The Knight of Swords and Spooks (4 page)
“I didn’t know.”
“He died. A baby. Children die. You shall die if you father betrays me. Are you afraid?”
“No, sire.”
Richard laughed and rode on.
That night, they reached a field that the soldiers called Bosworth. They set up their camp in the warm, evening air.
To the south and the west, the hills were gentle and green. In the distance, the sky was clouded orange.
Ratcliffe looked out of the tent where George was chained to the main pole. “Only an army makes a dust cloud like that. Henry Tudor is on his way. Tomorrow there’ll be a battle.”
“What will happen? George asked.
“We will win,” the tall knight answered. “You see, we are on a hilltop. Henry Tudor’s men will have to march
up
the hill to attack. We will mow them down with our arrows, and they will be climbing over the corpses of their friends. If any of them
do
reach us, they will be too exhausted to fight our knights. We sit here. We wait. We win.” The man raised an arm and pointed to the north. “See that hill a mile away?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That’s a place called Coton. Your father and your uncle are marching their army there now. When Henry Tudor attacks us, your Stanley armies will smash them from the side. We cannot lose.”
George nodded. He lay back on a blanket. After a long day’s ride he soon fell asleep. Deeply asleep. Yet he awoke in terror.
Hours had passed. It was darkest night. He wondered what had woken him. Then he heard it again. The screams of a man – a man in torment. He knew it came from the next tent.
Sir Richard Ratcliffe stumbled in the dark of their tent and threw on a cloak. He came back moments later with his arm around a shadowy figure. “It was a dream, just a dream,” he murmured to the man.
The shadow-man gave a long groan. “It’s a sign, Ratcliffe, a sign. A bad sign. Tomorrow … tomorrow in the battle … tomorrow, I will die!”
And the boy knew the tormented voice was the voice of King Richard.
King Richard sat on the floor of the tent and took deep breaths as if he were in pain. “Oh, Ratcliffe, the things I saw!”
“It was a dream, Your Majesty.”
“Maybe, Ratcliffe … or maybe the gates of Hell opened up. The devil let out the spirits of the men and children I’ve murdered.”
“You don’t believe in spooks, Your Majesty,” Ratcliffe said in a soothing voice.
“Remember Lord Hastings? He was my loyal friend. One night at dinner, I had him dragged outside and said I wouldn’t eat till his head was cut off. The guards found a plank of wood and used that instead of a block. A sword instead of an axe. I saw him last night, Ratcliffe! He came back to haunt me!”
“Hush, Your Majesty. The men will take it as a bad sign. They will be afraid before they go into battle.”
But the king wasn’t listening.
“The Princes … my
nephews … my brother’s boys. Locked in the Tower. Smothered to death and buried in a secret grave.”
“No, they were sickly children. They would have died anyway,” Ratcliffe argued quietly.
“They died without a funeral – that means their spirits can’t rest. I saw them, too, last night, Ratcliffe.”
“A dream, Your Majesty.”
“Ghosts, Ratcliffe. And I saw Lord Rivers … and … ohhhh! My brother George! Did I tell you about George?”
“The traitor?”
“He asked us not to behead him. He said if we
had
to execute him, we should drown him in a barrel of wine!” the king sobbed. “Poor George. I saw him, too – he came to my tent. It is a sign, Ratcliffe, a sign.”
The king moaned again and sank back on to the ground. In the darkness, young George heard him breathing heavily.
The boy fell into a restless sleep, too.
The noise of the camp, stirring at first light, woke him. King Richard sat up and looked across in his direction. The king’s face was as grey as any ghost. He turned to Ratcliffe. “The boy?” he said. “The boy heard what I said last night.”
Ratcliffe gave a single nod.
The king rose to his feet. “We can’t have him telling the world that Richard is a coward – spooked by dreams like a child,” he hissed. “If the battle goes against us, he
has
to die. Make sure it is done.”