he new Yorkist King, Richard III was never a popular monarch and by 1485 the young Henry Tudor, exiled in France felt that he could command enough support to risk an invasion. He landed in Wales on 1 August 1485 with 2000 men. Three weeks later having gathered 3000 more, he faced Richards army of 8000 near the town of Market Bosworth in Leicestershire. Even as Henry marched along the Sutton Cheny road towards his objective, it was already evident that Richard had outmanoeuvred him. Arrayed in clear sight, on the crest of Ambion Hill the Yorkist lines stretched forth of a wonderful length, full replenished both with horsemen and footmen. For Henry's army toiling along in the midsummer heat below, it was a dispiriting prospect.
Nonetheless, King Richard also had concerns. None too certain of the loyalty of his army or his nobles, he was particularly doubtful about Lord Thomas Stanley who had yet to commit his troops to either side. With a force of approximately 3000 men, the Stanley contingent could make a considerable difference to the outcome of the battle. While the brooding King looked down from his vantage, the Earl of Oxford at the head of Henry's army was arriving within arrow range of the Yorkist vanguard commanded by the Duke of Norfolk. Detouring around the marsh at the foot of Ambion Hill, Oxford's ranks turned north, presenting their backs to Lord Stanley. If the Stanley's were ever to attack the Tudor army, now was the time to do it, hitting them in the rear while Norfolk's forces streamed down the hill in a hammer and anvil action. Stanley failed to respond. Realising that he was betrayed in that quarter, Richard looked towards Norfolk but the Duke stood firm. As the Tudor army turned eastward again, to face him, they were greeted by the deep goose-feathered moan of thousands of arrows in flight.
Now Norfolk advanced down the western face of the Ambion Hill, his front ranks a glittering, spiked hedge of bills, glaives, voulges, fauchards, bardiches, halberds and poleaxes. At the last, only yards away from the enemy, the Yorkists sent up a great roar and leapt forward. Oxford's billmen screamed back at the top of their lungs to stiffen their own resolve for the coming struggle and the two sides slammed together making the air ring with the heavy strike of metal on metal. Thus began the grim struggle for the lower slops of the hill.
Sweating in the armoured heat, men struggled for footing as the restless cross-current of battle shifted back and forth; opening and closing gaps spilling and tumbling one line upon the other. While the battle 'continued thus hot on both sides betwixt the frontlines' King Richard, watching from the crown of the hill, observed a body of horsemen riding across the heath towards the rear of Oxford's heavily engaged command. As they drew nearer, the forest of colourful standards betrayed the party to be none other than the accompanied Henry Tudor himself. 'Wherefore', according to the Tudor chronicler Polydore Vergil, 'all inflamed with ire, (the King) strick his horse with the spurs and runneth against him.'
In fact Richard's charge was not a furious impulse but a calculated decision. Beneath the fury of Norfolk's assault, Oxford had closed up his ranks creating a gap between himself and the marshy ground guarding his right flank. This presented Richard with two options. He could advance his mounted retinue into the gap to attack Oxford's now vulnerable right flank, or aim for a higher prize by charging through the gap to attack Henry's personal contingent beyond. Richard chose Henry.
As his orders were carried by the call of trumpets, the King reached up and slammed shut the visor on his crowed helmet. Around him the 1500 mounted knights and men-at-arms of his personal retinue did the same. Here on the lush slopes of Ambion Hill in the warm August sunshine was all the panoply of English medieval warfare at its finest: the burnished steel, full plate armour; richly coloured tabards worked with armorial devices; heavy war swords in expensively tooled leather scabbards; deep-seated saddles on well accoutred mounts; and banners and flags galore. All of this mass of living, vibrant colour was about to be hurled down the slope in the last great cavalry charge of the medieval age.
At the other end of the battlefield, a hesitant Henry Tudor, guarded by a retinue of mounted knights and men-at-arms, had at last decided to lend some support to the battle which he hoped would win him the crown of England. Now, looking up, he saw the shining thong of Richard's mounted knights pour over the crest of the hill, rippling and flashing in the sun like a field of silver corn. At the very spear-point of this host, with his charger pointed directly at the Welsh dragon standard of Henry Tudor, rode the King himself. This fearful sight seems to have deprived Henry of all command initiative until it was too late for anything but a stand. Nonetheless, from desperation sprang a bold defence.
The momentum of the charge carried Richard right up to the knot of knights around Henry. Seeing the Tudor standard before him, the King struck such a furious blow that the standard-bearer instantly rolled dead from his saddle. As Henry's knights endeavoured to put themselves between him and the King, Richard next crossed swords with John Cheney, whom he battered from the saddle in his fury. Single-mined in his determination to deal Henry a mortal blow, the King had almost won within sword reach when the crush of the battle began to carry him away.
Nearby, Lord Stanley watched this desperate struggle. Realising that Richard would never forgive his failure to act earlier, while Henry would now be forever grateful for a timely intervention, he finally made his decision. With trumpets blaring, visors down and pennants streaming, Stanley attacked Richard's left flank. With this, King Richard's position became perilous. Many of the royal retinue were now down and fighting on foot amid the dead and dying. Close to Richard, his standard-bearer, Sir Percival Thirwell, screamed in agony as his legs were severed. Above the terrible din of battle, the Castilian knight Juan de Salazar could be heard shouting to the King, 'Sire, take steps to put your person in safety.' But Richard knew for certain that the day would either deliver him a pacified realm thenceforward or else take it away forever. Fighting like a madman, he roared defiance 'God forbid I yield one step. This day I will die as King or win.'
Even as the King uttered these words, the once tight battle lines of his retinue were spreading like a stain into the marsh behind. The day was lost. In the saddle and on foot, knights, men-at-arms, billmen and riderless horses were floundering in the stinking mire pursued by the triumphant forces of Henry Tudor.
Suddenly, amid the noise and terror and confusion of the rout, Richard was down. His horse, trapped in the marsh, could not retrieve itself. Tudor's Welsh billmen, splashing through the mud like hounds upon a stag at bay, fell upon him furiously with their polearms. Still Richard would not be taken and struck out with his battle-axe. As many blows rained down upon him, the King of England bore himself like a gallant knight and acted with distinction as his own champion until his last breath, shouting oftentimes that he was betrayed, and crying Treason! Treason! Treason! His agonies were ended by a savage denting blow to his helmet from a halberd which left him slumped in his saddle.
In a flash the billmen seized upon his senseless body, tearing without ceremony or mercy at the expensive armour and clothing adorning his limp frame. The crowned helmet was ripped off and as his enemies fought over the spoils, the King's blood-spattered body was dumped in the dark, foul-smelling swamp. The victorious Henry Tudor was crowned on the field by none other than Lord Stanley, who was doubtless relieved to hear the new King swear faithfully to remember the services of those who had fought for him. From this day forth, the young Welsh upstart and self-styled 'Earl of Richmond' was King Henry VII of England. Richard III was the last king of England to die in battle.