He slammed his fist against his thigh in frustration. There was still the Stanleys and Northumberland to reckon with. If he advanced against Oxford, they would move against him, close around his embattled troops like the jaws of a trap.
Then he saw it. The pikemen on Oxford’s right flank had advanced too far, over the heaped bodies of Yorkists, leaving a wide gap between them and the edge of the marsh.
Richmond’s dragon banner was clearly visible through the gap. The pretender was exposed, his person guarded by just a few knights and a rabble of footmen.
Richard dismissed the latter. His household guards would sweep them away, ride over their heads in a single charge.
“Salazar,” he said, drawing himself up, “we thank you for your service and concern, but God forbid I yield me one step. This day I shall die as King of England, or win.”
He turned to the faithful Ratcliffe. “Sir Richard, my old friend,” he said, “hand me my lance, and set high the Crown Royal on my head. We shall go forward and strike down the pretender into the dust.”
*
From his vantage point at the head of Richmond’s footmen, Martin witnessed the impossible.
At first he thought his eyes deceived him. The huge Plantagenet banner, displaying the golden pards and silver fleurs-de-lys, was on the move.
In all his years as a mercenary, Martin had never known a monarch to put himself in danger on the battlefield. Even King Matthias, his old employer, always stayed well to the rear until the fighting was over. If the king fell, all was lost.
He saw Richard, a slender figure in silver armour mounted on a white destrier, the sunlight glinting off the heavy gold crown on his helm. His surcoat displayed the Plantagenet arms, and in his right hand he carried a heavy red battle-lance.
Behind Richard came his household knights, eighty men in full plate, a tide of steel and coat-armour, the ground shuddering under the tread of their horses.
“God help us,” Martin whispered. He saw the mistake. A gap had opened up between Oxford’s right flank and the marsh, wide enough for a squadron of horse to charge through.
Damn those pikemen! They should have held their ground!
He glanced quickly down the line. Richmond had entrusted him with sixty footmen, the survivors of The Company of the Talon mixed with a few Frenchmen and Bretons. Enough to form a double rank of pikes, with a handful of arquebusiers on the flanks.
“Henrik,” he said to his one-armed adjutant, “form double line of battle.”
The Bavarian shouted orders, while Martin looked around for Henry Tudor. To his horror, the pretender cantered towards him, with just his uncle and Sir William Brandon, brother of Thomas and an enormous knight who had been given the honour of carrying the dragon standard, for company.
“What in hells do you think you’re doing?” shouted Martin, “get back behind your knights, and stay there!”
“I must stand with your men,” said Henry, his lean face pale as a sheet, “and be seen to resist Richard’s charge. Else our troops might lose heart.”
Martin lost his temper. “They will lose more than that if you get killed!” he howled, “withdraw, at once!”
He pointed to the rear of the line as though he meant to throw Henry there personally. Old memories of Edward of Lancaster, cut to pieces by Yorkist blades as he tried to lead a futile counter-attack at Tewkesbury, flooded into his mind.
Martin knew that Richmond had never fought anyone in earnest, and wouldn’t stand a chance against Richard Plantagenet in single combat. His job was to stay well to the rear, out of danger, until the fight was done.
Whatever else he might be, Henry was no fool. “You know your business, Master Bolton,” he said, “I will yield to your wishes. Later, perhaps, we can discuss your manner of addressing a king.”
He turned his horse and rode back to his little group of knights, followed by Pembroke and Brandon. Martin breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to the matter in hand.
What he saw robbed him of breath. He had faced many cavalry charges, but none with such mindless fire and dash as this one. Richard and his knights had galloped straight past Oxford’s men, and closed on the dragon standard.
On Martin and his men. “Hold!” he shouted, struggling to make his voice heard above the storm of hoofs, “hold! Wait for the word…wait…”
“BRACE!”
The twenty-foot pikes dropped into position, first line held horizontally, second at an angle, to present a wall of points.
Martin stood just behind the centre of the second line, sabre in hand, and willed himself not to flinch. The Yorkist knights still came on at a furious pace, careless of death.
Richard’s lance dropped into rest. Martin fancied the steel tip was aimed straight at his heart.
The shock of the impact almost knocked him off his feet. For a few seconds, stretching into eternity, the world dissolved into chaos – screeching horses, armoured bodies flung into the air or impaled on pikes, shattered lances and broken men, the crackle of gunfire, the stench and sight of spilled blood and entrails.
Martin wiped away a spray of red foam over his eyes, and saw the Yorkist charge had foundered. With appalling courage, Richard’s knights had spurred their horses against the steel fence. Some of the beasts shied away, others were skewered, and their riders with them. One or two men were felled by the hail of fire from the arquebusiers, hot lead shot piercing fine-wrought steel.
So much for the first wave of knights. The second came on regardless, galloped over the bodies of their comrades, hurled themselves at the slender wall of pikes. Holes appeared in the line where the sheer weight of horses and riders bludgeoned a way through.
Where was Richard? Where was the King? Martin’s heart clenched as he saw the slender figure of the Plantagenet, followed by his standard bearer, plunge straight towards Henry Tudor. Richard had somehow got through the pikes unhurt. His lance was broken, so he dropped it and unlooped his battle-axe.
“Hold the line!” Martin shouted into Henrik’s ear, and sprinted away, towards the dragon standard.
He saw Sir Thomas Brandon put himself between the King and Richmond. It seemed an absurd mismatch. Brandon was twice the size and weight of Richard.
The sun flashed once, twice, on Richard’s axe. Brandon fell from his saddle, his helmet a mangled ruin. Henry’s standard slipped from his steel fingers, and the Red Dragon of Cadwalader fluttered to earth.
If the Yorkists captured the standard, that was the end. Panic, the lethal poison that spelled a swift death for any army, would course through the veins of the Lancastrian soldiers, destroy all order and discipline and murder their courage.
The standard was just a few feet away, draped forlornly on the grass. Martin dived under the belly of a destrier and threw himself on top of it.
“To me!” a rough voice with a heavy Welsh accent screamed, “give the banner to me – quickly!”
Martin rolled onto his back and looked up to see one of Richmond’s knights, Rhys Fawr judging by his great size, reach down with his free hand. Martin held the standard up to him. The knight grasped a handful of canvas and heaved it athwart his saddle.
“Saint George! God for King Richard! A York, a York!”
These cries filled Martin’s ears. He propped himself up his elbow and looked for the source.
All around him was chaos and death. The Yorkists had broken through the pikes, at tremendous cost, but Henry’s mounted bodyguards fought back with desperate ferocity. Henry himself stayed behind his men, guarded by Pembroke.
Cold fury filled Martin as he spied Richard. The sun gleamed off the circlet on the king’s helm as his axe cut bloody lanes through the Lancastrian footmen who tried to claw him from the saddle.
Sir John Cheney, another huge knight and a famous tournament champion, galloped straight at Richard, mace raised to crush the smaller man’s helm like an eggshell.
Richard ducked. The mace swept through empty air. His axe dashed into Cheney’s visor
and split the steel. Blood flowed through the bars, but Cheney was not quite done. He attempted to seize Richard by the throat and drag him out of the saddle. The terrible axe flashed again and beat him to earth.
Martin struggled to his feet. It appeared he was going to have to kill Richard himself.
Pembroke moved forward, his nephew’s last line of defence against the royal angel of death. Excellent. While Richard slew the old man, Martin could cut him down from behind.
A fresh wave of noise swept across the field. Martin heard the scream of trumpets, mingled with the thunder of hoofs and massed battle-cries.
The field was engulfed by soldiers in red livery coats, an avalanche of billmen, swordsmen and halberdiers. The golden stag’s head badge of Stanley whirled and blurred before Martin’s eyes.
“A Stanley!” was the cry, “a Stanley! Death to the usurper!”
The usurper. Which one? The answer soon became clear as Sir William Stanley’s retainers swarmed around Richard. They cut and hacked at his lonely figure. Barely a sword’s length from Richmond, he was swept away, still fighting with demonic fury.
Martin was desperate to be in at the kill. He limped past Richard’s standard bearer, who still held aloft the banner of England, even though both his legs were axed off at the knee. Everywhere the Yorkists fought and died, while their enemies clustered around Richard like flies on a carcase.
The king’s horse panicked and carried her master straight into the marsh, where the terrified beast ploughed to a halt, fetlock-deep in mud. Stanley’s men followed. One, a big broad-chested halberdier, shouted in Welsh as he chopped through the horse’s front legs. She collapsed into the mire and tipped Richard out of the saddle.
“No!” Martin yelled, terrified Richard might die by another’s hand, “he is mine! Mine, mine, mine!”
The king was on his knees, surrounded by Stanley’s retainers. His helm came off, exposed his battered face, long black hair slathered in blood and filth.
Blood flowed from his broken nose and broken teeth. “Treason!” he shouted, over and over. “Treason!”
Martin seized a billman by the neck and hurled him aside. He would kill Richard. He was destined to kill Richard. Nothing less would lay the ghosts of his kin.
There were too many bodies in the way. Martin slipped, cursed, looked down and saw the crown of England. The heavy circlet of gold had rolled off Richard’s helm and almost impaled his foot.
For one insane moment he was tempted to snatch it up and place it on his own head. Why not?
King Martin the First!
Instead he kicked out and sent the evil thing, bane of so many good men, spinning away under a patch of nettles.
Richard had vanished from view. Martin caught a brief glimpse of a halberd, raised like an executioner’s blade, before it swooped down and met Richard’s head with a crunch of bone.
Fresh shouts rolled back and forth across the field.
“Richard Plantagenet, slain! Richard Plantagenet, slain!”
*
Elizabeth rode serenely across the battlefield on her way to Leicester.
King Henry’s victorious troops had long since departed for the city. They left a wide, flat plain strewn with the corpses of men and horses. Late afternoon sunlight spread across the dreadful scene like liquid gold, picking out the scavengers come to pick at the slain: wolves, crows, a few opportunistic peasants from nearby villages.
None dared to molest her. At first glance, Elizabeth could be taken for a knight, since she rode a stolen destrier and wore a few pieces of stolen armour. The bits of metal served well enough as a disguise, though they hung awkwardly from her slender frame.
Horse and armour were courtesy of Sir Geoffrey Malvern. He had no further use for them.
Elizabeth had insisted on accompanying her uncle to England, instead of staying behind at Rouen. He had made some disapproving noises, but knew her well enough by this point not to argue.
“When it comes to battle,” he said sternly, “you will stay well clear. My conscience is sufficiently loaded with death. I will not add yours to the burden.”
She obeyed, and when the army marched from Atherstone rode out to watch the battle from a clump of woodland, the only available cover for miles.
God (or the Devil, she cared not which) sent the knight of the green wyvern straight to her. At first Malvern rode too quickly, but she managed to keep pace with him until his courser slowed to a trot.
With wolfish stealth, she dismounted and loped through the undergrowth, careful to keep low and out of sight. Malvern seemed to have no idea where he was going, and Elizabeth was quick enough to skirt the edge of the wood and climb a tree near its western edge.
“Sir Geoffrey Malvern, I have you now.”
She dropped on him like a cat on its prey. They both crashed to earth. Elizabeth rolled clear, knife in hand, and rose into a crouch, expecting Geoffrey to make a fight of it.
He didn’t. Not at all. Instead the craven went down on his knees and wept. Pleaded for his life from a woman less than half his size and weight.
Quite the humiliation, for a trained knight at arms. Still, Elizabeth would tell no tales. Nor would Geoffrey. The noseless, tongueless, blinded, gelded thing she left to bleed on the grass was in no condition to speak.
Afterwards, she watched the final stages of the battle from the verge. She saw Richard die, hacked to death in the marsh, and Sir William Stanley pick up the fallen crown and place it on Henry Tudor’s head.
Henry Tudor. King Henry the Seventh, first of a new dynasty to rule England. Would he bring peace, or war? She knew not, and cared even less. She had her revenge.
When she reached the road, Elizabeth halted and took out her knife. It was the same one she had used to cut pieces from Geoffrey’s quaking body. The same used to gut fish in Calais market.
The knife had served its purpose now. Elizabeth dropped it by the roadside and rode on to Leicester, singing under her breath.
“This hawk stoops to gather you all...”
Chapter 23
STOKE
16th June 1487
“Fight well this day, Bolton, and you shall have your inheritance.”
These words were spoken by King Henry to Martin at Nottingham, where the royal army rested before advancing to meet the rebels.
No mere rebels, Martin reminded himself. Yorkists. Almost two years after Bosworth, and the death of Richard of Gloucester, England was at war again.
Lord Jesus, Martin prayed, let this be the final clash of arms. Here, today, on this ground, let the old feud be settled.
Let me finally win back my lands, and the trust of my sovereign.
After two years of the new Tudor regime, Martin was uncertain what kind of man he had helped to place on England’s throne. So far Henry had shown himself to be ruthless, intelligent, secretive, cold, crafty and calculating. He trusted very few, and appeared to trust Martin Bolton not at all.
Since Bosworth he had kept Martin at court, like a pet, and used him as a messenger and general errand-boy. Martin constantly petitioned for his lands to be returned, to which Henry responded with vague promises and an occasional gift of money, barely enough to pay the living expenses of Martin and his sister.
Martin blamed himself. All could have been different if he had offered his sword cheap to Henry in Brittany, instead of demanding high wages; if he had accepted the knighthood when Henry offered it; if he had not spoken harshly to Henry on the field at Bosworth...
If, if if. These mistakes were all in the past. Not worth dwelling upon. Martin had an opportunity, on this day, on this field, to prove his worth to the Tudor, and win back the lands his forebears lost.
Before him, drawn up on an escarpment about quarter of a mile to the south, was the Yorkist army. Martin could not help a twinge of unease as he shaded his eyes to gaze up at their array.
According to royalist scouts, the Yorkists had gathered eight or nine thousand men. Martin reckoned that tally was abo
ut right. Over half that number was made up of Irish levies, along with recruits picked up on their march through northern England.
He was little concerned with these men. The Irish were pitiable wretches, ill-trained and poorly-armed, with barely a helm or coat of mail between them. They made a hellish noise, for all that, and their inhuman screeches and barbaric war-songs swept across the misted green fields of Nottinghamshire.
“Schwartz,” Martin muttered to himself, “God love him. God curse him.”
The core of the Yorkist army, the real fighting troops so far as Martin was concerned, were two thousand German and Swiss mercenaries. Their commander was Martin’s namesake, and a man he admired more than any other captain of the age: Martin Schwartz, the shoemaker’s son of Augsburg.
Martin shuddered as he looked over the mercenaries, who formed the centre of the Yorkist array. Armoured pike and billmen, supported by divisions of crossbowmen and arquebusiers. A few of these men had probably fought for Henry Tudor at Bosworth. Such were the ironies of war.
The giant figure of Schwartz himself was clearly visible in the front rank of pikes. He had tucked his helmet underarm, and his long fair hair fluttered in the cold morning breeze. Unlike most soldiers, who preferred to shave their heads in the pudding-basin style, Schwartz let his hair grow, careless of fashion or safety.
Martin was tempted to salute the man. Instead he turned to the Earl of Oxford, whom the King had placed in command of the royalist vanguard. As at Bosworth, the faithful old Lancastrian war-hound would lead the line.
“What do you make of them, Bolton?” asked the earl. Despite the vast gulf in rank between them, the two men had become friends. Oxford was unusually humble for a nobleman of high estate, and respected good fighting men, whatever their degree.
“The Irish kerns will fight like mad dogs at close quarters,” replied Martin, “I suggest we thin them out, now, while they stand on the ridge making that fearful racket. They have little armour. There are fewer Englishmen among the Yorkist ranks than we feared. Some northern knights and their retainers, no better or worse than our own soldiers.”
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