Now in his gleaming harness, the arms of England brightly displayed on his tabard, the crest on his crowned battle helm streaming his white boar pennon, Richard was magnificent, ramrod straight in his cleverly fashioned cuirass; no one who did not know the king would guess it hid a curved spine. White Syrie was a fearsome sight, plate armor covering his face and flanks making him appear larger than life. He snorted and pranced along the ranks of horsemen of the household who surrounded Richard on the hill, anticipating the coming battle like the superbly trained warhorse he was. Richard seemed unconcerned that Henry of Richmond had stolen a march on him and had already chosen more solid ground past the somewhat boggy terrain to the south. He let them come and deliberately continued his delivery of thanks and encouragement to his mustered troops.

“I had a sign from God last night,” Richard told them. “I had a vision that I slew the Tudor in a great victory. Let us now fulfill that destiny. I am ready!” he shouted. “Are you ready to end the strife that has near destroyed England for thirty years? Let our enemies hear your resolve! Let me hear you now—are you ready?”

The roar of “For England! For King Richard!” that echoed over the plain inspired his army to raise their weapons—English longbows, crossbows, halberds, bills, lances, swords, and battleaxes—and shake them at the Lancastrian troops assembled in front of them. Compared with the mile-long line of royal troops facing them bristling with weaponry, the Lancastrian force appeared small, boosting the morale of Richard’s army.

Richard gave the order to the extensive artillery to fire. The first thundering booms from the serpentines and bombards were the signal for the archers to loose their deadly arrows skyward and commence battle. Jack Howard advanced the van, and soon he and Oxford were lost to Richard’s sight in the vicious melee. God keep you, Jack, Richard thought.

His gaze swept the rest of the battlefield from his vantage point, noting where Richmond’s strengths and weaknesses lay. The terrain was not ideal, he knew, as he watched Oxford’s van carefully maneuver round a large patch of marshy ground, forcing Norfolk’s soldiers to tread it.

Richard became focused on two forces a half mile hence, both close to the village of Dadlington but set apart and seemingly rooted to their spots. “Stanleys,” he muttered, angrily. “Fence-sitting Stanleys. Let us finally see where their loyalties lie.” He had despatched a messenger half an hour before to order Lord Stanley’s force to move towards Norfolk and attack Oxford’s flank. Thomas Stanley had not yet moved a muscle.