Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (2 page)

21st August, 1485

Ambion Hill,

England

‘T
HE TRUTH
. G
IVE
me the truth!’

The King’s fist slammed down onto the table at which the commanders of his army sat. The argument ceased immediately at the sound, and all eyes turned to the man seated at the table’s head.

‘The truth, sire? The truth is that we cannot hope to hold out against Tudor’s forces for another full day.’

‘Do we not outnumber them?’

‘Yes, sire, by almost a thousand men.’ The Duke of Northumberland chose his next words carefully. ‘But our numbers will count for nothing. His advantage is too strong.’ He drew a deep breath. The King had demanded the truth—and the truth he would have. ‘The battle will be lost.’

The words cut through the tense atmosphere like a sword. The King sat down heavily and shook his head. ‘That cannot be. I refuse to concede defeat without a blade raised in defiance. Tell me something else. There has to be a way we can defeat him.’

‘Short of murdering his vile retinue in their beds...’ Northumberland started, but the King interrupted him.

‘Do you not think I’d considered that? Assassins have been infiltrating Tudor’s forces for days and still he encroaches. Still he brings those abominations before me and seeks to drive me from my throne. Well, he will not have it. There has to be a way, but you
fools
are too stupid to provide me with one...’

The candlelight flickered against the King’s furious face. It was not a handsome visage, the features somehow misaligned and uneven as though he had not been put together correctly. The only reminder of his noble heritage was the solid set to the heavily stubbled jaw line and something across his prominent brow that called to mind the Plantagenets who had seized the English throne for their own.

King Richard the Third of England was not a man who cared much about physical appearance. He was, however, a man who cared a great deal about how his kingdom was perceived. This was not a battle he could afford to lose if he was to be seen to be strong. Henry Tudor was within days—hours, if his commanders were to be believed—of taking that throne from him. The expectations of his ancestors fell heavily on his stooped shoulders. He was not a happy man.

Those loyal to his cause were few in number, but utterly dedicated to the Crown. Their King was young, but seasoned and tempered in the fires of battle. Tudor was an untried warrior and largely an unknown quantity, but his sheer presence had been enough to sway the hearts of the weak-willed and the opportunistic. It was a battle that should never have come to pass, a rebellion that should have been over before it had even begun. For months they had known of Tudor’s scheming and intentions—for months they’d had time to marshal their forces and march on Lancaster—but Richard had been confident he could dispel the growing threat with words and politics.

He had been too confident. And now the price was being paid in blood and lives in the muddy fields of middle England. Because of Henry Tudor and his followers. Because of the colours and the design of the banner that marched at the head of the enemy and what they stood for. The dragon standard had become synonymous with Tudor’s encroachment, an ancient iconography whose boldness of statement could not be missed. All who flocked to Tudor’s banner knew what weapon it was that he wielded. Those who marched beneath the white rose of York found out, often too late, what weapon it was that they faced. All of Richard’s armies could not hope to best such power.

So numbers had dwindled as fear of the King and his laws was eclipsed by fear of Tudor’s arcane might. Lords found excuses to keep their warriors at home or simply ignored the King’s summons altogether, casting aside familial oaths to await the inevitable outcome. This campaign had cost many lives, not to mention the great expense to bring the King’s diminished army to the field to answer Henry’s defiance. If the material or actual costs weighed heavily on Richard’s shoulders, it didn’t show in his words or deeds. But he was losing, and tomorrow, Richard feared, he would have lost. He would be consigned to the history books as the man who lost the crown of England to a pretender. His hands curled and uncurled as he concentrated on keeping focused and not allowing his burning hatred of Tudor to cause a tirade of impotent rage.

He knew this was more than an attempt on his throne and on the crown. Tudor wished to totally destroy the English way of life. If he ascended the throne of England...

A silence fell across the command pavilion, uncomfortable and unpleasant. The only sound was the rain outside, drumming heavily above their heads, incessantly driving and churning the earth into a gruelling swamp. It should not have been raining; the weather was wholly unnatural given the clear skies. But then, their enemy wielded unnatural power.

There was a coughing at the entrance to the command tent, and seven pairs of eyes turned to the young messenger who stood there.

‘Speak.’ Richard sat back in his chair, resting his hands on its wooden arms. ‘Bring me news I want to hear.’

‘Alas, I cannot, sire.’ The messenger was little more than a boy, not more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Like Richard, he had seen the army assembling in the fields beyond and knew what it represented. He bore the same air of grim determination that now marked all of the King’s men. Richard’s eyes narrowed to barely visible slits. The boy’s manner did not please him.

‘Then speak. What are his plans?’

‘Lord Stanley remains neutral. He has positioned his units between our forces. He will take whichever side he sees fit once battle is joined. It seems that unless my lord concedes to his demands immediately, his loyalty will be fickle to the last.’

‘His son will remain in custody until his loyalty is proved.’

The Duke of Norfolk, silent until this point, finally spoke up. ‘He is one of the few advantages we may yet field in this battle. His loyalty belongs to the King. This posturing proves nothing.’

‘This “posturing” will be our undoing,’ snapped Northumberland.

‘Be still, Northumberland.’ The King’s voice was soft, but commanding. The man fell silent, glowering. ‘Continue, boy.’

‘Tudor is in session with his commanders. They have set up camp some two and a half miles from here.’

‘The ground is ours.’ Norfolk was confident in this. ‘They will be forced to fight uphill through the mire while we rain arrows upon them.’ His spark of optimism did not catch among the gathering, but guttered and died.

‘Tudor’s magi...’

The very utterance of the forbidden word drew sharp intakes of breath from everyone present, and the messenger foundered slightly, aware that he might well have transgressed. The men turned to look at Richard, who did not move, bar to crook a finger indicating the youth should continue. He did, cautiously.

‘Tudor’s magi plan to maintain the weather tonight. The storm will not hinder his forces, and he believes that come dawn, the men will have lost the will to fight and will throw down their arms rather than face death.’ He ran his sweating hands down the sides of his stained, muddy tunic. Richard remained leaning back in his chair, most of his face hidden in the shadows. ‘The ground—forgive me, my Lord Norfolk—is not ours at all.’

Norfolk set down the goblet of wine that he had barely touched. He leaned forward on the table for a moment, looking around at the expressions on the faces of those gathered. Then he gave a deep, lusty sigh. ‘They are probably right.’ He leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Unless we can do something to disarm Tudor before it happens, this war is over.’ He shook his head and ran his fingers through his beard. ‘The battle is lost.’

‘No,’ said Richard aloud, drawing looks from the commanders. ‘No. I will not let this thing happen. The Battle of Bosworth will go down in history as a victory for the house of Plantagenet, not as a defeat. Tudor must
not
be allowed to take the throne.’ He closed his hand into a fist and pounded it down on the table again.

‘Those who came before me fought for this throne, and for this crown that I wear. I will not betray their sacrifices and their legacy because of
one man!
’ As he spoke, his voice rose in pitch until he was screaming. For the young messenger, it would be the last sound he would ever hear.

Richard drew the dagger he wore strapped to his shin and threw it, with easy grace and deadly accuracy. It embedded itself in the boy’s chest and the young man let out a startled cry of pain. Blood drooled from the puncture wound and he pitched forwards onto the straw floor of the pavilion, landing on the hilt and driving it further into his flesh. He thrashed a few times, his limbs twitching in the final throes of death, and then he lay still.

‘Get out.’

Richard’s tone left no room for question or argument. Those who had declared their loyalty unto death left, one by one, stepping around the stiffening corpse of the unfortunate messenger. Not one of them knew the boy’s name. Not one of them cared.

The Duke of Norfolk was the last to leave. He studied his King wordlessly for several moments. Richard raised his head and looked Norfolk right in the eye.

‘If you have something to say, then say it,’ said the King, rising from his seat and moving to get a goblet of wine from the end of the table. ‘Otherwise, begone, before I have your head.’

‘What do you plan to do, sire?’ The duke asked his question.

‘That is my business.’ Richard poured the wine, watching the dark fluid slosh into the steel goblet like blood. He raised it to his lips and took a drink. ‘Go and rest now, while you can. There is a battle to be fought on the morrow.’ Richard stared into the goblet, but Norfolk continued to linger. He had not given his loyalty to Richard without reason, and to see him so concerned tapped a rare wellspring of sympathy. He sought to offer encouragement with a few careful words.

‘Understand, sire, that those of us who fight for you do so with every ounce of strength in our bodies. This horror that you fight so hard to destroy... this gift of magic... by the end of tomorrow’s battle, it will be driven into the mud. Tudor’s head will become the trophy it should be, and this sorry business will be past. Your reign will continue.’

‘Past, perhaps,’ said Richard, without looking at Norfolk. ‘But not forgotten.’ He finally raised his head and there was such determination in his eyes that Norfolk took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Fetch Mother Sewell. I wish to speak with her.’

S
HE WAS A
toothless old hag, her mumblings barely audible, bent practically double with age and nameless aches that twisted her fingers into painful claws. The young woman who brought her to the command tent did so with care and obvious respect. Richard looked the girl over as she entered with eyes made appreciative by two goblets of wine. For all his alleged cruelty and visible deformities, Richard had never wanted for mistresses. There were
some
advantages to being the King of England, and a bevy of beauties clamouring to bear his bastards was just one of them.

But tonight, rutting was far from his thoughts.

The old woman sat down on one of the chairs with obvious difficulty, grumbling quietly at the pain in her knees as she did so. The pretty young thing who had brought her fussed over her for a while, ensuring she was comfortable, and then dropped a low curtsey to the King before retreating.

Richard set down his wine and considered Mother Sewell. She had been in his service for six years, during which time her advice had proven invaluable. And she was the closest thing to magic that he tolerated in his court.

He moved back to the table, pausing briefly to kick the corpse of the dead messenger over and retrieve his dagger. He took a seat next to her and leaned forward, briefly resting his head in his hands. Then he sighed heavily.

‘I need to know, Mother Sewell,’ he said, his words slurring a little. ‘I need you to read the omens and weave the threads of the future into something that will give me victory tomorrow.’

She mumbled something incomprehensible in response, but Richard didn’t bother demanding she speak up. He’d given that up a long time ago. Mother Sewell made herself understood only when it suited
her
. She was quite mad—of that there was little doubt— but her advice and her visions had proved invaluable. Time and again her premonitions had saved the King’s life, or spared him humiliation during diplomatic negotiation.

Mother Sewell leaned forward on the table and held out a gnarled hand. With obvious difficulty, she uncurled her stiff fingers until her palm was as flat as it could be.

‘The price, Richard.’ He did not comment on the familiarity; Mother Sewell said what she wanted to say when she wanted to say it. And she was perfectly understandable when she wanted something. Richard sneered only a little as he drew the blade of the blood-stained dagger across his own palm. A line of deep scarlet welled up in the wake of the blade, and the King clenched his hand into a fist, hissing at the stab of sudden pain. Holding his hand above Mother Sewell’s, he watched as the blood dripped slowly into her open palm. Five. Six. Ten drops of blood.

‘You smell of fear, Richard, son of Richard. Is it death that you fear?’ She brought up the finger of her other hand and smeared the King’s blood in rings on her liver-spotted skin.

‘No. I do not fear death.’ His response elicited a deep cackle and he scowled, snatching his bloodied hand back. He took up the water pitcher and poured the slightly brackish fluid over his hand, washing clean the self-inflicted injury. There would be another scar on his palm come the break of day, but if Mother Sewell guided him well, the price would have been worth it.

‘What do you see?’

‘Patience,’ was her infuriating reply. ‘You must be patient. The skeins of fate twist and converge. Teasing free a single thread is no simple task.’ There was a faint lilt to her accent; she had been born in the valleys of Wales.

The gnarled, bent forefinger of her left hand continued to trace the King’s blood across her palm, and then she let out a low moan, as if she were in terrible pain. Richard did not start at the noise; he had witnessed her reading his future often enough.