On August 22, 1485, England would be conquered for the last time by a foreign invader.
The final battle of the Wars of Roses, the moment when the long-lived Plantagenet dynasty came to a bitter end, was fought by a small number of soldiers compared to the earlier bloodbaths that had taken place at Towton, Wakefield, and Mortimer's Cross--just to name just a few.
Henry Tudor styled himself a Welshman and flew the ancient banner of the Pendragons. His army was comprised mostly of French mercenaries. Although an anointed King of England would die in battle on this day, if truth be told, Henry did not win by force of arms. The Battle of Bosworth Field was, for Henry, the culmination of long years of intrigue.
The final battle of the Wars of Roses, the moment when the long-lived Plantagenet dynasty came to a bitter end, was fought by a small number of soldiers compared to the earlier bloodbaths that had taken place at Towton, Wakefield, and Mortimer's Cross--just to name just a few.
Henry Tudor styled himself a Welshman and flew the ancient banner of the Pendragons. His army was comprised mostly of French mercenaries. Although an anointed King of England would die in battle on this day, if truth be told, Henry did not win by force of arms. The Battle of Bosworth Field was, for Henry, the culmination of long years of intrigue.
Treason! said to be King Richard's final cry as he "fought bravely in the midst of his enemies" was the true reason for Henry's victory.
Here, Rose tells what she saw :
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the gray which proceeds dawn
we came upon the king’s pickets at the rear guard. Here, my soldier friends
went in and I stayed among a little group of women of the army waiting in an
orchard. In the camp, the lords were arming. There were gay banners and the
flash of metal on the hill above.
From that distance I heard
canons begin to boom and heard the distant thud of gun stones. Into the summer
dawn rose a black smoke, as if hell had opened a gate. There came next the
battle roar. At last, in the valley behind the hill, I began to hear the
terrible cries of the wounded.
Some of the women simply stayed
under the trees. Myself and a few others, pale and full of fear at what we knew
in our hearts—we went forward—to help, to look for our men. In dread we skirted
the hill which had been the king’s camp.
A mob of
ravens had already gathered, a murderous racket in the trees. Hearing them, the
hair on my neck prickled.
There
were three ravens sat on a tree . . .
The
grim old song! Crossing myself, I began to walk. If they gathered so eagerly,
there were none left to do me harm...
Down,
down in yonder green field
There
lies a knight, slain ‘neath his shield...
The dead lay everywhere. I
stepped among them and then over them. Of the first lords I saw was one who lay
belly down, arms extended, hands still gripping his battered, emblazoned
shield. A trail of gore marked his progress through the crushed grass. He had
been crawling, stubbornly refusing to release his arms. The shield was dented
and crushed, the corners actually hammered out of shape. One heraldic
quartering had been obliterated, but the other was still identifiable. It was
my Lord Duke of Norfolk, ever true to the house of York.
As I approached, the ravens
flew up with a chorus of caws and a funereal clatter of black wings. They did
not go far, just rose, circled, and then landed again in the nearest tree,
confident of their feast. It took my breath way to round the hill and come upon
this rare work of men—strong bodies now broken and dead horses, the fallen,
trampled standards, the greasy sheen of blood upon long August grass.
A haze
hung in the air and the wind was rank with dust, black powder from the hellish
guns, and that slaughterhouse stink. I crouched to see if any still breathed,
but stiffening death was all I saw. On every side lay Richard’s men, men I
knew, tabards emblazoned with the boar, now soaked with their own entrails...
~~Juliet Waldron
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