The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (142 page)

stallion snorted, sucked air into his lungs in loud, wheezing gulps; Richard's own breathing sounded scarcely less labored to his ears. And then someone shouted, "Loyaulte me lie!" It was Richard's own motto, adopted by him at age sixteen in defiance of the conflicting claims upon his heart. Loyalty Binds
Me. Others now took it up, chanted his name and the battle cry of his House, "A Richard and York!"
And then the hill exploded into action. Men were yelling for their horses, snapping shut visors, grabbing for lance and sword. Men who accepted without question that his quarrel was good, his right to the crown just. A pledge of faith to be redeemed in blood if need be.
Through a blur of tears, Richard saw Francis standing at his stirrup. He reached down, took the lance
Francis was offering, touched it lightly to the other man's shoulder, as if conferring knighthood.
Richard had no need of spurs, merely had to give White Surrey his head. The stallion plunged down the slope of the hill, lengthening stride, mane and tail like streaming silver banners in the wind. Off to the left, the battle raged. To the right, Will Stanley watched with his red-jacketed Cheshiremen. Ahead lay the flatland of Redmore Plain and the distant Dragon standard of Henry Tudor.
White Surrey was rapidly outpacing the other horses. Francis's stallion was falling back; he spurred it without mercy, but it was unable to match the white stallion's blazing speed. He no longer heard the sounds of battle, had eyes only for Richard's banner of the Whyte Boar.
They were close enough now for Francis to see the confusion in To- dor's camp. Men were running for their horses, bumping into one another, surging forward to close ranks around their lord. A score or more of foot soldiers had been posted as guards; they were gaping at the oncoming knights as if unable to accept the evidence of their own eyes. A man on foot was no match for an armed knight and they knew it, scattered before the onslaught.
Francis saw one man stand his ground and, with foolhardy courage, jab upward with his spear. White
Surrey swerved, flashed on by. The man was dead long before Francis reached him, all but decapitated by a single sword thrust.
The knights of Tudor's household moved to fend off the Yorkist charge. Francis saw a knight on a chestnut destrier bearing down upon Richard, a man of such bulk that Francis knew he could only be
John Cheyney of Sheppey. He shouted, but Richard was already turning to meet Cheyney's attack.
Cheyney swung a morning-star mace in a wide arc toward the gold crown; the spiked ball slashed the air, all but grazed Richard's visor. Cheyney jerked his mount around, circled back for a second strike.
Richard's aim was truer. His lance hit Cheyney full in the chest. The impact of the blow shattered the point of his lance, and Richard

reeled back in the saddle. But Cheyney's horse was rearing up and Cheyney was toppling backward, hitting the ground with all the force of a felled oak. All around Francis, men cheered.
A knight came riding at Francis from his left. He swung at Francis and missed. Francis parried the second blow with his own sword and swept on. He saw ahead the Dragon standard and suddenly he realized that they were going to win, that this desperate gamble was about to succeed. There was no coherency to his thoughts, just an awed understanding that Richard was within yards of reaching Tudor and, once he did, Tudor was a dead man. Tudor's knights knew it, too, flung themselves in Richard's path. Never had
Francis seen him fight like this; he hacked his way clear with a single-minded fury that was not to be denied.
Tudor's bodyguards were frantic. His standard-bearer wheeled about, spurred his mount into White
Surrey, rising out of the saddle to strike. Richard twisted sideways and the blow glanced off his stallion's armor. He was using his battle-axe now and caught the standard-bearer in the throat. The axe cleaved through the man's gorget with murderous ease; death was mercifully quick. Richard's axe swung a second time and the Dragon of Cadwallader went down into the dust.
A Yorkist knight came careening into Francis's stallion, almost knocking his horse to its knees. He recognized the other animal before he recognized the rider, a distinctively marked chestnut with mane and tail the color of flax, Rob's favorite destrier. Rob was hauling at the reins, trying to turn his maddened mount away from Francis.
"Stanley's moving!" he shouted. "Get to Dickon, warn him!"
Francis recklessly jerked up his visor. A sea of red was sweeping down upon them, Stanley's hooded
Cheshiremen.
"Christ Jesus, no!" There was no fear, not yet, only a dazed disbelief. All around him, men were turning, yelling, cursing. With reinforcements on the way, Tudor's beleaguered bodyguards were pulling back;
Francis could no longer find Tudor.
Richard was some yards away; he, too, had swung his stallion about. His isolation struck Francis like a physical blow. Shouting Richard's name, he urged his stallion forward. His mount picked up speed, veered aside to avoid a dead horse, and shattered its cannon bone; Francis actually heard it snap. He had no time to react, not even to cry out. The ground dropped away and he pitched forward.
He landed on his back, every bone in his body jarred by the force of his fall. Stunned, he lay motionless for several moments; there was a wild ringing in his ears and a warm wetness on his face. Blinded, dazed, he struggled to sit up and, in panic, yanked at his helmet until it came loose in his hands. Wiping away blood, he was able to see again, and suddenly he was fully conscious, he remembered all.

Somehow, he got to his feet. He was alone; the battle had passed him by. But even as he lurched forward, Stanley's cavalry slammed into the knights of Richard's household, less than a hundred men against two thousand. It was like watching an avalanche, engulfing all in its path, engulfing his friends.
"Oh, God, God no. . . ." He fell, regained his feet. Richard's banners still fluttered, St George and the
Whyte Boar, but as he stumbled toward them, they disappeared from sight, were dragged down into the surging red tide. Francis cursed, sobbed, and then he saw White Surrey. The stallion was rearing up, forelegs flailing the air, teeth bared like some huge, savage dog.
"Dickon! Christ, no!" Richard was utterly surrounded by Stanley's soldiers, hemmed in on all sides. He'd lost his axe, was lashing out with his sword, gripping it with both hands and swinging it like a scythe as more and more men fought with each other to get close enough to strike at him, beating against his armor with mace and halberd. In a frenzy of fear and rage, White Surrey was going up again, and Francis saw a pike thrust upward, into the animal's unprotected underbelly. The stallion screamed in agony and crashed heavily to earth, dragging Richard down, too. Stanley's men closed in.
Unable to absorb what he'd just seen, Francis struggled on, falling repeatedly, no longer feeling the pain.
A horse came galloping toward him out of the melee and, reacting instinctively, he grabbed at the trailing reins. The shock all but wrenched his arms out of their sockets, but somehow he held on and, the weight of his armor acting much like an anchor, was able to bring the horse to a shuddering stop. For a time he could only cling to the saddle pommel, leaned heavily against the animal's heaving side. The stallion's saddle was smeared in red; even its mane was matted with blood. Francis stared at the blood, stared at the horse, a distinctively marked chestnut with mane and tail the color of flax. The reins slipped through his fingers; he stumbled backward.
He caught movement to his right, saw a knight spurring his mount away from the slaughter the battle had become. At sight of Francis, the knight changed course abruptly, rode right for him. Francis had lost both sword and lance in his fall, had no weapon but a dagger; he made no move to unsheathe it, simply stood there and watched the knight come on.
"Francis!"
Expecting a sword-thrust, Francis blinked, looked up blankly at this unknown adversary who called him by name. The man's visor was going up; the face within was ashen, familiar.
Humphrey Stafford grabbed the reins of Rob's horse, held it out to
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Francis. "Can you mount alone? For the love of Jesus, Francis, make haste!"
Francis started to reach for the reins, stopped abruptly. "A sword . . . I need a sword."
"Francis, it be too late for that." Humphrey glanced back over his shoulder and then swung down from the saddle. "Here, let me help you. Lean on me."
Francis backed away. "The battle. . . ."
"It's over, Francis. He's dead. They're all dead. It's over."
Francis shook his head. "No," he said. "No."
2 9
SHERIFF H U tt tt O N
August 1485
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CECILY raised her candle, stared down at her cousin. In sleep, Edward looked much younger than ten, looked as if his dreams were as troubled as his daylight hours. His face was wax-white, lashes matted and wet. She reached out, touched the flaxen hair. God pity him, so little love in his life. No wonder he'd given his heart so completely into Anne's keeping. The hurt had yet to heal; he still grieved for her. And now, not six months later, his uncle, too, was dead, and what was to become of him?
It was not a question Cecily could answer. She knew only that she feared for him, feared for them all in an England ruled by Henry Tudor.
Five days had passed since Tudor's soldiers had come to Sheriff Button . Cecily was still in shock, still unable to believe that the victory had gone to Tudor, that her uncle was dead. No King of England had died in battle since the Conquest. How had it happened? How could God have let it happen?
She backed away from Edward's bed, closed the door quietly behind her. It was late but she did not want to go up to the chamber she shared

with her sister. Tomorrow they were to depart for London; let Bess have these last hours alone, free from all eyes. She would to God there was more she could do.
But Bess was suddenly a stranger. Her emotions had always been sun-warmed, open to light and air;
since earliest childhood, she'd been so. Yet now it was as if all emotion were glazed over, congealed in the ice of an unnatural indifference. She did not weep for her uncle; she did not pray. Tearless and taut, she'd retreated into a frozen silence none dared to breach, not even Cecily.
As little as Cecily could do for her sister, she could do even less for her cousin Johnny. She, too, had lost her father at fourteen, and she ached for the boy, but when she sought to comfort him, he merely looked at her. Since being told of Redmore Plain, he'd moved about the castle like a ghost, mute, beyond reach.
Cecily tried not to think what the future might hold for him.
Leaving Edward's bedchamber, she encountered one of Tudor's soldiers in the stairwell. He greeted her with deference, let her pass unchallenged, but she could feel his eyes upon her as she climbed, and she knew that other eyes would be watching to make sure she entered her bedchamber, to make sure she was safely accounted for.
Well, let them spy on her. Let them see her go into her cousin's chamber. She didn't care. A sudden draft claimed her candle flame. She'd never before feared the dark, but now she shivered, feeling her way along the wall by touch until she found the door. She didn't knock, shoved the latch back, and slipped inside.
The three men within turned startled faces toward her. Her cousin, Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Lord
Lieutenant of Ireland, York's heir. Nearby, a lean greying man in middle age, a dark face made memorable by the slash of a Lancastrian blade; the scar at once drew all eyes, carving across his cheekbone in a trail whitened and knotted by time. And in the shadows, a younger man, hair bright as fresh-spilt blood, right arm cradled in a soiled white sling.
Cecily ignored him, ignored her cousin, spoke only to the man with the scar. "The castle steward told me you were here. You be Thomas Wrangwysh. You've come to tell my cousin about the battle, haven't you?" She didn't wait for a response, moved toward him. "I would have you tell me, too, Master
Wrangwysh. I ..." She drew a steadying breath. "I have the right to know."
The men exchanged glances. She saw her cousin Jack nod, and then she was being ushered to a chair.
The young man with the fiery hair moved to pour wine for them all; Cecily gripped her cup gratefully, entwined her fingers around the stem to hide her trembling. She did not

want them to know how much she dreaded to hear what they were about to tell her.
"How did you get the guards to give you entry, Master Wrangwysh?"
"I was given a pass, my lady." The night was chill, warned of an early winter, and Wrangwysh shifted his seat closer to the hearth. "Henry Tudor has sent an emissary to York to proclaim his right to the English crown. Henry the Seventh by the Grace of God. . . ."He leaned over, spat very deliberately into the floor rushes. "But his man-Cotam, his name be-feared to enter the city, feared he'd be torn limb for limb ... as well he might. He's been keeping out of sight in an inn on the Ermine Road, sent word to Lord Mayor
Lancastre and the city council to wait upon him there. We did, pledged that we'd keep his whereabouts a secret. In return, I asked for the right to enter Sheriff Button, to confer with your cousin, the Earl of
Lincoln."
He turned then, gestured toward the third man. "This be John Sponer, York's Sergeant to the Mace.
When Northumberland-God rot him-issued no call to arms for the city, we sent John to King Richard at
Nottingham. After dispatching word back to York, he accompanied the King south ... to Redmore
Plain."
John Sponer flushed under their scrutiny, began to fidget nervously with his bandage. "It be an ugly tale."
Almost inaudibly. "If you want to know why King Richard died, I can tell you plain out in just one word .
. . treason."
Silence settled over the room. Jack and Cecily waited. He sloshed wine into his cup, but didn't drink.
Wrangwysh at last leaned forward. "Goon, lad."
Sponer nodded, said bleakly, "Had he only withdrawn into the North once he saw the battle was lost ...
all of Yorkshire would've rallied to him. But he chose, instead, to gamble on reaching Tudor. And came so close, he did, came within a sword's thrust. ..." His voice trailed off.
Again, silence. Thomas Wrangwysh drank too deeply, began to cough. "It was a slaughter, no honor in it.
Of King Richard's friends, Viscount Lovell alone survived the carnage on the field. He and Sir Humphrey
Stafford have taken sanctuary at Colchester. The others died with the King, good men, all. . . ." He drank again. "That whoreson Stanley found King Richard's crown . . . after. Caught in a hawthorn bush, it was, all dented and-" He stopped abruptly. Fumbling for his handkerchief, he started to turn his face away. And then, scorning subterfuge, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose, saying thickly, Tis nothing to be shamed about, to mourn a friend. ..."