Kevin John Grote Novels: February 2012

SCENE II – Bosworth, Leicestershire

August 22nd 1485

“The Catte, the Ratte and Lovell our Doge rulyth all Englande under a Hogge.”

Wm. Collingbourne 1484

The York Royal Household has formed up early.

One hundred mounted men, lords, knights, squires, and men-at-arms clad in bright armor and ready for battle. They are clustered in a rough circle under the White Boar Standard. The vanguard of royal infantry is moving forward, the artillery barrage blasting gaps into the enemy’s front.

Not everyone is focused on the battle beginning to their front.

“Damn it to hell. It’s happened again. My neck itches like a swarm of ants is crawling over me,” Sir William Catesby mutters under his breath, “it’s probably fleas or lice nipping at me. I should’ve had this padding cleaned better.”

The itch is unbearable, but with these this gauntlets on, he can think of no quick relief. He should have not gotten his hair cut so close yesterday. He tries to focus on the matter at hand.

Orders are shouted.

Signal flags are waving.

Trumpets are blaring.

Masses of men move slowly in formation, linking up with similarly armed groups. The line of battle is taking shape.

The heat from being inside the fully fastened suit of armor is stifling. It took almost an hour to get it all on, padding included, and mounted. Catesby flexes his right arm, the new plate armor is lighter and much more flexible than the old, but it is still cumbersome. He makes a quick assessment of his weaponry. Sir William has both mace and battle-axe hung from his pommel. On his right side hands his long knife.

One his left side is his main striking weapon, an edged straight sword with a thirty inch blade. Though not much use against plate, it is invaluable in the melee with infantry. He will use his mace for encounters with armored foes.

Or his axe.

But for Catesby, it is a new sword, a birthday present from his wife, which causes him concern. The imported blade has been sticking in the Welsh manufactured scabbard. He likes the weight and heft of the blade, and cannot wait to use it, grim as that image is in his mind. He did not have time to go to the tent of the royal armorers last night to get it fixed; now he is worrying about it.

“If I pull it out to soon before the fight,” he thinks, “I will look the right nervous idiot around these jolly fellows. The veterans will chivvy me no end.”

He thought about wearing his old one today, but, did not want to appear ungrateful. His new sword came from across the seas, from Toledo in Castile. The blade, he is told, came from the hands of a Saracen.

“I can’t see a bloody thing inside this tin pot,” Sir William curses as he raises his visor, “Damn at least I can catch my breath, now. Perkins. Move up beside me man, so I know where you are. Do you see the King?”

Catesby has been dressed for battle since before dawn. That was when the orders called for the army to form up into three divisions. His visor is up as he tries to see through the confusion taking place down the hill in front of him. Perkins moves closer to his master. He raises his free hand and points to his right

“His Majesty is over there, Sir William, on the –“

A bowshot sings past Catesby and strikes his squire and armor-bearer, John Perkins, flush in the face stopping his speech in mid-sentence. Perkins had his visor up like his master to view what was transpiring and to catch his breath, and suffers the fatal consequences. His face explodes in blood and gore as the point exits the back of his skull. Perkins lurches to his right, and without making a sound, tumbles from the saddle. With his dying breath he drops Catesby’s pennant.

Dead before he strikes the ground.

Catesby, stunned by his loss, snaps his visor shut. Turning his torso, he catches a glimpse of the King. Above the king, his banner of The White Boar snaps in the breeze. He edges his horse towards the royal standard.

William Catesby never been afraid of hand to hand combat, but these whirring missiles always discomfort him. Arrows and whistling crossbow bolts are bad enough, now, these more and more prevalent cannon balls make him squirm in the saddle.

Catesby looks toward his king, Richard III, Richard of Gloucester. He has been with Richard Plantagenet from the beginning. He was with him during the last battles, he has been with him in the north before Edward IV died unexpectedly and all these events have transpired. Last night, just before the battle, he and six other knights and nobles were given a pin as a small gift by his majesty.

The pin is a silver and gold white boar.

The white boar is the king’s emblem and it is pinned prominently to the outside of his tunic over his armor.

Richard the III is sitting on his warhorse visor up, surveying the plain in front of him. A seasoned commander, he is in charge of the royal center. His trusted ally the Duke of Norfolk commands the left division or battle, and the Duke of Northumberland, the right.

It is time for action.

Catesby nears the king’s side and hears him barking out orders.

“My Lord Greystoke, go now and tell the Master Gunner to bring our cannon closer,” cries King Richard to a group of courtiers, “lest the fall of shot strike our own men. Tell him to train all of our guns on the banner of the Earl of Oxford and rain death upon him. Sir Scrope of Masham and Master Middleton, fly now and take word to my lords Norfolk and Northumberland to advance their divisions and form on my wings. The enemy is in sight. We will crush the rebels. Off with you, gentlemen, make haste.”

King Richard’s dark eyes are flashing and the excitement has turned his face red. His dark hair is wet from sweat under his helmet. He is holding a battle axe in his right hand and using the weapon to gesture his commands.

Richard has been in battles for most of his life, this is just one more. Before today, he fought for his brother, Edward IV, at Barnet and Tewkesbury, while still in his teens. He is battle-hardened and not afraid of the horror going on around him. He will not listen to his advisors, and is in a hurry to bring this battle to a quick conclusion.

He is furious at the lack of activity on his wings.

“Damn those Stanley’s,” he snaps and turns to a nearby courtier, “Curse them both to perdition for the mealy mouthed, fence-straddling, traitors that they are. Sir Neville, take these words to Lord William Stanley and then to his brother and make it clear to them you speak for the king. ‘You are to advance in strength with his entire force and to strike the enemy infantry on their exposed flank. Immediately.’

Richard III turns towards Neville, barely controlling his steed as a cannon ball whistles overhead. His teeth are pulled back into a snarl as he spits out his venom.

“You tell that rogue that his vacillation acts at peril of his life and his family’s station,” orders King Richard, “You tell him that. He has five f***ing minutes to move his troops, not a second more. I will turn the glass when I see you cross into his camp. He moves at once, or forfeits his head and lands. I will countenance no more excuses.”

Neville nods and quickly rides off to Stanley’s camp.

The noise is deafening as the two masses of armored infantry crash into each other.

The smoke from the drifting cannon fire has finally started to lift. The breeze makes the limp banners rise and float. The now snapping flags mark where the great men stand.

“Looks like it will be a hot day, William,” says Richard, “at least it will be for that misbegotten Henry Tudor over there. Are you with me, Catesby?”

Startled by the tone, Catesby’s head snaps toward the king and looks him in the eye.

“I am your man; my King,” replies Catesby, “This day more than others above all. We will finish these dogs once and for all. You have my bond, Sire”

One pennant in particular is not missed by the one man looking for it.

“By God, look over there to the left. There just past that small grove of trees. Look damn you, Catesby, there is the usurper himself,” calls the king pointing toward the banner, “Damn the villain, if he is not heading towards the accursed Stanley’s. We will settle this affair between us. To me, Ratcliffe, Catesby, Lovell, and all my brave knights. Rally to me! Sir Percival, bring the standard, we are attacking. Gentlemen, we will carry the day. To me, for St. George and England. Come with me.”

The king is moving.

He is a man of bold action and sees his chance.

He has made up his mind and none of his councilors or advisors will dare deter him. His fate will be theirs.

Richard, spying his foe across the battlefield moving towards the camp of the motionless Lord William Stanley, his father in law, makes a desperate move to conclude the battle and rebellion at one swift stroke. He spurs his horse forward at a fast trot, Sir Percival Thirwell, his bodyguard and standard bearer, follows close behind the king. The remainder of his retinue closes their visors and rides off in his wake down the hill.

Richard will personally kill Henry Tudor, the last of the Lancastrian troublemakers.

“This has gone on for twenty-five years since the death of my father and brother Edmund,” the king cries out to those closest to him, as he accelerates into a canter, “it all ends today. It ends today, by God.”

Richard and his household guard charge down off the high ground and make for the banner of Henry Tudor, the Earl of Richmond.

The man who would dare be king.

They move past the clash of the struggling infantry, and like a glittering dragon of men and horses they speed towards the enemy standard.

The banner of the White Boar, in the hand of Sir Percival, the king and all of his knights and nobles, streams towards its foe. They pick up speed as they move into open land.

Three hundred yards to go.

The distance between them and Henry Tudor is closing rapidly. Swords are jerked from scabbards. War cries are screamed. Arrows are shot, filling the air, at the thundering charge of man and iron, only a few strike home, the rest sheer off or shatter on the steel plate.

One hundred yards.

A cannon ball removes the heads of two riders to Catesby's right, the blood streaming into the air in a red mist. The charge does not break stride as across the battlefield all see the moving pennant of the House of York.

The enemy now aware of the imminent danger slows their left to right motion and begins to bunch up to receive the charge of King Richard and his men. They can make out the individual coat of arms at this distance. Some of the charging horsemen have their lances lowered, others are waving swords, axes, and pole-arms. All of their eyes see the rider in the center with the crown on his helm. Their banners and pennants stream from the speed of the charge.

The king is coming and death rides with him.

Fifty yards.

William Catesby, riding right behind the king, reaches and pulls on the handle of his new sword. It is stuck in the scabbard and try as he might he cannot free it. There is no time, he reaches for the thong of his battle-axe on his pommel. He raises it just as they collide with the enemy. Their foe parts before them. Richard in the forefront, is hacking away to his left and right. Half of their strength was either killed or unhorsed with the collision. Those on the ground struggle to their feet before they are overwhelmed. A ringing blow strikes Catesby in the chest and almost knocks him from the saddle. He spins and shatters the shoulder of a halberdier who struck him. The man drops, taking Catesby’s axe down with him.

The noise and screaming is deafening.

Catesby, peering through his visor, notices the changed livery of the attackers. They are much more in number than they saw as they rode across the plain.

“Where did these rascals come from?” thinks Catesby as he raises his visor slightly to get a better look.

The reinforcements to Henry Tudor bear the uniform of the Stanley’s.

The king has been betrayed.

“Treachery, treachery,” King Richard screams as he hacks down the standard bearer of his foe, “Damn the traitors. Rally to me, my brave fellows, to me. We will best them yet.”

A glistening hedge of spear-points blocks the king’s forward progress as more and more infantry of Stanley’s pour into the fray. The number of Richard’s knights and guards still doing battle is growing smaller by the second.

Richard can see Henry Tudor sitting wide-eyed on a white mare not fifteen feet away. He is within his grasp just a few more seconds. A gap in the enemy line opens. There is no one in his way. Richard snarls as he sees Tudor’s eyes widen as he realizes his peril.

“Push forward my knights,” screams the king clubbing the last protector to the ground, “there is the foe. Watch him run!”

Richard III spurs forward into the opening.

The momentary gap in the enemy lines is suddenly filled by a huge man mounted astride a matching charger barring Richard.

It is familiar face that keeps Richard III from coming to blows with Henry.

It is Sir John Cheyne, his late brother, Edward IV’s bodyguard. Cheyne is a mountain of a man and to Richard’s eyes, a bitter turncoat. He had been one of Richard’s tutors and had fought with him at Barnet when they ended the Lancastrian threat fifteen years before. Cheyne has his sword at a high guard as he bars the path.

“Not today, Richard of York,” roars Cheyne as he swings his blade at the kings head, “This day is your last.”

“Out of my way, foul traitor and villain,” cries Richard spurring his war horse hard to the right, crashing him into Cheyne’s steed, “Is this how you repay my family’s love?”

The unexpected move has unbalanced the massive Cheyne, and his sword whips over Richard’s helm, clipping and loosening the golden crown on his brow. Richard ducks the blow and slaps Cheyne on the side of his helmet with his axe with all of his pent up rage. The blow dents Cheyne’s helm, stunning the huge warrior into unconsciousness, and he tumbles from the saddle onto Richard. The king pushes his foe to the earth, no time for him now.

William Catesby finally frees his sword and thrusts it into the face of a cursing Frenchman.

“One of Tudor’s mercenaries,” thinks Catesby as he slashes left and right, “Frenchmen and traitors. A fine mixture of rogues arrayed against us. God save good King Richard.”

The small group around the king is being surrounded. Richard III is pulled from his saddle by a bill-hook that catches his armor on the shoulder. The king tumbles to the ground, axe still in hand. His golden circlet of kingship, loosened by Cheyne’s blow, falls from his helmet and rolls away. A crowd of assailants push close, they are after him. Thoughts of slaying Henry Tudor fade from Richard’s thoughts as a pack of snarling killers encircle the king. He can still see him sitting out of arms reach watching the drama play out in front of him to its end. The vast plain of battle now has boiled its climax down to a few hard fought square yards of earth.

“Rescue my Lords. Rescue. For God’s sake rescue the King,” shouts a dying Sir Percival still clutching the banner of the White Boar, “Save him.”

William Catesby spurs his mount toward his fallen sovereign slashing left and right to clear a path. Two other knights ride with him, spur to spur, closing the gap. There are only a few still left. They reach the king and the three of them dismount. Richard III has lost his helmet and blood is streaming down his face from a cut on his forehead. His dark hair is matted to his head. He is still swinging his battle-axe to deadly effect; bodies of the slain are heaped around him.

“My Lord,” screams Catesby, “take my horse and flee. This day is lost, but you must live to fight another day. Come Sire, mount and go before it is too late. We will hold them off for you, Sire.”

A wild eyed Richard Plantagenet turns and stares at him. His assailants back for an instant to catch their breath, like a pack of jackals ringing an injured lion. Catesby notes that blood is dripping from a score of wounds to the king’s arms, legs, face and hands. He is breathing heavily, and flecks of spit and blood are on his lips.

“No, Sir William, no,” says the king softly as he grabs him firmly by the shoulder and whispers in his ear, “it will end today. One way or another. It ends this day, Catesby.”

The king notes the silver The White Boar pin still on Catesby’s tunic, smiles and nods his head at the sight. A roar of anger rises from all around the four men. The jackals sense the kill and rush in.

Twenty feet away, sitting still as a marble statue, mounted on his white mare, Henry Tudor watches.

And waits.