White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (57 page)

‘My lord, King Richard has surely been abandoned by Lord Percy of Northumberland. He makes no move to join his king—who is now in desperate straits. Against all odds, we are prevailing! I think Norfolk’s men just lost heart when he died and now fight but lamely. The king badly needs reinforcements, but they are not forthcoming—from anywhere!’

‘So the Stanleys are not moving to join him after all? I have tried to see what they are doing—or not doing, but the smoke and haze is too thick!’

‘No, they still stand, silent and unmoving, I am afraid!’

‘So they are not coming over to us either, then? Can we possibly win without them?’

‘I did not think so before, but now I think we have a chance, a slim one, I must admit, without the Stanleys, but your army, mixed bunch that it is, fights exceptionally well. Those French mercenaries certainly know their stuff and the Welsh and Scots are indefatigable! I must get back to the lines, but take heart, lad. All is not lost yet, by any means!’

I look around, screwing up my eyes to try and make out what is happening. There is another lull. A space has opened up ahead of me and the smoke has cleared somewhat, so I can see far better across the plain now.

Suddenly, I make out a great cloud of dust ahead. About a hundred Yorkist knights are galloping directly towards my position! I can see the colours of my adversary—the White Boar flag! My own knights move to surround me closer, taking up their weapons in readiness to protect me. Great John Cheyney, my giant chief bodyguard, has his equally giant axe in his right hand and moves his horse to stand between me and the thundering hoofs of horses bearing their riders ever closer! My colour-bearer, William Brandon, is next to him. The Red Dragon of Cadwallader flutters proudly by me.

Then I see him—the king! King Richard! He is at the head of his knights, and he is cutting down all who dare to get in his path quite indiscriminately! My knights go down like scythed corn! I suddenly quail inside, as I know what he plans to do! He is determined to get to me at all costs and finish me! With my death, the battle would be over and he the victor in one fell swoop!

There is nothing I can do but watch him come. I am frozen to the spot! As if in a nightmare, I see him cleave William Brandon’s chest open with his axe, and the colours fall with their dead bearer in a dreadful slow-motion dance! Then he raises his dripping axe to strike my giant bodyguard, John Cheyney!

The axe cuts into John’s skull, splitting it in two! He is down, dead—falling with a great thump like a sawn tree trunk, and I am defenceless! I am about to die, I know it!

God help me now, for man cannot save me!

Francis Lovell, Leicester, 23 August 1485

To the Dowager Duchess of York, at Berkhampstead Abbey

Dear Lady Cecily,

As Richard’s closest friend, I feel it is I who should write to you at once and acquaint you with the saddest news one can imagine.

Yesterday, a great battle was fought near here by the Yorkists, led by King Richard, at Bosworth Field, against Henry Tudor and his renegade Lancastrian rabble. Richard insisted on taking part in the fighting himself, in spite of our advice that, for his own safety, he should merely observe from behind the battle lines, as kings usually do.

After half an hour or so, he saw an opportunity to ride hell-for-leather towards the Welsh upstart, where he could be seen isolated, his Red Dragon colours in front of him, on the right rearguard of his host. Richard was determined to kill Tudor himself and so make an end, once and for all, to the appalling civil strife this country has endured over the last century. He would not be deterred. He had almost reached Henry in his headlong rush, was but a few yards from achieving his goal, when a large detachment of that despicable turncoat, Lord William Stanley, suddenly appeared out of nowhere and confronted Richard, who had just split the skull of Henry’s giant bodyguard, John Cheyney, and was going in for the kill, as Henry was completely defenceless. Richard was caught completely off guard; his great war horse, White Surrey, had also become bogged down and injured in the marshy ground there. He was set upon determinedly by Stanley’s men and overwhelmed in a few moments. He stood no chance, though he fought bravely and fiercely to the end, calling out with his last breath, ‘Treason! Treason!’

This is a tragedy of the worst kind. It should never have happened. Richard was treacherously betrayed by those whom he thought were on his side. My heart breaks to have to bring this terrible news to you, a woman whom I know has had far more than her fair share of tragedy in life.

It was almost as if he had a death wish, though. Even the night before, when we talked of the coming fray, Richard was very depressed and I think he believed, in his heart of hearts, that his end was near. He confessed to a superstitious dread that he was to be punished by God for taking the throne. We tried our best to cheer him up, but then, he had a dreadful night, full of terrifying dreams, in which he slept but little. Apparently, Edward and George appeared to him—Hastings too—then the two little princes in the Tower—accusing him of appalling acts, but he could not make contact with them, could not speak to them in this nightmare, however hard he tried. He kept saying that he just wanted their forgiveness. In the raw dawn light, he appeared ghastly—drawn and pallid, sick at heart. He would not have Mass said, would not eat or drink a morsel. It seared my soul to look upon him.

He was a truly good man and a great king. I admired him as a man and as King and loved him dearly. He had so many plans for the commonweal of his people that he will never have the chance to carry out now. I doubt if this Tudor can do better.

I can write no more. I am so heartsick. I pray for his soul constantly, as I know you will do also.

My deepest condolences on your great loss,

Francis Lovell

King Henry VII, Westminster Palace, September 1485

Last night, that terrible dream came to me again! I have had it frequently of late. I wake drenched in sweat, yet shuddering uncontrollably with cold and fear. My body servants are concerned for me. They say I call out in my sleep and toss and turn in my bed in desperate agitation. I have assured them that it is nothing—just dreams.

But it is almost a living nightmare! The horror of it is so intensely vivid! What happened at Bosworth Field is replayed over and over again in my flinching mind. The reality of it—and the aftermath—never leave me! In my sleep, I am there again. I cannot leave the dreadful place, although I long to forget!

When I am awake, it preys on my mind too, and I do not want to retire to my bedchamber. I dread going to sleep, for this dream comes without fail, every night!

I am sitting on my chestnut horse observing the battle, and just in front of me, the huge figure of John Cheyney sits astride his giant horse next to William Brandon, the colour-bearer, who is proudly holding up my Dragon Banner. Suddenly, there is a cloud of dust ahead, and a white horse appears, galloping directly for me! Surely it will swerve any minute or it will collide with me? But no, it continues on apace, and then I see that it is mounted by none other than King Richard himself, in full armour, but with his visor up and eyes blazing! He wears a golden circlet round his helmet, so it is easy to see who it is. As he approaches me, he raises his mighty battle-axe, already dripping red, from indiscriminately hacking his way to my position. Then I realise what he means to do! He is making an all-out, determined rush to kill me! I am frozen to the spot. I cannot move, as the fury approaches. I have never fought in a pitched battle before. I should turn and flee, but I am unable to. I feel hypnotised by the horror of it!

Then John Cheyney lifts his own battle-axe and intervenes to strike down the king, but Richard is quicker, strikes Brandon to the ground, then splits Cheyney through the skull in one terrible, swift action! John falls with a thud like a clap of thunder! The Dragon Colours, symbol of my homeland, have fluttered down and are torn and trampled in the mud and I am left defenceless! The great white war horse, White Surrey, raises itself up, rearing on its back legs. Richard lifts his axe to finish me too—then I wake!

What is causing it? Is it guilt? Why should I feel guilty, really? I did not kill him. I did not kill Richard! But I saw him die horribly, a few moments later, crying, ‘Treason! Treason!’ over and over again, when William Stanley’s men surrounded him, hacking him down with endless blows until he lay dead, his face in the mud!

He did not deserve to die like that! He did not deserve to be murdered in such a manner by those he believed were his allies and friends! Kings should not die in battle, but his foolhardiness and determination to get to me when he thought he saw his chance to kill me and make an end to the years of civil strife, left him an open target—as I had been a few moments earlier!

And afterwards, I let them take his body away. I will regret that forever! For they mistreated it in the most sickening manner! I did not guess—how could I possibly know what they meant to do—how they would desecrate it? God’s anointed, for that is what he was. But a few moments more, and it would have been me dead in the mud instead, hacked to pieces!

I did not realise they would vent their hatred in such obscene ways. They treated him far worse than a dead dog in the street! It preys on my mind—the horror of it! Someone told me later what had happened to his body, when I enquired if it had been given decent burial—as befits a man who had been the king and had once been my friend, even if only for a few days. What they told me made me sick to the stomach. I actually vomited at the news. I certainly did not authorise that—I did not even know of it until later! It brought home to me the vileness of men!

They stripped him naked and threw him backwards across a horse, breaking his body, so that his poor bloody head hung down low and was thrown from side to side. They paraded him through Leicester like that, for all the populace to see, to jeer at and revile, to throw excrement at. They made one of his own squires sit up on the horse to guide it. He apparently cried all the way, being but a lad of fourteen or so. Richard’s broken body was covered with so many wounds that it could be seen they had mostly been inflicted after he was dead—in sheer vicious hatred. As the horse crossed the Bow Bridge, his head repeatedly hit the parapet on one side, crushing his face. The people laughed and hurled obscenities. These were the same people surely who, only the day before, had seen Richard at the head of his armies, in full shining armour and the crown upon his helmet, leading the way proudly towards the battlefield? Did they cheer him then? Or did they watch in silence? No one seems able to tell me.

Then they threw him, naked and unshriven, into a ditch. After a few hours, the good Grey Friars, holy men, came quietly by night and removed his body to their abbey, into sanctuary. They buried it, I was told, in an unmarked grave, so it could not be desecrated more. I bless them for their pity and compassion. They at least respected the dead. I would visit his grave if I knew where it was, but they would tell nobody. I hope they shrived him before burial. No one should go to God unshriven. For I am sure he has gone to God. I believed none of the tales spread around during his reign about deeds of great wickedness which he was supposed to have done. I knew him better than that. I think I had got to the heart of the man, even in the few days I was his constant companion and we became friends. He was devout and good-hearted. He cared for people—could never have been responsible for such atrocities! Also, my mother had told me that the worst of them, the murder of the little princes in the Tower, was actually carried out by Buckingham—with her connivance!

And all of it—the bloody realities of the battle—my first; Richard’s headlong lunge at me; his terrible death and the inglorious aftermath—lives with me, day and night—especially at night!

I know that if it had not been for the murderous intervention of those treacherous Stanleys, he would have killed me and won the battle! And he was also betrayed by Percy of Northumberland, who never even brought his great army into the fray! This appalling treachery had all been pre-planned and Richard was the victim!

Did he know—did he guess—what they might do? Did he realise it all, but fight bravely anyway? That would have been in keeping with his courageous nature! To win—or die in the attempt—would have been his ultimate decision!

My Uncle, Thomas Stanley, picked up Richard’s crown—the circlet of gold he had worn round his helmet—from where it had rolled under a hawthorn bush. He pressed it on to my head then and there. I should have been proud, full of joy! But I was filled with loathing for him and horror at what had just occurred.

And now I am king! By default, I feel! I occupy the highest position in the land, as my Lady mother ever predicted I would. And how she worked for it continually, in her ruthless way! I love her, but I shall never forgive her for some of the things she did on my behalf, especially her dark involvement with Buckingham. I have achieved my destiny, but at what a cost?!

By the death of a good, upright man, committed to justice for his people; eager to reform the law and right wrongs—often personally, when he could! You see, I secretly followed his life; I kept myself informed of his doings; I never ceased to regret that we were on opposite sides by an accident of birth. As a boy, I hero-worshipped him, though I admitted this to none! I admired him tremendously—his achievements even then were amazing! I hardly dared to aspire to emulate them!

His reign was short—too short; his life cut off in its prime by the wickedness and treachery of men. He never had a chance to achieve everything of which he was surely capable! He could have become a truly great king, one of the best the country ever had! Can I do better? I quail at the prospect, as if I were a boy again, years ago, when my Uncle Jasper and my mother continually tried to inspire me to go all out for this throne! How they plotted and planned with this one end in mind!

I have done as they desired, but I did not wish this! When I knew I had to fight him, my whole being rejected the thought, but I had no choice, and neither did he. When he tried to kill me, he was doing it for his country—not for himself. He had to try and consolidate his position, to get rid of the threat, which was me! He was doing his duty. In his heart, I am sure he would rather have been my friend, not my enemy. All those years ago in Wales, he told me as much. We knew that it could not be and both regretted it. It was our destiny to be on opposing sides.