Apart from the gentry and their soldiers, there was some support from the native people. Supplies poured in to help feed the growing army, herds of fat stock, oxen and sheep and cows, driven by local farmers.
Henry was encouraged, but also bore in mind those who failed to join him.
“Nothing from the Vaughans,” he said, “and no word as yet from the Lord Rhys. We fear he has played us false.”
“The Vaughans have always been staunch Yorkists,” replied Pembroke, “others will hang back, supporting neither us or the usurper, until they see how the dice fall. It is always the same in war. Most men are reluctant to risk all they have, lives and homes and families, unless forced to.”
He had nothing to say on the Lord Rhys, and Henry’s fears returned. They grew as the army marched further east, towards Shrewsbury and the English border.
His scouts spotted Rhys’ banners advancing north from Newtown. Fearing an attack, Henry mustered all his available forces in battle array, outside the walls of Welshpool, and there waited in trepidation.
“God grant we don’t have to fight a battle on Welsh soil,” he said, nervously fiddling with his reins. It was a baking August day, and he felt hot and uncomfortable inside his armour. In their haste to arm him, his squires had drawn some of the straps too tight, and he was having difficulty breathing.
The moment of crisis passed. Lord Rhys appeared at the head of five hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms, with no hostile intent. As at Dale, he knelt in the mud at Henry’s feet and swore loyalty.
“All these men are yours, my liege,” he said, spreading a hand to indicate his soldiers, “I hoped to raise more, but time pressed.”
Henry’s thoughts now turned to Lord Stanley, his mother’s husband, and Stanley’s brother Sir William. The army had swelled to some five thousand men, but Richard could raise at least double that number. Only the Stanleys, as magnates of immense power and influence in the north-west of England and the March, could supply Henry with the extra troops he needed.
If Henry didn’t receive all the support he bargained on, at least there was little in the way of resistance. Shrewsbury closed its gates to his army for a single night, but this proved a token gesture, and the gates were opened at dawn.
Before reaching Shrewsbury, Henry took the opportunity to write to his mother, Lord Stanley and Sir Gilbert Talbot, a knight on the English side of the border who had sent secret letters of friendship and support to Henry in France.
Replies from his mother and her husband awaited him at Shrewsbury, in the form of hopeful letters and several wagons loaded with armour, weapons and barrels full of money.
“Arms and funds,” said Henry as he read through the correspondence, “useful, but Stanley won’t commit himself any further. Mark this phrase, uncle. He will be ready to do his duty, if you please, when the time is convenient.”
He threw the letter on the floor. “When the time is convenient! When, pray, will that be? After Richard has reduced my army to so much chopped liver, and I am a hunted fugitive again?”
Pembroke bent down, wincing at the crackle in his joints, and picked up the letter. “Thomas Stanley was ever a careful creature,” he said, “which is why he still lives, while the heads of so many of his peers decorate pikes. Look, he says here that Richard has taken his son hostage. He must be wary, else Lord Strange’s head is forfeit.”
“I know,” Henry said irritably, “I read it. The usurper is bluffing. He would not dare make an enemy of the Stanleys. Of all the great lords of England, he can only rely on Norfolk.”
This was one of Henry’s great hopes. True, Richard was able to call on more men, but the usurper was said to be unpopular everywhere except in the north. There was a fair chance his soldiers might prove disloyal, and abandon him on the field even if they obeyed his summons.
Besides Norfolk, Richard’s other important ally was Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Henry’s mind briefly turned to him. Percy was the latest scion of a spectacularly unlucky family. His father had been killed in battle at Towton, and his grandfather at Saint Albans. Both died fighting for the Lancastrians. Might the current earl remember old loyalties, and turn against his master at the crucial moment?
Ifs and maybes. Henry loathed uncertainties, and always did everything in his power to balance the odds in his favour. Currently he was a rank outsider, and could do little to effect the outcome except pray.
The odds improved a little when he moved on to Newport, to find five hundred men led by Sir Gilbert Talbot waiting to join him. These were the first Englishmen to join him since he landed, and Talbot was a worthy man to have on his side: a descendent of Lord Talbot, a famous soldier who covered himself in glory in the French wars.
Still there was no word from the Stanleys. Henry pressed on towards Stafford, half-expecting Richard’s host to appear on the horizon at any moment. His enemy was based at Nottingham, and apparently content to stay there, allowing Henry to enter English territory unopposed.
A lone messenger came galloping from the woods to the south. He wore no livery, but soon revealed his master.
“Sir William Stanley will meet you near Tamworth, Majesty,” he said, “though not inside the town. He insists on a private parley.”
Once again, Henry was forced to gamble against his will and instincts. “How many men does he have with him?” he demanded.
“Only a small retinue. My lord recommends you bring no more than ten men for an escort. The country is alive with Richard’s spies. They may spot anything larger.”
In the event Henry took twenty. He chose Martin Bolton for their captain. As one who fought for pay rather than promises, refused a knighthood and seemed to harbour a genuine hatred for Yorkists, Henry felt he could at least trust this man with some confidence.
“Stay close to me during the parley, Bolton,” he instructed, “Sir William Stanley is about as trustworthy as a snake, and looks ever to his own profit. Richard would reward him handsomely for putting a knife in my back.”
The weather had steadily grown worse since they marched into England. Henry took it for a bad omen, and was in poor spirits when he rode out of his camp, into the gloom and damp of the Staffordshire hills.
They rode in silence for a couple of miles, led by Stanley’s envoy. He guided them through desolate countryside, barren hills and fields with the lights of the occasional house visible in the mist, until they reached a stretch of woodland.
“Christ save us,” muttered Henry as they rode slowly through the damp trees, “does Stanley have to be quite so secretive? Richard cannot have spies lurking behind every tree.”
“It is best to be cautious, sire,” the envoy replied politely. Henry agreed. He glanced significantly at Bolton, who urged his horse a little closer and kept a tight grip on his sword.
They eventually found Sir William Stanley and his retinue in the heart of the wood. Stanley, a tall, thin man with buttery yellow hair and a face that put Henry in mind of a sheep,stood under the shelter of a giant oak.
Henry made a swift head-count of his men. Just seven, armed retainers wearing Stanley’s badge of three golden stag’s heads on a blue bend. They looked glum, and soaked through, and not obviously inclined to assassinate anyone.
He relaxed slightly. Stanley strode forward, offered his hand, and remembered at the last moment to kneel and bow his head.
“Majesty,” he said.
“Sir William,” replied Henry, “we are glad to meet you at last, but why here, in this benighted forest, and not Tamworth?”
“Impossible, sire. Richard keeps a close watch on my movements, and those of my brother. One misstep, and my nephew would lose his head.”
Stanley’s watery blue eyes were guileless. Was he speaking truth, or was this all part of some elaborate ruse? He and his brother had always looked to their own interests first and foremost.
Henry decided not to argue. He needed this man, and could not risk offending him.
“How many men hav
e you raised?” he asked.
“Three thousand. My brother has a similar number.”
Six thousand! More than enough to weigh the scales against Richard.
“When will you bring them over to us?”
“Not yet, sire. When the time is right.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. He knew all about the Stanley brothers. They had played this trick before. At Blore Heath, almost a quarter of a century ago, Lord Stanley had kept his men out of the battle until the issue was almost decided. They were like a pair of carrion birds, circling battlefields until it was safe to descend and feed on the dead.
Henry could have screamed at the man, but held his temper. “Why, then, did you ask for this meeting?”
“My brother wished me to send you further assurances of his friendship and support,” Stanley replied blandly, “and to ask Your Majesty to confirm your oath to marry Elizabeth of York, once the usurper is defeated.”
Henry could scarce believe his ears. “Confirm our oath?” he said, “the solemn oath we took in Vannes Cathedral, on Christmas Day, before a gathering of lords and prelates?”
The other man had the grace to look embarrassed. “Forgive me, sire, but neither I nor my brother were present at Vannes on that day. There have been rumours – false rumours, I am sure, lies spread by your enemies – that the oath was not sworn in earnest.”
Henry drew in a sharp breath. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, “you may inform Lord Stanley that we do intend to wed Elizabeth of York, and thus unite the splintered Houses of Lancaster and York.”
Stanley nodded. “My thanks, Majesty. I will convey your answer to my brother. He will meet with you before battle is joined.”
They parted on courteous terms. Quietly seething, Henry rode back through the woods with his escort.
The accursed man spoke to me as though he was an equal! His brother had the effrontery to ask – no, demand – if I intended to keep my word!
Despite his anger, he appreciated the problem.The Stanleys knew how important they had become. There lay the root of their arrogance. Henry knew a sharp cure for it. Once he was king, he would keep these high lords on a short leash. Seize or raze their castles, take away their private armies, encumber them with bonds and debts. England had suffered quite enough from the pretensions of its nobility.
“Majesty,” Martin Bolton’s voice cut into his thoughts, “I don’t recognise this path.”
Henry stopped and looked around. Night was coming down with terrifying speed, plunging all into shadow. Rain pattered through the canopy of the woods, but otherwise all was eerily silent.
“Damn these trees,” he muttered, “they all look the same.”
Stanley’s envoy had stayed with his lord, otherwise he might have guided them back. Cursing his lack of foresight, Henry glared down at the path. It was just a rough, narrow track, vanishing into the thick undergrowth ahead.
He almost laughed. What would Richard make of him now? The pretender to the crown, wandering lost in the forest like a confused child!
Bolton’s coarse face was white with anxiety. “Possibly that way, sire,” he said, pointing vaguely to his left.
Left or right, it all looked disturbingly similar to Henry, but he had no better ideas. “Lead on, then,” he said.
They wandered aimlessly for another half an hour or so, but there seemed no end to the woods. Most of Henry’s guards were Frenchmen, and they muttered darkly among themselves, no doubt imagining all sorts of English demons lurking in the bracken. Henry thanked God for the pale light of a half-moon lancing through the shadows, else they would have been lost in pitch darkness.
Eventually they came to the edge of the trees and a broad expanse of moor, wreathed in mist. It was cold, and raining, the kind of thin, whispering, incessant sort of rain only found in Britain.
Henry was distraught. He could see nothing through the mist, and had next to no idea of their location. Was this how his great adventure was fated to end, in farce? Perhaps they would blunder into a detachment of Yorkist soldiers, and there would be an end of it. Henry of Richmond, the Son of Prophecy, slain in a muddy field at the age of twenty-eight. Victim of a chance skirmish, after he got lost in the woods. Good for a ballad, perhaps.
He turned to Bolton. “The sea is not so very far,” he said conversationally, “I could ride away, this very instant, and find a boat to take me back to France. Or simply flee north, into Scotland, and beg King James to give me sanctuary. What do you think?”
If Bolton was shocked by the idea, he betrayed no sign of it. “The army cannot be far away, sire,” he said, “we will find them before dawn.”
“Will we, though?” Henry tilted his head up and closed his eyes, glorying in the cold kiss of rain. “Perhaps Richard’s soldiers will find us first. We must take the chance. I cannot run away, not now. How could I ever look my uncle in the eye again? Or Oxford, the faithful old war-horse. And mother - mother would not be impressed!”
They plodded on through the rain and murk. There were no lights, no stars in the sky, nothing to guide them save instinct. Henry despaired, grew tired of despair, and then merely tired.
He was drooping in his saddle, struggling to stay upright, when a horn sounded in the distance.
“Ah,” he mumbled, groping for his sword, “now for it. The heroic last stand.”
Riders thundered out of the darkness, a dozen men in full armour, moonlight glinting off their armour.
“Henry!” boomed their leader, “is that you? Answer me! We’ve been searching all night!”
Henry would have known the man’s voice anywhere, and his stout figure, more dear and familiar to him than any other.
“Uncle,” he called out weakly, “I am here.”
Chapter 22
BOSWORTH
22ndAugust 1485
It was ten o’clock, or thereabouts, and promised to be a foully hot day. Richard gulped down the last of the watered wine from his flask and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Here, Majesty,” said Juan de Salazar, offering Richard a fresh flask.
“My thanks, but no,” replied Richard, “but you can be of service. What do you make of the enemy dispositions?”
Salazar was a Spanish knight who had recently entered Richard’s employ. As one who had soldiered all over the Low Countries, and made a formidable name for himself, Richard respected his opinion.
The Spaniard shaded his eyes under his steel gauntlet and stared east, at the rebel army slowly advancing across the fields from the town of Atherstone.
“Their vanguard comes on well,” he murmured, “in close order. My lord of Oxford knows his business.”
The king’s slender frame shivered with excitement and fatigue. He had endured a sleepless night at Sutton Cheney, a little village to the west.
Why did he not sleep? Richard had longed for this day, the opportunity to crush the Tudor and his band of malcontents. Now the day had come, and his head felt like it was stuffed with wool.
All through the long hours of darkness he lay, tossing and turning on his camp bed, sometimes rising to slop down some wine in a vain effort to knock himself out.
…Prince Edward and Richard of York now sleep forever under the stair…
“Be silent!” Richard cried. A few of his knights, including Salazar and Sir Percival Thirlwall, Richard’s standard bearer, looked at him in surprise.
He ignored them. His mind was turned inward, focused on the horrors that had visited him when he finally sank into an uneasy slumber, just before dawn.
Richard dreamed of the princes. Hand-in-hand, their boyish figures skipped down the darkened corridors of the Tower, calling out his name.
Uncle Richard! Come and speak with us. No-one speaks with us now. Come, uncle. Speak with us.
His throat dried at the memory. In his dream, the boys had no faces. Eyes, mouths, noses - all gone, replaced by blank films of flesh. Yet still their piping voices echoed inside his skull.
“Well, S
alazar?” he said harshly, “what do you make of it?”
“As I said, sire,” the Spaniard replied in his soft voice, “they come on well. Richmond or his advisors have been wise enough to give the command to Oxford.”
“I can see that for myself,” Richard growled. The Earl of Oxford’s standard was clearly visible in the centre of the rebel vanguard.
They were less than a mile away now, advancing on Richard’s position across the flat plain to the east, with the road to Leicester on the extremity of their right flank. Some four to five thousand men, Richard estimated, the bulk of the rebel army, with smaller divisions in support on the flanks.
Anger flowed through him as he recognised the banners of the captains leading the support troops. Sir Gilbert Talbot had the right wing, and Sir John Savage the left.
“Traitors,” he spat. Both had defected to Richmond very recently. Fools. They would be dead by sundown. This day would see the end of traitors in England.
Richard looked to his front. His old comrade, the Duke of Norfolk, was in charge of the Yorkist vanguard. Twelve hundred men, arranged like a human fortress, with archers in the centre and spearmen on the flanks. The spearmen were buttressed by Richard’s artillery, over a score of serpentines and culverins, chained together to guard against enemy infantry.
“Thank you, Salazar,” said Richard, holding out his hand, “I will take your wine. Suddenly I have a thirst.”
Salazar passed it over. Richard drank, more slowly this time, as he watched the rebels come on.
Tudor himself was to the rear of their army, protected by a handful of knights and a few score footmen. Richard could see his red dragon banner. The beast seemed to leer at him, one crimson claw extended to tear out his throat.
He looked away. Too much wine, combined with nerves and exhaustion and heat. The steady thump-thump-thump of rebel drums drifted across the field. They made his tormented head pound. His old pain, just behind the eyes.
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