August 22, 1485

When he was young his mother told him he was going to be king. She claimed that God had showed her in a vision and that it was his destiny as the Lancastrian heir, to wear the crown and sit on the throne of England to rule a mighty dynasty. A Tudor dynasty.

"But Edward is king" The six year old Henry informed her. Margaret Beaufort only smiled at her young son as she moved some hair away from his eyes.

"Yes, but not chosen by God" She did not sound like she was joking and little Henry frowned slightly. Was it not treason to say such things?

"And I am?"

"Yes, my Henry. You were chosen to be the greatest king of England"

He never believed her, she was more a stranger to him than a mother, having been taken away from her at the tender age of four when the white rose ruled England and he barely saw her and when he did, he was never close to her. What did he know then? He wore the colors of York with the Herbert children he was raised with at Raglan and played knight defeating the army of the mad King Henry. He was playing the very scene his mother had rebuked in her prayers, it was an act that Heaven forbid she set her eyes upon. He was a child and he indulged himself. He never forgot that he was Tudor, he did not forget that royal Welsh and Lancastrian blood flowed through his veins, he did not forget his mother's constant saying that "One day Henry, you will be king", He also did not forget his loneliness, separation, lack of security, and lack of a mothers love and attention.

Today, standing on this damp and muddy field, drenched with the blood and sweat of men, the words of that stranger came to pass. With uncertainty and an army half the size of his opponent, he faced the Plantagenet Richard. "This day, I will die a king or win" He had heard Richard say. Looking down at the naked corpse of the dead King, Henry mused that he had not died like a king at all. He had been ambushed, his helmet driven into his skull. He was then stripped of his armor and clothing, the Yorkist pretender lay in the mud not as a king, but as a disgraced man. 'Could that be me in the future?' Henry thought. Half the nobles who turned up for him, did so on the promise that he would marry Richard's niece, Elizabeth of York. Would he be sending the message that he truly had no strong claim to the throne?

"One day, Henry you will be king."

He had not believed that at dawn when both armies gathered on opposite sides for battle. His army made up of a few Welsh men, a handful of English nobles, and mostly French mercenaries against the grand army of the York pretender, consisting of English Lords and thousands of yeomen. He did not see how God could have possibly shown his mother a vision of him becoming king, perhaps it was instead his destiny to die a pretender in an attempt to usurp the throne. He was no fool, nor was he a dreamer; Henry knew a win by him would take a miracle orchestrated by God himself.

"One day, Henry you will be king."

Her words engraved in his skull, he decided it was time he embraced his fate, win or die this day; it was his destiny. He went down on one knee, bowed his head and in Latin said "Judge me, O Lord and favor my cause." He kissed the wet grass of Bosworth Field and then stood to call charge. His men were beaten and struck down from left and right. The heavy mist of the morning settled around them like a thick blanket and made it five times as hard to see. His heart beat heavily in his chest as his sword clashed sword after sword, spear after spear. When would one strike him down?

He heard his uncle Jasper yelling orders in the distance, a fugitive for almost forty years, this was his day to shine. The Lancastrians were going to smile again, Henry Tudor would put an end to the cousin's war, he would sit on the throne with a York daughter by his side and they would live in a peaceful England, a country flowing with milk and honey. After Henry, an heir of both York and Lancaster would inherit the throne and all would continue to be well. However, it did not seem like it at the moment. Without the forces of his step father, Lord Stanley, Henry was going to fall. He could see Richards's army gaining on his and he had half a heart to call a retreat. With one last forceful strike he disarmed the man he was fighting, stuck his sword into his abdomen, tearing through flesh and muscle, he withdrew his sword and looked up at the horizon. Up on the hill he saw a large army charging, their standard was that of the Earl of Derby, his step-father. Lord Stanley had halfheartedly promised his army to him, but Richard had Stanley's son in his possession in order to bribe the earl to fight on his side. Stanley may have been watching, he could perhaps see Richard's army nearly defeating his, he must have chosen a side then and it was most likely the stronger one. Everyone knew Stanley only fought for the winner, to hell with Henry being his step-son.

There was a pause in battle as both sides looked anxiously to see who Stanley was going to fight for. Perhaps as he sped down that mighty hill, Stanley himself was still weighing the prospects. They waited silently to hear whose side he would call to defend. Henry's hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, his breathing evening out. There was no turning back now, his army could not escape this and he would have to fight to the death. Stanley raised his sword and Henry could hear his mother's words like an echo around him "One day Henry, you will be king." Would it be today, he wondered, for this moment right here would determine it all….

He was thirteen when William Herbert, his yorkist guardian was captured at the battle of Edgecote Moor by the Kingmaker, the Earl of Warwick. He was put in chains and beheaded before Henry. Then it was his turn, only a young boy but, a puppet supporter of York. He had been scared. They were not likely to behead him as well, but he was going to be a prisoner. Squeezed between two strong guards, he screamed so that Warwick would hear him.

"Stop! I am Tudor! I am Henry Tudor!"

Never in his life had his name meant anything but trouble for him, this day however it saved him. He was brought back into the care of his mother and uncle, he was something of importance and he realized his mother may not have been talking crazy after all. The death of Henry VI and his son, Prince Edward, only confirmed that one day he would have to stand and fight for the throne that belonged to him. At this realization, he said to himself:

"One day I will be king"

"For Tudor!" The call from Lord Stanley was repeated several times and in that moment relief like no other swept through Henry. He regained his momentum effortlessly. Richard still had a huge army, but his was bigger now. The battle ended before noon and here he was standing on this field were so many lay lifeless, where Richard lay lifeless and shamed. "Could that be him in the future?" No. He was here to stay, he decided. It was God's plan for him… his destiny. He would lead a strong dynasty, a long lived dynasty of Tudors that would be remembered forever in history.

"One day, I will be king"

The day had finally come after twenty eight years of insecurity, running and hiding. The day had finally come. He glanced once more at the corpse of the dead Richard and watched as it was carried and placed on a cart with other nameless York soldiers. That would not be him in the future, he would make sure of that.

"Henry"

He turned to see his step father, Lord Stanley, standing before him with a gold circlet in his hands, the same one Richard had been wearing during the battle. His uncle Jasper Tudor stood beside Stanley weary, but with pride and satisfaction shining in his eyes. Henry retuned a smile at him, the day had come at last. The circlet was placed on his head and immediately, all men on the field dropped to one knee, boisterously cheering with confidence:

"Long live King Henry."