by Shayla Black
Nay, Aric did not want to fight this battle, but waiting chafed him. By the saints, he wanted this over, but he did not want a coward’s reprieve, either.
Soon, the Tudor army ceased its advance, straying not more than ten feet from their standard. Had the king’s army overpowered them so quickly and easily?
“What can you see, Belford?” the shorter Northumberland demanded, straining in vain from his saddle for a view.
“It looks as though Tudor’s army advances no more. I cannot see much of the king’s men,” he advised.
Northumberland scowled with impatience. “Ride to the hilltop and tell me more.”
“Will that not give our position away to Tudor’s scouts?”
His neighbor sent him a nasty glare. “The king himself put me in charge of this part of the attack. That is an order, Belford.”
Shrugging, Aric nudged his mount to the hilltop, only to find Tudor’s army seeming to struggle for is last breath.
In the midst of the royal army, King Richard attacked his horse’s flanks with his heels and charged forward, past his soldiers, into the open field. Shock zinged through Aric in a cold blast. By the saints, what could Richard be thinking?
Then he spotted Henry Tudor standing beside his standard-bearer slightly to the north of the battle. Richard saw his enemy alone and meant to take him.
Dear God.
With a vicious thrust, King Richard cut down the standard-bearer in a gush of blood and cries. Another man rushed to Tudor’s side to take up the flag, but Aric doubted the Welsh contender noticed.
Henry and King Richard fought hand to hand, with all the desperation and determination of two men fighting for a nation.
Each lashed his sword at the other. The clang of steel rang in the air as the soiled metal glinted in the wicked August sun. Around them, the king’s army advanced on Tudor’s, winning by sheer numbers.
But not for long.
Lord Stanley’s formidable forces, sitting to the side of King Richard’s, made a sudden flanking maneuver and began a surprising attack on the royal forces. Fresh into the battle, Stanley’s men charged the king’s knights, engaging them in a deadly struggle.
The match now appeared even.
Aric knew Lord Stanley’s army might—or might not—possess the strength to remove the crown’s true traitor from its throne. The fighting looked fierce indeed. But what if Lord Stanley should lose? What if King Richard punished the man as a traitor for doing what every God-fearing warrior with a conscience would do?
How would the senseless killings of the two princes ever be avenged?
He must not leave the future of the nation to the whims of fate and the might of another’s army. Aric wanted Henry Tudor on the throne. Nearly any man had to be more fit to bear the title of king than Richard.
And if he wanted Henry on the throne, he would have to fight for the cause, consequences be damned.
A feeling of peace settled in his belly, along with a surge of excitement. Aye, he should have decided this long ago, to cast his lot in with another man, one who had not learned the evil lessons the Plantagenet family had taught one another over the decades.
“What see you now?” Northumberland shouted.
Aric hesitated. Should he tell the odious earl the truth, the man would charge Lord Stanley’s forces with all haste.
Holding up a hand to stay the small contingent of warriors behind him, he said, “I must ride closer. I cannot say what transpires from here.”
Northumberland hesitated.
Aric began sweating beneath his armor and feared the earl would challenge him. “Unless you should like to ride into the melee yourself.”
Hoping the task would sound beneath Northumberland, Aric waited for his answer.
“I should not be seen.” His mouth pinched with displeasure, and Aric could not help but think he and Rowena would understand each other. “Go, but be careful who sees you.”
With a nod, Aric charged down the hill, circling the heart of the battle, before his neighbor could change his mind.
Around the side of the warring, he rode, skirting the muddy marsh, until he approached the rutted Roman road at the back.
He joined the army at Lord Stanley’s side, his sword raised.
Upon his approach, Lord Stanley turned to stare at him, shock visible in his blue eyes, which showed through his helmet.
“Be you friend or foe, White Lion?”
“Your friend, though I should have seen such sooner.”
“It matters not,” shouted Stanley, fighting off one of King Richard’s knights, then skewering the man. “Join us now!”
Retrieving his helmet, Aric secured it on his head, then raised his sword with a cry.
Into the fray, he charged, cutting down the king’s men in his path. His arm was strengthened by his resolve, by the certainty he did right.
Richard’s cruel reign would come to an end today.
Before him, Lord Oxford, the leader of Tudor’s frontal attack, charged King Richard’s van and set them on the run. As Aric thrust his blade into his enemy’s belly and pulled it free, he saw Northumberland’s troops in the distance making a frantic dash over the top of the hill toward the melee.
Nay! Those men could sway the battle to Richard’s favor.
Evil could not carry the day.
Aric charged toward Northumberland, determination to rid the battle of this new threat biting into his belly. The hot wind swept around him, dripping sweat into his face. Retreating opponents engaged his blade. With brutal efficiency, he dispatched each, feeling only his higher purpose—to stop the odious earl and save Henry Tudor’s cause.
Before he could reach the encroaching group, Northumberland, Stephen, and the other men stopped suddenly on the marshy plain. His brow furrowed in puzzlement, Aric watched as the earl shouted to one of his men, who quickly jumped off his horse and tried to guide Northumberland’s forward.
Naught happened.
Even from this distance, Aric could see Northumberland shouting, wildly cursing the man at his horse’s feet, all but jumping out of his saddle as he kicked the animal’s sides.
They were stuck!
Aric laughed, relieved that Northumberland and his men were tangled in the mire created by recent rains and the warfare. The earl continued to run, swinging his blade and cursing all roundly. He watched Stephen struggling to free himself and join the fray. Aric could only feel gladness at Stephen’s predicament, for here, away from the battle’s heat, his brother would be safe.
A commotion to Aric’s left caught his attention. Lord Stanley and his men now surrounded the king. Most of Richard’s army had retreated to its original position at the base of the hill, many suffering Northumberland’s piteous dilemma in the marshy soil.
The king stood alone amongst his enemies.
Stillness fell across the plain as all began to witness the unfolding drama.
“Bring me my battle-axe, and fix my crown upon my head,” cried Richard into the sudden silence. “For by him who shaped both sea and land, King of England this day will I die. And if none follow me, I will try the cause alone.”
No answering cry came from his army. No one came to the king’s aid.
Stanley and his men raised their swords and axes as one and hacked the life from the resourceful, conniving Richard, who made not a sound. The crown fell from his head.
The battle was done.
Relief and weariness seeped through Aric’s blood. Justice had been done, aye. But as he looked about the carnage on the Ambien plain, ’twas clear this new peace had come at an awful price. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, and some, still uncertain or uncaring that the battle was done, continued to make carnage on one another.
Once Lord Stanley made certain of the king’s demise, he sought the crown, the symbol of England’s power, and found it had rolled beneath a hawthorn bush beside a well.
With great flourish, he retrieved it and placed it upon Henry Tudor’s head.
Tudor, a plain, dark-haired man, accepted it with a hearty smile. “This is the true judgment of God, and I claim the throne of England by my right as victor!”
A cheer went up among the new king’s army. Aric joined in, shouting until his throat felt raw.
There was a rightness in this victory. Only time would tell Henry Tudor’s ability as king. But he would end this bloody war as one of the last Lancastrian men in the taking of Elizabeth of York as his bride.
He prayed that prosperity and peace would heal the land torn asunder by turmoil and strife for more than thirty years. He prayed that the souls of the slain princes would find peace and never be forgotten by England. And he prayed for his own future.
Now that the very man who had ordered the princes slain had met his own end this day, perhaps, Aric mused, he might be able to assemble his own happiness. Now that he had fought for the right and just, mayhap he could find absolution in that knowledge, along with Gwenyth’s embrace. For he had no doubt he loved his sweetly temperamental wife.
He wanted naught but to spend the rest of his days with her at Northwell, making laughter, babies, and love.
He wanted to leave the butchery now and return to her side, but the ugly business of war was not yet behind them. The new king would want all to swear fealty to him, something Aric was heartily glad to do.
In the aftermath, Drake and Kieran returned to Aric’s side, looking little worse for the battle. The trio watched as Tudor’s men stripped Richard’s body and tossed it over the saddle of his horse.
Drake placed a hand on his shoulder. “Here is your new king. Will you follow him?”
“’Tis for him I fought,” Aric answered.
“And damned good you did!” added Kieran. “You smile at last.”
With a wry grin, Aric said, “Aye. Well, do you leave now?”
Drake nodded. “We have done our duty to Guilford. This Henry is your king, not ours.”
“Where will you go?” he asked both his friends.
The determined glint in Drake’s eyes gave Aric pause. “To see to my revenge. ’Tis past time Murdoch pays for what he did to my father and to me.”
Aric nodded, trying to hide his concern. Now was not the time to dissuade Drake from such a foolhardy scheme, but soon…
“I shall return to Spain,” interjected Kieran. “There the senoritas are lovely, and Spaniards pay well for wicked sport!”
Biting back an admonition that would only fall on deaf ears, Aric patted his Irish friend on the back. “God go with you. Both of you.”
“And you,” said Drake.
“Keep you well, and Gwenyth, too,” instructed Kieran, his expression surprisingly sober.
With a hearty handshake and a final farewell, the men disappeared, one riding north to Scotland, the other south to London and the sea beyond.
He hoped somehow, someway, each could bury his demons and find happiness. But his hope looked bleak indeed.
With a sigh, Aric faced the present and followed Henry’s contingent as they headed northward with the fallen king’s corpse. Passerby stabbed or kicked the body as it passed the rest of the soldiers, then wound its way through Market Bosworth.
Aric turned away from the sight, supposing the crone on the bridge had been right; Richard’s head might well strike the sidewall his spurs had hit that very morn.
Before him, he witnessed Northumberland being arrested by Tudor’s soldiers. Though he felt no surprise at the act, for such was the way of new kings eager to secure their position, he wondered at the fate of his neighbor. Would the man be given leniency, as he never truly participated in the fighting? Or would he simply be executed as a traitor for supporting Richard all these years?
Stephen was nowhere in sight, and Aric could only pray he had managed to extricate himself from the marsh before the new king’s wrath descended on the old king’s army.
After traveling through Market Bosworth and beyond, the army arrived in Leicester. The victorious men stopped at a friary. Its old, gray stone walls, dotted with ivy and moss, rose majestically against the humid August noon.
The new king instructed that Richard’s near-naked body should be strung up where all could see. Northumberland and Richard’s other supporters had been taken away, presumably to the Tower of London. Again, Aric hoped Stephen had escaped.
As the remaining knights gathered on the friary’s grounds, Henry Tudor took his place at the front and demanded, “Kneel ye down, all who would call me king!”
Eager to serve a righteous sovereign and begin anew with his own lovely Gwenyth, Aric knelt in the soft grass, as did the others about him.
Tudor began making his way through the crowd, praising some men for their bravery, thanking the rest with a silent tap on the head. The sun belted down upon him. Not a breeze stirred, and he began to sweat anew beneath his armor.
Suddenly, Aric saw Henry’s boots before his very gaze, planted in the dirt and smeared with mud, reeds, and blood.
“Lord Belford, the White Lion?”
Aric looked up. “Aye, sire.”
“And do you now swear fealty to me as well?”
Nodding, Aric cast his gaze down respectfully once more. “I do, Your Highness.”
“After you refused my mother?”
“Forgive my error in judgment.”
Silence fell upon him. Aric fought the urge to look up into the king’s face, see if he might indeed be forgiven. But appearing so eager would only bespeak impertinence on his part, which he could ill afford.
“You long supported that Plantagenet prick. I do not think I shall forgive you. Arrest him!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After a rough, rushed journey to London, Aric found himself locked in the dark isolation of the Tower of London. In fact, locked in what had come to be known as the Bloody Tower—the very tower that once housed England’s slain princes.
When he’d first entered the infamous prison, he’d been haunted by remembrances of his last trip here—the last time he had seen the young princes alive. As he paced the curiously luxurious lodgings he occupied, he wondered if he would meet the same fate as the boys, be condemned by the echo of the children’s cries during his stay—or both.
To his relief, Aric felt no lingering guilt, no ghosts, within the Tower walls. The boys’ young souls had been avenged now in battle and with King Richard’s death. He wondered if the children and their mother had truly blamed him for their murders, or if he had merely blamed himself.
Two weeks later, he still had no clear answers about his guilt or his fate.
A sudden clatter at his door brought Aric’s attention to the front of the room. He looked up from his pillowy bed in time to see a pair of guards stride into the small space. Fear and expectation mingled thickly in him, threatening to steal his voice. Their faces revealed nothing, but Aric knew somehow the moment that would decide his very future had come.
He missed Gwenyth each day. His love for her grew as he yearned for her smile, her saucy mouth, her kiss. He hoped his future was with her, not Lady Death.
“To yer feet, prisoner. The king calls fer ye.”
Without waiting for a reply, the burly pair hauled him to his feet and thrust him through the door, into a dank stone hall, then down a flight of narrow, circular stairs.
Before another door he stood, waiting as the guards knocked. Soon, an armed man opened the door and pulled Aric into the room.
There, upon a large chair, holding a mug of frothing ale, sat England’s new king, Henry.
Aric shrugged from the guard’s hold and approached the king, who nodded his assent. When Aric stood before the sovereign, he bowed.
“Stand, Aric Neville, and face me.”
Without hesitation, Aric did as he was bid.
King Henry studied him with unabashed thoroughness. “No wonder men fear you throughout the land. You’re tall enough to scare most away.”
Out of the corners of his memory came a vision of his Gwenyth on the day they w
ed. She had feared him not. In fact, she had never feared him, even at his worst. Always, she had shown more courage—and more spirit—than most men. Her keen mind ever took turns he scarce understood but were at times sublimely accurate. He loved her all the more for it. Her lovely face and extraordinary curves only added to his pleasure.
“Something amuses you?” asked the king, jerking Aric’s attention back to the present.
Aric cleared his throat. “Thinking of my wife, your highness.”
Henry nodded, a crooked smile emerging on the flat cheeks of his plain face. “Women. May they always amuse us, eh?”
“Always,” Aric replied as the king lifted his mug in toast and took a deep swallow.
Long moments passed. Henry wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then looked back to Aric. “Well, Lord Stanley tells me I have been much wrong about your loyalties. Did you, in fact, fight for my cause during the battle?”
“Aye.”
“Then why did you refuse my mother your support when asked?”
He barked the question, so Aric chose his answer carefully. “I had to consider needs other than my own, sire. I sought the safety of my wife and younger brother, should King Richard have proven victorious.”
“And do you not fear my wrath now?”
Aric nodded, his palms beginning to sweat. “I am most hopeful you will show the mercy Richard did not. ’Tis why I ultimately chose to fight for you. I want goodness for this land.”
The king’s dark brow shot up. “You think I will prove myself merciful and release you for your very late show of allegiance?”
Given his tone, Aric doubted it, but had little choice except to answer. As he considered a safe reply, blood roared in his ears. “I think nothing, but simply place myself upon your mercy.”
“Lord Stanley did mention you have a very careful way with your tongue.”
Aric studied the king’s face but could not discern if the man was irritated or amused.
“Very well,” King Henry said at length, then took another sip of his ale. “You are free to go, so long as you do here and now swear fealty to me.”