On Sunday, the twenty-first of August, hundreds jammed the road out of Leicester over the Soar heading west. Word was that Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, was camped along Watling Street near the village of Atherstone. This meant he could either evade the royal army and march quickly south to London, or—and the honorable thing to do—he would advance and engage with Richard. The scouts further reported that Lord Stanley had reached the area and was encamped at Stoke Golding, with his brother a stone’s throw from there. They had not joined Henry’s force, and Richard’s commanders breathed a sigh of relief, but Richard was less easily fooled.

When the news was given at the final briefing before the lords and knights of the household donned their armor and joined the procession, Richard had grunted, “I cannot trust Thomas Stanley. Why did he not obey my command to muster here? Send out an advance to keep an eye on them.” He then looked around the room making eye contact with his commanders as he thanked each one for their loyalty to England. “I will be honored to fight alongside every one of you, and I pray that you may honor me by wearing this token on the field.” He nodded to a young squire, who with great solemnity, had handed each commander a silver boar badge.

First to cross Bow Bridge across the Soar was Richard’s vanguard, jointly formed by the Howards’ forces, father and son. Thomas Howard, earl of Surrey, led the procession, guiding his snorting courser out of the castle yard and onto the road over the river. Richard saw that he was wearing the little silver badge on his tabard and was pleased. After a thousand troops had kicked up the dust far into the distance, it was time for Richard’s middle guard to move out of the city.

Richard stepped onto the mounting block and was helped into the saddle by Francis and Rob.

“Don’t forget to wave,” Francis teased, earning a grin from his sovereign. Handing Richard the helmet encircled with a dented, golden crown, he cried, “Listen, my lord, they cheer for you.”

Indeed they did cheer. The townsfolk crowded the entry to the castle, trying to get a glimpse of their king, but they fell back to a respectful distance when he emerged from the gateway, trumpets blaring, heralds and pursuivants carrying colorful pennants and banners behind him, and the arms of England and France fluttering above him on the standard borne by Sir Percival Thirwell. “God save King Richard!” the citizens cried, and some even shouted, “Death to the Tudor traitor.”