Bosworth Field, 22 August 1485
Shading his eyes against the brilliant spears of sunlight that occasionally pierced the ragged clouds, Richard urged his horse forward a few paces across the soft, dry turf and then lowered his head, sighting carefully between the animal's ears.
"So Oxford would outflank me, would he?" he said, his voice firm but quiet, and then straightened his spine once more and turned in the saddle, ignoring a dull ache in his shoulder as he did so. "Norfolk?" he said.
The Duke of Norfolk had remained at his king's side all night and through daybreak, and only death would free him of the sworn duty he held close to his heart. Nevertheless, he was a soldier of more than forty years' experience, and he had also been watching the far side of the marshes, where the Earl and his mercenaries were trying to remain under cover as they approached the foot of the hill. A poor attempt indeed, thought Norfolk with a contemptuous curve to his mouth; they moved through the bracken like lumbering beasts.
"Your Majesty?" he said, turning away from this study at last.
"Think you it is time to advance upon them?"
Inwardly, Norfolk sighed. The boy – grizzled veteran that he was, he persisted in fondly thinking of the young king as a boy – was clearly under a great deal of strain, and though it was understandable it was still not done for a king to seek advice on tactics from his subordinates, particularly on the very field of battle. However, the duke's own men were at a great enough distance that they could not possibly have heard Richard's words, let alone the sudden unease with which he had spoken them. No harm was done. Norfolk leant across the space between their mounts to address Richard a little more privately.
"Let Oxford come out into the open, sire," he said, softly. "There's no advantage to meeting him in yon spinney. He'll soon show his eyes, and when he does we'll cut him down as easily as winking."
It might be long enough at that, he mused, sitting up straight once more. Oxford suddenly appeared to be exercising all the caution of a virgin girl, hanging back in the last low shreds of the undergrowth on the sunward side of the marshland. For what purpose, he could not guess. Surely they did not think themselves unobserved? Unless...
Richard had also been thinking along these lines, it seemed. He stiffened at once and turned to the duke.
"Where are Northumberland's men?" he demanded, anxiety making his voice sharp and ugly. Norfolk raised one gauntleted hand to pacify the king.
"Be at ease, sire," he said, soothingly. "He has repaired to the far side of the rise to guard our left flank. He will not concede one yard of ground to the pretender."
Norfolk spoke as strongly as he could, hoping that his confident tone of voice would calm Richard's growing concern. Privately, however, he harboured doubts as to both Northumberland's stomach for battle and his allegiance; and whether coward or traitor, the man could only prove a hindrance to the king's battle to retain his crown. These doubts, however, he could see no sense in communicating to his monarch.
"Are his forces sufficient?" Richard was asking.
"Aye, sire," said the duke, his tone reassuring. "More than enough to best the sorry rabble they face this day."
"Then go," said Richard firmly, raising his head. "for I spy Oxford now. Take your men and see to him. I shall be quite safe with Northumberland's forces at my back."
"Sire, are you certain of this?"
"With your assurances and my knights?" Richard was almost smiling now, and he turned to wave a lazy hand at his mounted guard, stationed a few yards away, their armour glinting in the sunlight. "I am indeed. We'll have victory over these Lancastrian swine by noontime. Now go forth, and God be with you, John Howard."
The duke felt a twinge of sorrow at Richard's rare use of his given name; great friends though they were despite the considerable difference in age, between them both in public and in private, Norfolk and the king were careful to maintain every protocol. For Richard to break that understanding – here and now, with the fires of battle rising in their blood and the enemy at their threshold – was almost portentous, and Norfolk found himself studying every line and crease of the king's face as if it were the last time he would look upon the man.
Richard's dark blue eyes narrowed a touch in puzzlement at this sudden scrutiny. "Something ails you?" he asked. The old duke quickly shook his head in response and then forced a smile.
"God be with you also, sire," he said, then raised a hand to lower his visor. This done, he signalled his men to form up behind him, and then urged his horse down the gentle curve of the hill toward the foe now pouring out of the wood with their leader, the treacherous Earl of Oxford, some way ahead of the advance. Norfolk kicked at his horse's flanks once more and spurred it into a canter, drawing his broadsword as he went, his gaze fixed on his opposite number.
Norfolk turned his charging mount aside at the last second and took a single-handed slash at Oxford, but the man had prepared himself and brought his own weapon up in the lee of the duke's swing. The blow glanced across his visor as Norfolk reeled back to avoid it, all but falling from his horse, which staggered and danced beneath him as he hauled on the reins so hard he almost broke the beast's neck.
Grunting in annoyance, he dragged off his now broken and useless helmet and hurled it aside with an oath, staring at his enemy across the short space between them. Around the pair, their forces met and merged with the clatter of swords, while over their heads a flight of arrows filled the sky like deadly swallows. In the midst of this, the two nobles seemed locked in a cocoon of calm.
Just as Norfolk was readying his sword arm for another furious joust, however, he saw his opponent's face twist with horror, his eyes widening. The earl raised his visor, lifted a trembling hand and pointed at the hill behind the duke.
"Witchcraft..." he said, hoarsely.
Norfolk would have suspected a ruse, but there was something about the grey terror in the man's eyes that he knew at once was genuine; and, despite his every instinct, he brought his horse around to look back at the king's position. And what he saw, when he did, drove a wicked shard of madness through his unprepared mind.
Richard's knights had fled, leaving their monarch alone on the crest of the hill, and now the king's horse was rearing and dancing across the grass and threatening to throw its rider. The cause of its distress was clear for all to see; skeins of blue-white lightning were stabbing at the turf, surrounding the animal like the bars of a pen.
It plunged, turned, met another searing bolt of blue and stumbled back once more, its eyes rolling, and Richard lay low over its mane and hung on as best he could. The tinder-dry grass of the hill was now smouldering from the relentless blasts, and the smoke was only adding to the horse's fear. Then, over the crackling, there came another sound, like the cry of a great beast in a cave; a hollow, echoing howl that rose and fell. The duke could only stare as he saw the outline of a strange blue box appear as if from thin air, close to the king's position. It was no more than a sketch against the bright, clear summer sky, its vertical lines shimmering as if in a heat haze, and then it was gone just as swiftly as it had come.
The duke blinked, cleared his vision and then stared in disbelief. In the wake of the apparition, the dense web of lighting around the king seemed to intensify, and several things happened in rapid succession. The horse threw back its head and screamed, Richard lost his grip and tumbled from its back, and as soon as he touched the ground he was gone in a blinding white flash. The fire-show ceased at once, and the horse took to its heels, trailing a succession of panicked whinnies as it pelted into the wood behind the hill.
"My king!" roared Norfolk, abandoning his part in the fray at once and turning his horse back up the hill as arrows rained around him. He ignored them. He ignored Oxford, who had recovered from his shock and was now riding in hot pursuit. He ignored everything but the burning desire to find Richard and bring him back.
He reached the brow of the hill and vaulted from his horse, falling as he hit the ground and feeling a red stripe of pain shoot up his leg from his twisted ankle. This he also ignored, and staggered to his feet, brandishing his sword and calling out for the king over and over, his voice raw and broken.
He turned at the thunder of hooves and stumbled out of the way of Oxford's furious charge, ducking the man's vicious downswing before the wicked blade could cleave his skull. He saw the earl rein in his horse and swing around for another charge, this time taking more careful aim. Norfolk braced his feet against the dry earth and raised his sword above his head, determined to meet the assault with one of his own.
"Come, then, you dog!" he shouted; and as the horse bore down on him once more he stepped to the far side of it and hacked at Oxford's unguarded thigh. As he stumbled, however, his aim slipped and the tip of his sword carved a wide gash into the horse's hip instead. It reared with a cry of pain, lost its balance and then fell, trapping the earl's leg beneath it. Oxford struggled fiercely and briefly and then froze, looking around and up as his enemy approached, grinning in triumph, his blood-flecked broadsword lifted to shoulder height.
"This is ignominy!" snarled the earl, fighting to pull his pinned leg from beneath the groaning horse.
"No less ignominy than you've earned," snapped Norfolk, and spat at his feet before bracing himself, readying to dispatch the helpless man where he lay.
The air stilled at once, and in that breathless silence, the duke heard that strange, wailing sound once more. The air in front of him seemed to sparkle like a diamond and then solidified for the space of a single heartbeat. He reached out instinctively, and for a second felt a curious resistance against his palm, as if the very air had taken on form. Then both sight and sound of the strange apparition were gone, and all he could do was stand and stare in bewilderment, his hand still outstretched as he pawed at the clear air in front of his face.
Finally, he gave up and glanced down again at his foe. Oxford had dragged off his helmet and was staring levelly up at the duke, his face painted with sweat, his brows lowered and his jaw firmly set.
"Why do you not strike me dead?" he hissed.
"Where is the true king?" asked Norfolk, his voice rough. "How have you spirited him away?"
"I have not your bastard Richard!" said the earl. "Now strike and be damned!"
"No. You will not escape me so easily," the duke retorted, and then lifted his face to the sky. The sun drifted out from behind a soft veil of cloud and fell across his eyes, searing his vision for a moment, and so it was that the good John Howard, Duke of Norfolk and loyal servant of Richard Plantagenet, died. A stray arrow from the battle at the bottom of the hill plunged out of the sky and pierced his skull from front to back, a swift killing stroke.
The earl watched his stricken enemy fall, first to his knees and then to his face. Grinning savagely with a mixture of triumph and pain, he finally managed to drag his trapped leg out from beneath the injured horse and then climbed to his feet, testing his weight on that foot. No bones broken, he realised, thanks be to God.
He looked around now, studying the ongoing battle between his forces and Norfolk's, now leaderless and very much diminished. He would seek out a fresh mount and then return to the fray at his leisure, he decided. With Richard taken and his only warrior of any real mettle now lying dead on the ground, the outcome of the battle was a mere formality.
Oxford retrieved his helmet from the grass, and when he straightened up once more, he saw – as if by providence – Richard's stray horse, now calmed of its former terror and standing at the edge of a small copse, browsing peacefully on the long, tender grass that grew there. With a satisfied smile, the earl headed toward the animal at a slow walking pace, soothed it with a few choice words and then took it by the bridle, preparing to mount.
Before he took to the stirrup, though, some unregarded sense compelled him to turn his head and look back the way he'd come. Outlined against the sky and backlit by the sun as it climbed the sky, he saw a tall, square box. And then, before he'd had time to blink twice to be sure of his sight, the thing was gone like a wisp of smoke in the breeze.
The earl, though he lived in a deeply superstitious age, was not prone to superstition himself, and he immediately thought better of reporting this strange occurrence to either his own men or to Henry Tudor. It would only unsettle them, he knew, and he had no wish to question a piece of good fortune that had won them the kingdom with the battle barely begun.
Instead, he hauled himself up into the saddle and turned his mount away from the hill, heading back to the battlefield to assist his men in dispatching the last of Norfolk's vanquished men.