The candles flared suddenly, and the altar vanished, dissolved in the sudden brilliance of the light. Richard, as in a dream, fully armed on White Syrie, found himself galloping down a hill alone while all around a battle was silently raging. Far ahead he saw his quarry, Henry Tudor, cowering behind a giant of a man and the standard bearer. Tudor’s banner, emblazoned with the red dragon of Wales, waved tantalizingly at Richard. He waits for me. He sits there and waits for me. Joy and divine confidence filled Richard’s chest as he unsheathed his sword and heard himself cry, “For York, God and England! Death to the invader!” The sure-footed courser navigated the steep hill and carried Richard forward as if on wings. He could hear nothing else but the wind whistling past his helmet and his pounding heart. Closer and closer he rode, brandishing his sword and easily slaying two knights in his path. The goliath moved towards him and raised his deadly mace. With God on his side, nothing could stop Richard now, and he engaged the knight, slicing so powerfully through the vambrace protecting the man’s forearm that the weapon fell harmlessly to the ground, still gripped by the severed hand.

Now Henry was alone, and even with his visor down, Richard could see the terror in the pale blue eyes. “It is only you and me now, my lord!” Richard shouted. “Unsheath your sword, or do you want to die without a fight? If you want my crown, come and get it.” Before Henry could properly adjust the grip on his sword, Richard urged White Syrie sideways, the horse’s armored shoulder unbalancing Henry’s horse. Henry fell out of his saddle and onto the ground, knocking off his helmet.

“Did you not learn in the art of war, as I did, that being unhorsed and losing your helmet is the killing blow for nobles, my lord?” Richard gloated high above the trembling Henry, who was begging for mercy. “You should have heeded the lesson. Now make your peace with God!” As Henry prayed, Richard raised his sword and brought it down.

The light guttered suddenly and the kneeling Richard started. He knew then this victory had been but a vision, and, marveling, he crossed himself. Vision or no, he now finally believed God was with him. He would win this battle.

Dawn broke on that twenty-second day of the month, and when his chaplain entered the tent just before prime, he found Richard prostrate in front of the little altar, fast asleep, the candles long since extinguished.

“There is nary an Englishman with Tudor, they are mostly Frenchies. Will you let those Frenchmen over there beat us on our own soil?” Richard asked to shouts and boos of “Nay! Never!”

Francis stood awed as Richard addressed the troops assembled on Ambion Hill. He did not know what miracle had led Richard to seem to tower above all others, his voice strong and confident as he roused the thousands of men to fight for him, but he was grateful; the miracle was much needed. After weeks of depression and self-pity, Francis worried Richard had harbored a death wish.