Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  "Waerwic! Forgive me. For a moment, I didst think ye had deserted me."

  "Never that. Your Grace." Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, smiled as he knelt to kiss Harry's hand. "We did but lose our way once in the darkness."

  "Madog, Caerllywel, and—nay—it cannot be!" Harry exclaimed. "Emrys?"

  "Aye, Sire. 'Tis I."

  "But ye were no more than a lad when last I saw ye. Ah, 'tis good to see ye again, all of ye."

  "In more ways than one, eh. Your Grace?" Madog questioned with a laugh. "Come. We shan't keep ye in suspense. Sire," he continued as he led the way toward a group of men and wagons waiting for them deeper in the woods. With a wave of his hand, he indicated the contents of the vehicles. "Behold, Your Grace. With York's own guns shall Richard of Gloucester be beaten."

  Harry's eyes glittered with anticipation and speculation as he caught sight of the cold metal bombards gleaming ominously in the moonlight that streamed down in a silver spray between the branches of the trees.

  "God's blood, Madog," he swore softly. "Where did ye get them? Do not tell me they came from Waerwic's keep."

  "Nay, from Rushden Castle, in York, Sire."

  "And I still say 'twas wrong to take them!" Caerllywel spoke for the first time, his voice defiant as he faced his liege and his brothers, then turned, with a muttered oath, to kick viciously at a wheel of one wagon.

  "All's fair in love and war, brother," Madog stated coolly, annoyed by his brother's outburst.

  "God damn it, Madog! Giles Ashley is Waerwic's brother-in-law—and our friend! Have ye no sense of honor?"

  Madog's nostrils flared whitely.

  "I honor my king—and my duty to him! Giles did say the fortress was at Waerwic's disposal whenever he wished."

  Caerllywel laughed shortly, bitterly.

  "That didn't give ye leave to steal three of his cannons!"

  "Enough!" Harry commanded. "Right or wrong, the deed has been done, and I confess I am in sore need of the guns—no matter how they were obtained." He turned to Warrick and raised one eyebrow, saying dryly, "I presume, from this little exchange, that the Ashleys are still staunch Yorkists."

  "Aye, Your Grace."

  "And I also presume, Waerwic, that your wife, at this moment, knows nothing of your whereabouts."

  "Nay, Sire."

  Oh, God, 'Sabelle. 'Sabelle!

  Her hurt, questioning eyes, when he'd left her, had haunted Warrick every step of the way. Like everyone else at the Tower, she had heard the news of Harry Tewdwr's landing at Milford Haven and had guessed what it was to mean to her, to Warrick, and to Giles.

  "So," she had said. "I am to be torn, after all, between my love for ye and my love for my brother. Go, then. I shall ask naught of ye, except—except—" She had broken off, inhaling raggedly, tears stinging her eyes, those fathomless twin pools of grey-green. Her hands had fluttered helplessly to her breast, and her voice, when she had spoken again, had trembled a little. "Except that if ye meet Giles upon a battlefield somewhere, do not—do not slay him."

  "Nay, 'Sabelle. I give ye my solemn vow that I shall not."

  Warrick would not break that oath to her. 'Twas bad enough that he had stolen the bombards from Rushden. He ought not to have done it. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to let Madog talk him into it. Caerllywel was right. What they had done was wrong. Well, there was no help for it now. And somehow, Warrick thought, had their roles been reversed, Giles would have done the same thing, would, even now, understand, as Isabelle never would. War was a man's business after all.

  At the early pre-dawn hour, most of the men camped at Sutton Cheney slept; but not King Richard III and not Lord Giles Ashley, Earl of Rushden. The latter studied the King quiedy in the greyish light cast by the mist that lay over the countryside and was just now beginning to lift a little.

  What was Richard thinking, Giles wondered.

  He would have been deeply upset to have learned his liege's thoughts, so it was just as well that Giles did not know them. Richard, King of England, had been wakened by a nightmare, a

  nightmare in which he had seen himself falling... falling into a sea ot red... his golden crown tumbling from his head to float upon the waves. Desperately, he had tried to grasp the glittering circlet, but always, it had bobbed just out of reach.

  Now, as Richard stood before his tent, staring unseeingly into the distance, the mist seemed to swirl about him like a shroud; and a sudden, strange premonition of his death struck him.

  So, this was it. This was what the mighty Plantagenets had come to: a sodden field outside of Market Bosworth.

  Damn ye, Ned! Richard cursed his dead brother silently. Why couldn't ye have taken Bess Woodville at Grafton Regis? Slaked your lust for her and left her? She would not have denied ye. In the end, she would not have denied ye.

  But she had. The conniving bitch had kept her thighs closed tight against Ned, and he had married her to open them. It was she who'd brought the mighty House of York down, Bess Woodville, with her greedy, scheming mind and powerful, grasping family. In that moment, Richard hated them all.

  He thought of Anne, his wife, and their son, both gone now. What did it matter if he joined them? They were all gone, all those whom he had loved: Edmund, his brother, brutally murdered in his youth. Warwick, the Kingmaker, who had reared Richard at Middleham. George, his brother, weak, unscrupulous George, who had sought to steal Ned's crown. And Ned himself, in all his golden glory. Aye, that was how Richard would remember Ned, as the sun in splendor. He would not think of the sorry, dissipated monarch and the raucously howling Jane Shore at Ned's feet.

  Oh, Ned. Richard almost wept at the thought. How could we have come to this?

  "Your Grace, are ye ill?"

  Richard turned, startled, at the sound of the voice. For a moment, still lost in the past, he did not recognize Giles. Then, slowly, the King returned to the present.

  "Nay, Giles." Richard gave a half-smile to comfort his obviously concerned, faithful knight. "I am well."

  But 'tis not true, the King thought even as he spoke the words of reassurance. I am sick, sick unto death by the carnage that has been wrought... must yet be wrought upon the morrow. How many? he wondered as he gazed at Giles. How many of my friends and followers will die with me?

  The faces swam before him: Francis and Phillip Lovell, Richard Ratcliffe, William Catesby, Giles Ashley, Lion—Nay, Lionel

  Valeureux was already gone, waiting on the other side of the

  river of death to meet Richard when he came, waiting, with Anne

  and their son; waiting with Ned, Edmund, and George; waiting

  with Warwick and Buckingham. Nay, Richard would not think

  of Harry, gay Harry, Duke of Buckingham, who had betrayed

  him.

  A whisper of wind soughed in Richard's ear, laughing at him, mocking him.

  The Cat, the Rat, And Lovell, our Dog, Rulen all England Under a Hog.

  Horrible, hateful words. The people had chanted them in the city streets of London.

  Ave, what did it matter if Richard was to die? His shoulders slumped tiredly, like a man defeated, as he glanced off into the distance once more. A trail of sparkling flame in the grey firmament caught his eye.

  "There! Did ye not see it, Giles? A shooting star.. .a dying star," Richard added more softly.

  Giles looked at the empty sky and swore silently to himself. If he survived the coming battle, he would surely go and have the physician examine his eyes, for in truth, he had seen nothing save the clouds of mist. Still, somehow sensing Richard's morbid mood, the younger man reassured the King.

  "'Tis indeed a good sign. Your Grace. It can but mean that God is on your side. The Tydder will surely lose tomorrow's fight."

  "Aye," Richard said, and thought: For he will be King of England, and 'tis a crown that weighs too heavily upon one's head... and heart... and soul.

  Dawn broke at last—a grim dawn, despite the fact that the pale pink blush sw
eeping across the horizon gave promise of a beautiful summer day, rich with golden sunlight—a sun in splendor. Richard's scurryers, being more experienced than Harry Tewdwr's, had scouted the plain and reported to Richard the most promising place from which to conduct the coming battle—Ambien Hill.

  Now, from atop the knoll, to which his army had marched earlier, Richard, mounted upon White Surrey, his ghostly destrier, surveyed the scene before him. On his right flank, coming

  from Nether Cotton, were Sir William Stanley and his men. On his left flank, marching from Dadlington, Richard saw, with a sneer, were Lord Thomas Stanley, the Fox, and his force. Some days past, Richard had sent the Baron a message ordering him to join his king at Leicester at once. To the command, Lord Stanley had replied lamely—and untruthfully—that he could not come, because he was suffering from the sweating sickness.

  It appeared the wily Fox had made a remarkable recovery. Richard laughed dryly. He wondered if the Stanleys meant to support him—or turn against him. No doubt they would wait until tiiey saw which way the battle was going before they took any action, despite the fact that Richard held Lord Strange, the Baron's son, hostage to ensure Lord Stanley's loyalty.

  Lastly, the King's eyes fell upon his enemy, Harry Tewdwr, whose troops were marching forth from White Moors.

  Alone, Richard's men far outnumbered Harry's: for the King's vanguard, directed by the Duke of Norfolk, contained twelve hundred bowmen and two hundred cuirassiers; the main guard, which Richard himself commanded, consisted of one thousand billmen and two thousand pikes; the rear guard, headed by the Earl of Northumberland, had two thousand billmen and pikes and fifteen hundred horsemen.

  Still, if the Stanleys cast their lots with the Tydder, Richard knew he was done for.

  Slowly, the King donned his helmet, with its golden crown, and lowered his visor. The trumpets sounded, and the batde was engaged.

  The fight started off sluggishly, for Harry's inexperienced scur-ryers had failed to report to him that a marsh lay between him and Ambien Hill, and his army was forced to march around it before reaching Richard's men. Moreover, the sun had now risen and was glaring in the eyes of Harry's vanguard, adding to the difficulties of their progression. Meanwhile, Richard's force wisely waited on the hill, compelling Harry's troops to stagger upward. Arrows were loosed; bombard shots were exchanged. The great stone cannonballs heaved through the air, causing further havoc and confusion as the two armies advanced and finally came to blows hand to hand.

  All morning long, the battle raged beneath the hot August sun until the air was thick and putrid with the clouds of dust that mingled with the acrid smoke of black powder and the pungent odor of blood and wounded flesh. Harry's men closed on Richard's own, constraining the King's wings to engage. Richard sent

  a message to Lord Stanley, ordering the Baron to send reinforcements immediately or sacrifice the life of his son Lord Strange. The King took one look at the face of the squire who had returned with the Fox's answer and knew the fight was lost.

  "Your—Your Grace," the squire stammered, awed and afraid. "My—my Lord Stanley refuses your command. He said—he said to tell ye he has other sons."

  Bilious gorge bom of anger and defeat rose in Richard's throat, choking him.

  "God damn him!" the King swore wrathfully. "God danm him!" Then, he commanded, "Behead Lord Strange at once!"

  The men in Richard's bodyguard stared at each other with horror, remembering Lord Hastings's brutal execution on Tower Green and shifting uneasily m their saddles as Lord Stanley s unfortunate son was dragged forth and forced to kneel upon the ground. Lord Strange was not very old and was whimpering with fear and pleading frantically for mercy as he groveled upon the earth. Something twisted in Richard's craw at the sight, and he was moved to pity. Had not his brother Edmund been savagely, murdered in just such a fashion?

  "Wait!" the King cried. Then, swallowing hard at the surprise upon the faces of his men, he muttered, "1—I've changed my mind. Release the boy, and send for Northumberland to join me immediately."

  But Northumberland, upon seeing the traitorous Stanleys had swung their troops in to battle on Harry Tewdwr's side, declined to follow Richard's order. Instead, the mighty Lord of the North stood by and did nothing while the King's men were crushed and slaughtered between the three armies that opposed them.

  The fight was nearly finished. Hot rage seared through Richard's body. How he would have liked to have slain Lord Stanley! But cool reason prevailed, as it always had in the past. The King was not England's greatest military commander for naught. He had one chance—a slim one—but a chance all the same, if he could somehow cut through the battle lines, reach Harry Tewdwr, and kill him, he, Richard, would win the fight.

  "Your Grace, I pray ye: Do not do this mad thing," Lord Francis Lovell begged when the King explained his intent to his bodyguard. "You'll be slain. Let us escape now, while we may yet do so...."

  "Like Neville, Francis?" Richard's voice shook a little as he remembered how his cousin Richard Neville, Eari of Warwick, had attempted to flee that day so long ago at Bamet. He, Richard

  Plantagenet, was a king. He would not be cut down like a coward fleeing the battlefield. "Nay, Francis." He stilled the pleading words that had sprung to his faithful knight's lips. "I am a king, I shall die as one."

  Then, with a strange fierce shout of triumph. His Grace Richard Plantagenet, King of England, raised his mighty battle-ax, high and charged down the hill. Miraculously, the sea of men parted before him. He did not know they thought him mad; that he and his horse appeared like some blood-covered phantom not of this world but the next; that his deadly blade was severing life and limb without mercy as he plunged through the melee. Richard knew only that his enemies were falling back before his terrible onslaught, that even the Tydder's standard-bearer had gone down. Harry's bright red banner with its golden Cadwallader dragon was trampled into the boggy ground, which was made even more sodden by the crimson blood that seeped into the marsh.

  The marsh. Dear God. The marsh. In his ire and haste, Richard had forgotten about the marsh. Even now, he could feel White Surrey slipping, sliding beneath him, plunging into the mire,

  struggling to break free With a desperate bound, the King

  leaped from the saddle of his faithful steed.

  "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" Richard yelled hoarsely, his screams piercing the air, ringing out over the plain.

  Oh, God, to have come this far and to have lost his kingdom for a want of a horse. 'Twas not to be borne! 'Twas not to be borne!

  "Your Grace! Your Grace! Take mine. Your Grace!" Giles called as he compelled his snorting, white-eyed mount through the horrible battle. "Take mine!"

  He was almost there, had almost reached the King, when suddenly, as though from nowhere, a powerful brown destrier with a golden-cream mane and tail bore down on him.

  "Nay, Giles, nay! 'Tis too late! Give it up! The fight is done!" Warrick shouted desperately above the roar of the melee, not wanting to harm his brother-in-law but knowing that Giles must be prevented from reaching Richard.

  Through the haze of dust and smoke, Giles recognized Warrick dimly but paid no heed to his cries. Instead, the younger man dug his spurs sharply into his horse's sides and pressed on. Richard would have the steed he so desperately needed—even if it cost Giles his life. He did not think that Warrick would slay him. But even as the thought occurred to him, Giles saw his brother-in-law raise his heavy broadsword and begin the cutting arc that

  would slice a man—or a destrier—in two> Moments later, the younger man heard his mount's terrible screams of agony as the blade struck, bit deeply, fatally, into the animal's neck, severing its head from its shoulders- The beast staggered, stumbled, and fell, as a fountain of blood spewed from the gaping torso.

  "Jump, Giles!" Warrick cried frantically in warning. "Jump! For God's sake, jumpV

  But Giles, thinking only of Richard, hesitated until it was too late to leap clear. His
horse's massive body rolled, blotting out the sun as the steed crushed him, smothering the cries of pain and torment that were wrenched from his throat.

  "Richard! Richard! RICHARD!"

  But the King did not hear. His Grace Richard Plantagenet, King of England, was dead, his corpse lying in a sea of red, his golden crown tangled in the branches of a hawthorn bush, just beyond his reach.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  OH, GOD. OH, GOD.

  Isabella thought she must go mad with grief as they came across Bow Bridge, those bloody, armored men, with Harry Tewdwr at their head and the people of London, who crowded the city streets, straggling alongside and wildly cheering "God save the King! Long live King Henry!" as though he were a savior who had freed them from bondage.

  Slowly did they come, shouting and laughing, passing wine flasks among themselves and spraying each other with the rich red liquid that mingled with the blood that spattered and stained their heavy mail. Now and then, they paused to bend down from their saddles to snatch a kiss from a pretty, giggling maid or to take a red rose from a child's outstretched hand.

  And so it was that the triumphant, heady glory of victory made that which followed all the more horrible, all the more unreal.

  Those of the defeated who could walk—even barely—were in chains that clanked out a knell of failure with each dragging step, pitifully accented by the lumbering clatter, over the cobblestones, of the wheels of the carts that carried the more seriously wounded. With difficulty, Isabella choked down the vomit that

  rose in her throat at the terrible sight of the men who staggered past her, bleeding, moaning, and weeping.

  Behind them rode a horseman, whole in body and grinning with gruesome glee. In one hand, he held the rems of a small bony donkey, across which hung a shapeless thing, dangling like a half-empty sack of meal—lifeless, without form. At first glance, that was what it seemed, a sack of meal—no more. Only its pale white hue, splashed bright with red, belied this: for no farmer had ever marketed his grain in such a sack. Plain brown burlap it ought to have been; and Isabella was puzzled by the pattern of color that dappled the donkey's back. It was only when the beast drew near that she recognized its burden for what it truly was.