, 1485
Merevale Abbey, near Atherstone, Warwickshire
Henry’s Headquarters
KOJIRO HAD TROUBLE remembering gaijin names and as the war council assembled, he asked Simon for a reminder.
“You know who Henry is; I should hope that I don’t have to remind you of that. Next to him is his uncle, Jasper Tudor. Going around the room, you have the Earl of Oxford, who is an experienced campaigner and likely to plan much of the strategy; Gilbert Talbot, an English lord and a tough bastard with a sword in his hand; Philibert de Chandee, who leads the French troops; Rhys Ap Thomas, whom I’m sure you can’t forget; and John Savage, another English lord.”
“Henry, Jasper, Oxford, Phil, Gil, Tom, and John,” Kojiro neatly summarized.
“That’s it.”
‘Gil’ spoke first. “The local sheriff tells us that an old Roman road called Fenn Lane leads straight east across the marsh. There’s a bridge over the creek in the marsh, and we would only be able to get men five abreast on the bridge. It would be a great place for Richard to bottle us up and shoot
us to pieces with his cannons.”
Talbot, although only a recent addition to the cause, was proving invaluable. An Englishman, and a man well known for his steadfastness in battle, he was able to utilize assets in the English countryside much as Rhys Ap Thomas had done in Wales.
“What’s your recommendation, Oxford?” Henry deferred to the veteran soldier.
Out of courtesy, Lord Oxford had waited to be asked, and was pleased to see that the young king hopeful had the good sense to ask him. “I believe they have to cover the road since it’s the most direct route past their flank and on to London. That, however, may give us a chance to even out the odds a little.”
“How so?” Henry asked.
“They’ll want us on that road and at the marsh before they strike, so it’s too late for us to withdraw. I am fairly sure that’s why Talbot’s intelligence tells us that Lord Northumberland waits out of sight, east of the marsh. He doesn’t want to come upon us too quickly and ruin his chances of trapping us on the narrow road. If we can freeze Northumberland where he sits with a feint towards that bridge, and we can wheel quickly left around the marsh, we may be able to attack the remainder of Richard’s forces and carry the day before Northumberland is able to support.”
Oxford frowned at the map. “We will still be outnumbered without the aid of the Stanleys, but we should have a fighting chance, and our right flank will be secured by the marsh. Northumberland would have to push his troops over that same narrow bridge in order to outflank us to the right, and I know the man; he puts caution in the word ‘cautious.’ Furthermore, if Northumberland moved to our right, it would expose his left flank to the Stanleys who are sitting pretty up on those hills. I don’t think Richard has any better idea than we do what those dawdling Stanleys have in mind.”
“What if Richard decides to station his whole army east of the marshes and wait for us?” Henry asked.
Lord Oxford liked the question; it showed that Henry had at least a rudimentary grasp of tactics, and knew how to think for himself. “He could do so, but he’s coming from Nottingham in the northeast, and he’d be passing a considerable amount of high ground, including a particularly large hill called Ambion, in order to do so.
“If he were to move his entire army east of the marshes, we would be able to maneuver left and take the high ground north of him. That would create the threat of bypassing his army entirely to the north and marching on London, something he could not allow. Given those circumstances, he would have to attack us on the high ground, giving us the ability to utilize interior defensive lines which might offset our inferiority in numbers.”
Oxford looked at the faces around him. “Whatever else may be said of Richard, he has a very good military mind. He did not attain his current status through birthright alone. I expect him to keep the majority of his forces between us and that high ground to the northeast.”
“Then why wouldn’t he just block the road with his left flank and wait for us on the high ground?” Henry inquired. “Then he would have superior numbers and the interior lines you talked about.”
“Well, he might. And we shall have to be prepared for that as well. But there are two factors that lead me to believe that he will not. First, the hilltop at Ambion is not wide, and if he were to line the hilltop it would have to be in a compact formation. A compact formation would negate the flanking advantage that his numbers give him. I fully expect him to spread his forces out in a long line, and thereby seek to envelop our flank or perhaps even both flanks.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound promising,” Henry said, but before pursuing that train of thought, he asked, “And the second reason?”
“Tradition, my lord, tradition; if there’s anything we English care for more than tradition, I don’t know what it is. And traditionally, opposing armies line up across from each other on a wide field and beat the hell out of each other until one side gives in. That field is here.” Lord Oxford stabbed his index finger onto a point on the map labeled ‘Redmor Plain.’ “This field is north of the marsh and south of the hills. It would allow Richard to block any attempt for us to reach the hills, use his superior numbers to outflank us, and it would follow ‘tradition.’”
“Okay, I can see your logic, so how do we avoid the flanking you mentioned?”
“We’re fighting at least double our number,” Oxford said, “so I don’t think we can avoid the fact that if they deploy in an extended line, they will be able to flank us. What we can do is plant our right flank at the edge of this marsh, which should secure it, then deploy in thick column formations and hope we can break through their extended lines before they completely turn our left flank. We’ll need to harass their flanking movements on our left with cavalry while we try to punch through.”
Henry was intelligent enough to see Oxford’s plan as their best option, but he had another old warrior to consult. “Uncle Jasper, what do you think?”
“I think it’s a sound plan. Just be aware, nephew, that you must be prepared to adapt your plans quickly as battlefield conditions change.”
“So everyone has told me.” Henry smiled at his uncle as he said this. “Oxford, you will lead the vanguard, and I give you the authority to adjust the deployment of your command as you see fit.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Oxford replied and bowed dutifully.
“Savage, your cavalry and my exiles will hold Oxford’s left flank. Be prepared to set a pike wall if the cavalry does not hold.”
“Yes, my lord,” John Savage answered as he also bowed.
“Lang, I trust that you have no objection to fighting alongside your fellow Englishmen with Savage on the far left flank?”
“I will be honored to do so,” Simon replied.
“Philibert, you will be at the center of the vanguard, and Rhys, you and Talbot will hold the right. But Rhys, I will need your Welsh cavalry to support the far left, and with your permission, I will assign them to Savage.”
“Of course, my lord,” Rhys replied. Simon noticed that Rhys exhibited none of the rebellious swagger that he had on their initial meeting. I suppose that’s because his head is on the line here, too, he mused.
“Bon” was all that Philibert said, but he gave a grand bow to go with his answer.
Lord Oxford spoke again. “Crossbows, longbows, and handgunners to the front, pikes to support them. If we have time we’ll bring the French cannons to bear. The English have likely already set their own artillery pieces, so we may not have the time. Swords and axes will move behind the pikes and break out when the opportunity presents itself. Longbows will start in front and withdraw to the rear. Most of us here have done this before. Are there any questions about the tactics to be used, gentlemen?”
Jasper Tudor, Gilbert Talbot, John Savage, Philibert de Chandee and Rhys Ap Thomas were all experienced campaigners and Lord Oxford’s plan for battle gave pause to none of them. But it did give pause to one person in the room.
Kojiro did not feel that he had the standing to address the meeting directly, merely being the servant of a minor noble at the war council, but he forced his fingers strongly into a pressure point in Simon’s shoulder, causing the broad-shouldered knight to flinch.
As the brief yet excruciating pain came and went, Simon knew Kojiro had a thought worthy of his attention. Simon just wished for the sake of his shoulder that his friend was a little less shy about public speech.
Henry noticed the champion of the Paris tournament flinch. “You have a thought, Simon? I would hear your thoughts.”
Oxford, Talbot, and Savage seemed annoyed by the delay, but Rhys and Jasper looked intently at Simon. He hesitated, not only because of his company, but because Kojiro had yet to tell him what the hell he thought.
Philibert de Chandee gave Simon additional prodding. “This man is held in the highest regard by the captain of the Garde Écossaise, I too would hear his thoughts.” With this endorsement, Oxford, Talbot, and Savage appeared to become slightly less annoyed.
Kojiro spo
ke softly in Japanese to Simon, and Simon pointed out the small detail that Kojiro had suggested.
Lord Oxford no longer seemed annoyed. “I agree. It would be prudent to post pikemen there.” Oxford looked up from the map at the strange foreigner who attended Lord Lang and thought to himself, There’s a lot below the surface of that impassive face, isn’t there?
Chapter 39
August 21, 1485
Outside Lord Thomas Stanley’s camp at the village of Dadlington
“SO, LITTLE BROTHER, the king has already deemed you a traitor,” Lord Stanley stated as he poured a glass of claret for his brother and himself.
There were no servants to pour their wine in the forest clearing because, officially, Lord Stanley and his brother were on opposing sides, and Lord Stanley knew that servants could not keep their mouths shut. Both Stanleys had brought a handful of loyal men to the meeting, just enough to keep from getting ambushed while traveling away from their respective camps.
And both brothers had very loyal men. Their men were loyal because their leaders did not join conflicts overly hastily. Every man in England and Wales knew that the Stanley family always picked the winning side, and if no winning side obviously presented itself, the Stanleys were not opposed to having their men sit out an entire battle. So, if you fought for the Stanleys, you either won your battles and were richly rewarded, or you didn’t fight at all and preserved your hide. That created great loyalty amongst the Stanley battle hosts.
“So I’ve heard, big brother, so I’ve heard.”
“Of course, if you were to come in on Richard’s side at just the right moment, I’m guessing your status as a traitor would be revoked and you would be justly rewarded.”
William Stanley laughed. “I could then make the case that I aided Henry in order to lure him into a trap.”
Lord Stanley grinned back. “Quite so, and if you were to set up just south of Henry’s right flank, north of the village of Stoke Golding, you could roll Henry’s flank after he engages Richard.”