1485
That summer seemed to last forever.
It was like standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting to fall. Waiting for the ground to give way beneath your feet, and knowing with certainty that it will, but never knowing when.
He waited.
May turned into June, June into July. No word came. Not even a whisper.
"What is he waiting for?" He muttered to himself, when he was alone at night. The candles were burning low, the fire had been extinguished. The nighttime chill was beginning to creep in, but instead of retiring to bed, he remained in his upholstered armchair, nursing a silver goblet of Gascon wine. The rubies on his fingers glittered in the candlelight, and as he tapped his fingers on the side of his drinking vessel, he found solace in the sound of the gentle tap, tap, tap of the golden bands of his rings hitting the metal.
He took a deep breath and drained his goblet, praying that soon - soon - it would all be over.
His son was dead.
His wife was dead.
His brother was dead, and his sister-in-law was in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey as though she feared him. She always was a vindictive bitch.
Richard stretched his fingers and clenched them into a fist. The crown was on his brow, but it was heavy. The gold and the jewels were far more of a weight to bear than they appeared, and he couldn't help but think his brother had worn the crown so much more effortlessly than he. Edward had made everything look easy, Richard thought with a grimace. It was just like him, to die and leave everything in turmoil. He'd had his fun - the money, the power, the women - and now he was dead, leaving Richard to clear up his mess.
Richard rested his chin on one of his fists. He was in deep contemplation, about his position as king, about his brother, about the invasion from Henry Tudor that seemed was never going to materialise... He longed for a battle, for the thrill of a fight. The adrenalin pulsing through his veins under his armour, for the flush of hand-to-hand combat. It had been so long since he'd coated his sword with enemy blood. So long since he had stepped foot on a gritty battlefield.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaQ9La5qsT9
It wasn't the kind of thing one usually looked forward to, but this time Richard was excited.
"My lord," Francis Lovell said, bursting through the large double doors, breaking the king out of his reverie. Richard almost raised an eyebrow at Lovell's disregard for royal protocol, but stopped himself. "Tudor has landed. In Wales." He said, his breath coming in gasps.
Richard bit back a smile.
He nodded.
"Let's get this over with, once and for all." He said grimly, rising from his throne and putting aside the gilded crown. He would finally exchange it for a battle helmet and a blade.
He surveyed the battle field. It was empty.
The sun was just rising, and Richard had risen earlier than usual. His breakfast wasn't ready, and neither were the priests who were due to say mass in his tent before breakfast. He smiled gently at the pageboys and kitchen maids who were running this way and that to get everything ready. Each of them murmured as they passed his tent: 'he's up so early! The king never rises at this time!'.
It was true. But Richard could not sleep. Each time he had closed his eyes he was presented with an unpleasant memory, different each time. The first time his eyes closed he had seen his wife - beautiful, beloved Anne - lying pale on her deathbed, calling his name. The second time he had relived the moment a servant from the North came rushing into his chambers. Anne had been lying in his arms contentedly. And then the Northern man said their son had died, and in his last breath he had asked desperately for his parents. A light had gone out in Anne's soul that night, one that Richard had never been able to rekindle.
The night before a battle should be spent preparing. Sleeping, resting... Richard lay awake pleading with the memories in his head to abandon him just like those in them had done.
Instead he saw Edward, the golden crown on his golden head. "Dickon," He laughed in the memory, "You always were the best out of us three brothers. The most honest!" He said with a roar of laughter, almost spilling his wine. Edward had dug an elbow in George's side, who had grudgingly smiled at his elder brother's joke. Edward laughed harder at George's discontent, damn near pissing himself at his own humour. Now George was dead, executed by the man he had called brother, and Edward had began his slow descent into a downward spiral the moment he signed George's death warrant.
Richard shook his head and the image dissipated.
He grimaced in the darkness.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmfvUB9yEcF
He wanted this battle over. He wanted it all over.
He watched from a hilltop as his forces ran and met Tudor's, swords raised.
The battle was going his way. Tudor's men were dropping like flies, falling prey to the superior nature of the king's forces. They didn't stand a chance.
Richard smiled beneath his visor, praying that victory would come to him on swift wings. He wanted to go home, he wanted comfort and a hot bath.
And then he spied Tudor. He was alone, riding out away from the field. Richard almost laughed aloud - it couldn't be. No one man could have such astounding luck... For his enemy to ride away alone?662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpMGYLGZ1Su
He scoffed and kicked his heels, bidding his horse to gallop towards the tactless Henry Tudor.
One man, it turns out, can't have such astounding luck.
Richard swore as his horse was felled by a thick patch of mud. Its hooves were stuck, and the great white beast soon fell to its knees, throwing its king onto the ground beside it. Richard breathed in deeply, not wasting a moment before lurching to his feet. He was without a steed, and he had always fought better whilst mounted.
And it was, as they say, all downhill from there. The king was set upon by Welshmen and traitors, all of them longing to be the one to take the crown from his head and present it to their leader. Vipers, Richard thought, cursing each and every one of them as he struggled to fight them off.
One of them caught a blow on the back of his legs. It wasn't enough to break the skin, but he could feel a bruise starting to blossom immediately. He paused for a fraction of a second to take a breath and measure the pain in his leg. In that one tiny second, another had taken the opportunity. A blow to the side of the head, brutal and hard.
Instantly Richard knew it had done more than bruised. He could already feel the blood filling up the back of his helmet, spilling over his ears and down his neck. He fought back an agonising cry, removing his helmet with one swift, fluid movement. He cut down several more of the men nearest to him, leaving the bodies littering the battlefield at his feet.
"Treason!" He called, realising now that his situation was more dire than he had first predicted. He prayed his words would give at least some of them pause. They didn't.
The next blow came at his cheek. It sliced clean through the skin like a hot knife through butter. The man who dealt the blow held his dagger aloft, Richard's blood still dripping from the blade, when Richard retaliated and slid a dagger of his own into the man's gut.
The man crumpled to the ground and fell, Richard's dagger still protruding from his armour. Richard leaned down to retrieve his weapon - he had formed an attachment to it, over the years - and realised his mistake as he did so. He had been pushed to his knees, so quickly he hardly noticed it happen. He refused to turn, instead he remained kneeling with his head looking at his dagger embedded in the body of another, his brain working quickly to figure out a way out, any way out...
His breathing was becoming laboured, and his wounds were beginning to hurt as the thrill of the fight began to wear off. His limbs ached and in different sections of his body he could feel wounds throbbing urgently, demanding to be noticed.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZF196wWP78
He ignored it all, focusing only on breathing, forcing his lungs to carry on. He had been struck in the ribs, and he noticed now how it was becoming harder for his lungs to expand and get the air they required.
Then there was a impact on his skull, like a great, dull thud.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbYRPMGaQ8R
At first it felt like warmth, like a warm drink on a winter's day. And then it intensified - the drink was too hot and it scalded one's tongue, leaving blisters in its wake. It was burning, every inch of his body screaming in protest. He felt the blood matting in his dark hair, and noticed with startling clarity that he was loosing an alarming quantity.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgIW6fHQCpR
A small, round dagger had been thrust with great force through the bottom of his skull. Richard convulsed, his shoulders locking and his legs failing him. Falling forward, sword still in hand, he wanted to laugh as the blood seeped from his skull onto the battlefield.
Well, he thought as he was set upon by Tudor's men like a rabbit among wolves, it's over. As the late August sun neared noon, he thought to himself how funny it was, that summer was finally over, as England was welcoming the victory of its winter king.
a/n - The king in this short story is Richard III, the last English king to die in battle - the battle of Bosworth Field, 22nd August 1485.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFStodDMJlw
Tudor refers to the future Henry VII, father of Henry VIII. He was sometimes referred to as 'the Winter King'. 662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa8a6kTifFY
I have tried to stick to as much fact as possible in regards to the actual battle - he did rise early, and a complete examination of his brutal wounds can be found here: http://www.livescience.com/47869-richard-iii-final-moments-postmortem.html
In regards to his feelings before the battle, it's all creative licence. He probably felt quite confident of victory.
Also, Shakespeare said his last words were "A horse! My kingdom for a horse!". In reality, historians seem to think his last words were declarations of "Treason!".
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