Bosworth

The early morning fog covered the ground like a soft plush blanket. The lush green grass of the marsh and surrounding fields seemed to be a favorite of the horses.  As they walked the field many tried to steal a snatch or two.  Their riders weary, pulled their heads up and spurred them lightly forward. Yet they could sense what was coming soon. Ever so soon as the sun began to rise.

Brakenbury was quiet for a change. Yet, quiet boisterous the night before at the inn, Richard thought he would never sleep. Tossing and turning in his room in the inn’s upper bedroom, sleep never came easy for him away from his normal chambers in London, and especially now, alone. How he missed Anne. She was not supposed to die. So many things awaited him back in London. His niece Elizabeth, needed a marriage and then there was her other sisters. He needed to make their mother happy. He needed her support, most importantly he needed this usurper, Henry Tudor dead. Of bastard lineage, now in England to challenge his right to the crown, Richard’s crown.  

He gripped the hilt of his sword. It was cold, even through his leather gloves. He repeated to himself the words of the priest from the morning mass as he blessed them all as they prepared for battle. He asked God again to give him strength and watch out for him. He prayed to his wife Anne to watch out for his soul and his body if he fell. He tried to push that thought out of his mind, far, far away.

One of his commanders called for them all to halt. Banners danced in the air in the distance. Their colors vibrant against the morning grey sky. He could see the Welsh banner men struggling against the winds and then the standard of Tudor.  A chill ran down Richard’s spine. Soon, very soon, everyone’s fate was to be decided.......

c. June 30, 2014 A.C. McMillin