The Red Queen

AUGUST 20, 1485

The Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, marches into Richard’s camp at Leicester with his army of three thousand fighting men. He is brought to Richard while the king is eating his dinner under the cloth of state, in his great chair.

“You may sit, dine with me,” Richard says quietly, gesturing to a seat down the table from his own.

Henry Percy beams at the compliment, takes his seat.

“You are ready to ride out tomorrow?”

The earl looks startled. “Tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

“On a Sunday?”

“My brother marched out on an Easter Sunday, and God smiled on his battle. Yes, tomorrow.”

The earl holds out his hands for the server to pour water over his fingers and pat them dry with a towel. Then he breaks some manchet bread and pulls the white soft crumb inside the crunchy crust. “I am sorry, my lord; it has taken me too long to bring my men. They will not be ready to march tomorrow. I had to bring them fast, down hard roads; they are exhausted and are in no state to fight for you.”

Richard gives him a long, slow look from under his dark eyebrows. “You have come all this way to stand to one side and watch?”

“No, my lord. I am sworn to join you when you march out. But if it is to be so soon, tomorrow, I will have to volunteer my men for the rear guard. They cannot lead. They are exhausted.”

Richard smiles as if he knows for a fact that Henry Percy has already promised Henry Tudor that he will sit behind the king and do nothing.

“You shall take up the rear then,” Richard says. “And I shall know myself safe with you there. So.” The king speaks generally to the room, and the heads come up. “Tomorrow morning then, my lords,” Richard says, his voice and his hands quite steady. “Tomorrow morning we will march out and crush this boy.”