It was warm and sultry, but more than that, it was tense with battle preparation. Richard’s entire force of around five thousand men was camped on Ambion Hill, south of Leicester and directly in the path of Henry Tudor. When dawn broke on the morning of August twenty-second, the battle had finally come.
The morning at Bosworth Field was clear but for some lingering fog created by the heavy evening moisture. The White Lord took his troops with Norfolk to create the front lines. Matthew set up three rows of archers just ahead of the cavalry, nearly one thousand strong. It would have been far better for him had Gaston been here with his contingent of Welsh archers, but he could not wish for what was not available. Norfolk had mostly cavalry and infantry, lingering just behind Matthew’s troops. In the distance, they could see an army approaching, standards flying high.
“Do you see who it is?” he asked Mark, astride his fat red charger.
Mark’s visor was lowered. “Nay,” he turned to Luke. “Can you see the colors?”
Luke squinted in the early morning sun. “It looks like green and white pennants.”
Matthew heard him. “Oxford,” he hissed. “He is leading the charge. Archers ready!”
His voice boomed across the field. The soldiers with the red pennants that, once waved, would set off a deadly volley of arrows, stood at the ready. As Luke charged off to supervise the archers, Mark remained at Matthew’s side, studying the incoming tide of men.
“Any further orders before I assume my position?” he asked.
Matthew shook his head. “When the foot combat begins, return to my side. We must stay united if we are to survive.”
Mark nodded, but still he lingered. Matthew was focused on the approaching Oxford pennants when Mark spoke quietly.
“This is more than likely not the appropriate time, Matt, but I feel I must speak.”
Matthew glanced over at him. “What of?”
Mark cleared his throat, his gaze suddenly uncertain. “Your wife,” it was difficult for him to bring forth the words. “I… I have not been very kind to her. I have said terrible things. I want you to know, before this battle begins and our lives may be cut short, that I am sorry. I am sorry for the cruelty I have thought of her.”
He had his brother’s full attention now. “It is unnecessary to apologize,” Matthew said, watching emotion flicker across Mark’s face. “I know you, brother. I know that you did not mean what you said.”
Mark lifted a dark eyebrow. “That is where you are wrong. I meant everything I said, at least at the time.” He was uncomfortable with his confession and slammed his visor down. “I was jealous, I suppose. Jealous she had you, jealous you married a woman that you could love. But that is all over now. I just wanted you to know that should anything happen, you do not have to worry over your wife. I shall take care of her if it comes to that.”
Matthew’s gaze was intense. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the change of heart?”
Mark would not look at him; he was focused on the approaching army.
“You have always been an excellent warrior, Matt,” the helmed head turned in his direction. “But she has made you an excellent man. I have seen changes in you but do not ask me to describe them, for I cannot. But know that I have seen youchange for the better. You are blessed, and as my brother, I am pleased. God knows you deserve some happiness in this world. I am glad that you have found it.”
Matthew could only smile. “Your wife adores you, too, Mark. Perhaps you should give yourself the chance for happiness such as I have found.”
“Perhaps.”
Matthew held out a gloved hand. Mark caught it and they held each other tightly, drawing strength from their brotherly bond. But the moment was cut short as they realized the archers were still waiting for the signal to let fly. Matthew was preparing to bellow the order when a messenger suddenly approached him from the rear. He recognized the man as having been sent for Gaston several days prior. Matthew passed his command over to Mark and went immediately to the messenger.
“Where’s de Russe?” Matthew asked before the man could speak.
“He is to the north with the Stanley armies, my lord,” the man was clearly exhausted. “They are lingering just out of battle range.”
Matthew’s eyebrows drew together. “What is he doing there? The battle is beginning.”
“He says to tell you that he must speak with you, my lord,” the man replied. “I am to take you to him.”
Frustrated, Matthew was forced to leave his post. Mounting his newly purchased Belgian charger, he tore off after the already-mounted messenger.
Gaston was more than a mile to the north, on a ridge overlooking the distant field of battle. He was there with the Stanley brothers and their army of over five thousand men. It was nearly as big as the contingent on the field in the distance. Matthew found Gaston dismounted, helmless, standing next to his charger and quite calmly watching the far-away battlecommence. The thunder of cavalry and the shouts of men could already be heard.
Matthew’s charger kicked up clods of wet earth as it came to a rough halt. He dismounted heavily, his armor banging against itself as he walked straight for Gaston. It was a purposeful and perplexed march. The Dark Knight turned to him as he approached.
