Post by Mr Modica on Oct 10, 2013 7:39:34 GMT
BBC History Magazine
A kingdom for a cause
The battle of Bosworth in 1485 ended the life of Richard III. MICHAEL K JONES offers a new interpretation of the battle, suggesting a more sympathetic reading of Richard's reign
Around the anniversary of the battle of Bosworth, fought on 22 August 1485, it is time to re-assess the folklore surrounding this famous fight and the King who died there. Taking the picture at its crudest, wicked Richard III remains a symbol of depravity, a bogeyman whose twisted moral nature is revealed through his bodily deformity. The judgment of historians is more nuanced, but most see him as a ruthless tyrant, who seized a crown not rightfully his by murdering his brother's sons. He ruled England for only two years before Henry Tudor defeated his army at Bosworth and heroically slew him on the battlefield. It is hard not to see this as a form of moral judgment on the brutal way Richard came to power. In obvious or subtle fashion, we are still taught to celebrate Henry's victory as a triumph of good over evil and the release of the country from the cruel grasp of a killer.
The foremost spokesman for such a persuasive view is of course Shakespeare. He built on the histories of the triumphant Tudor dynasty, fashioning their views to superb dramatic effect. Our modern recreations imaginatively maintain the tradition. In 1995, Richard Loncraine directed lan McKellen as the king in a film of Shakespeare's Richard III. The battle of Bosworth takes place in the ruined Battersea power station, a daring and successful idea: its decaying structure strikingly represents the rotten state of England under Richard's rule, a forbidding setting for the struggle which ends in Richard's violent death at Henry's hands.
Forty years earlier, in Laurence Olivier's film version, a very different location created a remarkably similar effect. Olivier fought his Bosworth on a bull farm near Madrid. He successfully created a tapestry-like back-drop, where soldiers moved like chessmen, a depiction borrowed from a Spanish palace, the Escorial’s magnificent Hall of Battles. Yet once again, its purpose is to show Richard alone as the battle reaches its climax. He is surrounded and overpowered, without any chance of rescue, just as his victims were isolated as he murdered his way to the throne. In Shakespeare's play, Richard speaks only to confirm a caricature, a man corrupted by ambition and his hatred of the world and those who, unlike himself, have a rightful place in it. In this, Shakespeare, drawing on Tudor tradition, firmly maintained the line that a great tyranny was overthrown with Richard's death.
Since then, some historians have given Richard credit for the more positive aspects of his rule, if largely retaining the judgment promulgated by his Tudor opponents. He has attracted his own legion of defenders. Their redress of a wronged reputation can be as stereotypical as the defamation that prompted it. The debate between supporters of the 'good' and 'bad' Richard resembles a Kafkaesque court of justice, perpetually reconvening to discuss the 'crimes' of a long-dead figure.
Richard was born in 1452 with clouds of civil war gathering over England. He was only eight when his father, Richard, Duke of York, was killed in battle at Wakefield, and just 17 when a bitter feud between his guardian, the earl of Warwick, and his eldest brother, King Edward IV, paralysed the nation. Warwick temporarily outmanoeuvred the king, driving him into exile in Burgundy. Richard loyally shared his brother's exile in 1470-71 and took a prominent part in restoring his rule. Yet despite a record of good service to Edward, he seized the throne following the King's death in 1483, almost certainly murdering his brother's two sons, the 'Princes in the Tower', in the process.
History's verdict seems clear. Richard III was unable to escape the consequences of this bloody usurpation of power. He faced a major rebellion in October 1483, within months of his accession. This was defeated, but many of his opponents fled to France, joining the court-in-exile of his challenger Henry Tudor. In the summer of 1485 they launched their invasion through Henry's native Wales. Richard's army lacked the will to resist. At Bosworth, many of his men simply refused to fight. Faced with this erosion of support, Richard lapsed into despair and was overwhelmed in a desperate attempt to reach and kill Henry. In this interpretation, the battle of Bosworth was a judgment for the way Richard came to the throne. He had no right to .the crown, and he paid for it with his life.
But what if Richard did have a cause he believed in? It could give us a very different battle of Bosworth. One starting point is an account made by an Italian visitor to London in the summer of 1483, Dominic Mancini. His chronicle offers us an astonishing revelation. Richard's mother, Cecily Neville, the dowager Duchess of York, was so angered by Edward IV's clandestine marriage to the widowed Lancastrian commoner Elizabeth Woodville that she announced that her eldest son had been conceived in an adulterous liaison, and was not his father's rightful heir. Mancini's testimony is first-hand, pre-dating the histories of the victorious Tudor dynasty. It has been recognised as one of our major sources ever since CAJ Armstrong brought out a scholarly edition in 1969. And we also know this extra-ordinary charge figured in Richard's own stated grounds for taking the throne.
Yet there is more to this slander than has been thought. Edward was born at Rouen on 28 April 1442. His father, Richard, duke of York, was serving there as lieutenant of the Lancastrian King Henry VI in France. A rich mine of material on this period exists in the voluminous registers of the archbishopric of Rouen. I made an interesting discovery in this archive. It concerned the christening of the York’s second son, Edmund, also born in Rouen, just over a year after his brother, on 17 May 1443. Edmund's birth was celebrated with notable splendour. The christening took place in Rouen cathedral, the most impressive venue available. After lengthy negotiations with the cathedral chapter, York secured a remarkable honour, the use of a treasured relic, the font where Duke Rollo of Normandy had been converted to Christianity, kept covered in subsequent centuries as a mark of respect. Commentators in France and England recognised this as an exceptional accolade.
The antiquary William Worcester noted that Edmund was christened 'where none had been baptised since Rollo, ancestor of William the Conqueror, received Christianity from its waters' However, the earlier christening of Edward, the elder son and heir, had, in complete contrast, taken place very quietly, in a small, private chapel in Rouen castle It was highly unusual to accord the second son so much greater respect than the first, unless with this latter birth, the couple had more to celebrate together.
I continued my search through the documents. Edward was probably conceived in late July or early August 1441. York was absent on a military expedition for the last two weeks of July, but was apparently back with Cecily in Rouen by the beginning of August. Only the records told a different story. Processions were being held for York's safety over a week later, clearly stating that he was still on campaign. He did not return until 20 August. He was absent at the crucial time. The chronicler Philippe de Commynes related a scandalous rumour that Edward was the son of an archer named Blaybourne. Could this be true?
Legitimate King of England
The consequences of this would be devastating. For although Richard was York's youngest son, his brother Edmund had been killed with his father at Wakefield in 1460, and his other brother, George, duke of Clarence, was executed by Edward IV in 1478. Clarence had engaged in insurrection with the earl of Warwick, when, in the summer of 1469, the astounding allegation of Edward's bastardy had first been aired. Richard thus considered himself the head of the House of York and legitimate King of England. For him and his supporters this would have justified the removal of his brother's offspring as a matter of family honour, rather than ruthless ambition or fear. He did have a legitimate cause to fight for.
Accepting this possibility, the meaning of Bosworth is transformed. And this is stunningly displayed in the ritual of preparation Richard employed before the battle. Ceremony could be used to inspire and unify an army, providing a theatrical demonstration of a rightful cause. Before Bosworth, Richard carefully devised such a ritual, performed with nothing less than the coronation crown of England. This remarkable occurrence certainly struck contemporary observers. The Crowland Chronicle describes
Richard wearing the 'priceless crown', the epithet normally used for the coronation crown of Edward the Confessor. The archives in Rouen offer us an explanation: Richard believed he was rightful king of England, and was communicating this through a powerful ritual to his assembled soldiers. If Richard took such care in his preparations, he would have also thought carefully about where he would have fought.
It is to the traditional site of battle that we now need to turn. Today, Richard Ill's white boar banner flies imposingly from the top of Ambion Hill, in Leicestershire, the focal point of an impressive battlefield centre, whose markers chart the course of the Bosworth fighting remarkably precisely. William Hutton, writing the first book on the battle in the 18th century, had Richard starting from the summit, and most modern scholars have followed suit. Why is this detail so important?
The choice of a hill-top encampment reveals both a commander's state of mind and his tactical thinking. It is defensive, and limits the scope of deployment of cavalry and infantry in any pro-active manoeuvre. It suggests a Richard passive and defensive, lacking conviction and self-belief whose only thought was to wait for Henry, or worse, that his planning was so deficient that Henry came upon him before any strategy was in place. But Richard was a soldier by training, experienced in warfare and celebrated for his military acumen in previous campaigns. It is unlikely that such a man would back himself into a corner. The top of Ambion Hill is an improbable place to find him,
In 1990, the historian Peter Foss put forward a different argument, suggesting the battle did not take place on Ambion Hill itself, as centuries' old tradition had it, but a mile or so further south, near the village of Dadlington. As with history's judgement of Richard as man and monarch, I no longer believe this minor adjustment is enough. We need to consider the bigger picture. While there was always evidence for Ambion Hill, and then for Dadlington, there were also problems with both sites, small but significant details that wouldn't quite fit. The most telling piece of overlooked evidence is fundamental: the position of the sun. Henry Tudor's army landed in Wales and marched east into England, while Richard, who had spent some weeks in Nottingham gathering a force to confront his challenger, prepared for battle in the Midlands. The two armies met on an August morning.
It is logical to assume that Richard launched his charge towards the west, the direction of Henry's approach. How could it have been otherwise? So, when the Tudor court chronicler Polydore Vergil speaks of Henry's advancing 'with the sun behind him', forcing Richard's troops to confront them with the sunlight dazzling them, this makes no sense at all. The morning sun would have been in the east, and as the day wore on, would have moved steadily higher and further to the south. The west-facing slope of Ambion Hill presents a narrow escarpment. If Richard charged from its summit, how could he possibly have faced in the direction of the sun? Vergil must be mistaken.
A new source for the battle suggests differently. It is a fragmentary but fascinating account, related by a French mercenary in Henry's army. I found this material in print, in an 1897 article by the French scholar Alfred Spont, for the journal Revue des Questions Historiques. Spont describes reforms in the French army of the late-15th century, and in particular, how a war camp was set up at Pont-de-1'Arche, in eastern Normandy, in the early 1480s. This housed a substantial number of pike- men, drilled in the latest martial techniques by Swiss experts. Henry Tudor chose to hire about a thousand of them for his invasion of England and their expertise was to serve him well at Bosworth. Spont offers us fleeting extracts from a letter written by one of its soldiers, the day after Bosworth. It was peripheral to Spont's main theme, and it has not been possible to trace the original. Yet I believe that the extracts, as they stand, are almost certainly genuine.
Richard's battle plan
This source describes the battle's climax entirely differently. Rather than a rash, desperate charge by Richard and a fanatical group of loyalists, it tells us that the king rode forward with his 'whole division', in a well-planned and large-scale assault on Henry's position. It is an extraordinary shift. If using cavalry was part of Richard's battle plan, he would not deploy his forces on a narrow hill-top, with little room for manoeuvre. Knowing this, I no longer believe that Vergil made a mistake. He had spoken face-to-face with men who fought in Henry's army. Powerful evidence exists to locate the battlefield eight miles to the west of the traditional site, close to the small town of Atherstone in Warwickshire, in very different terrain, which would have allowed Richard to use his cavalry to full effect. This fits with a remark made by the Crowland Chronicle, a contemporary source well-informed on Richard's military preparations, which named the encounter 'this battle of Merevale', after the abbey south-west of the town, and a compensation grant made by the new Tudor king, Henry VII, delineating the place of his triumphant combat in the fields north-east of Atherstone. The two sides would now be facing each other in opposite directions to the traditional reconstruction. If Richard had charged to the east, his opponent must already have outflanked him and swung back, to gain the tactical advantage of the sun behind him as battle commenced. But was this advantage enough? The French soldier's comments give a very different perspective on the battle’s climax. Richard's charge was powerful and well-supported. It was only frustrated by a new manoeuvre that the king could not have seen before, in which the French pike men pulled rapidly back to surround Henry's position with a near-impenetrable defensive wall of weaponry. This informed eyewitness account relates how Henry Tudor 'wanted to be on foot, in the midst of us, and in part we were the reason why the battle was won'. Richard's resulting rage and frustration against these 'French traitors' is recalled by someone close enough to hear.
In this alternative scenario, the open fields near Atherstone, the battle's final act may now be found at the intriguingly named Derby Spinney, just north of the village of Fenny Drayton. It is intriguing because Tudor sources later related how Thomas, Lord Stanley – whose forces' late intervention in the battle on Henry's side may well have helped to clinch his victory - crowned the winner in the battle's aftermath, the crown famously recovered from a thorn bush, where it had presumably rolled off Richard's head. Stanley was created Earl of Derby soon afterwards. The spot is incongruously occupied today by a mobile roadside cafe.
This suggested alternative site may well reshape our understanding of the events that took place on 22 August 1485. And yet, in the end, real awareness of the meaning of Bosworth will not be found on a trek from field to field in the Midlands countryside. A battlefield is a gateway to the experience of those who fought there. Olivier conjured his own truth about Bosworth on a Spanish bull farm. Loncraine found it in a ruined London power station. For both, the goal was to enter the psychic space of the battle itself, to feel and understand as men must have felt and understood there. The revelation that at Bosworth the last Plantagenet king of England had a cause to fight for, and was only denied victory by extraordinary chance, is the real and enduring discovery.
A kingdom for a cause
The battle of Bosworth in 1485 ended the life of Richard III. MICHAEL K JONES offers a new interpretation of the battle, suggesting a more sympathetic reading of Richard's reign
Around the anniversary of the battle of Bosworth, fought on 22 August 1485, it is time to re-assess the folklore surrounding this famous fight and the King who died there. Taking the picture at its crudest, wicked Richard III remains a symbol of depravity, a bogeyman whose twisted moral nature is revealed through his bodily deformity. The judgment of historians is more nuanced, but most see him as a ruthless tyrant, who seized a crown not rightfully his by murdering his brother's sons. He ruled England for only two years before Henry Tudor defeated his army at Bosworth and heroically slew him on the battlefield. It is hard not to see this as a form of moral judgment on the brutal way Richard came to power. In obvious or subtle fashion, we are still taught to celebrate Henry's victory as a triumph of good over evil and the release of the country from the cruel grasp of a killer.
The foremost spokesman for such a persuasive view is of course Shakespeare. He built on the histories of the triumphant Tudor dynasty, fashioning their views to superb dramatic effect. Our modern recreations imaginatively maintain the tradition. In 1995, Richard Loncraine directed lan McKellen as the king in a film of Shakespeare's Richard III. The battle of Bosworth takes place in the ruined Battersea power station, a daring and successful idea: its decaying structure strikingly represents the rotten state of England under Richard's rule, a forbidding setting for the struggle which ends in Richard's violent death at Henry's hands.
Forty years earlier, in Laurence Olivier's film version, a very different location created a remarkably similar effect. Olivier fought his Bosworth on a bull farm near Madrid. He successfully created a tapestry-like back-drop, where soldiers moved like chessmen, a depiction borrowed from a Spanish palace, the Escorial’s magnificent Hall of Battles. Yet once again, its purpose is to show Richard alone as the battle reaches its climax. He is surrounded and overpowered, without any chance of rescue, just as his victims were isolated as he murdered his way to the throne. In Shakespeare's play, Richard speaks only to confirm a caricature, a man corrupted by ambition and his hatred of the world and those who, unlike himself, have a rightful place in it. In this, Shakespeare, drawing on Tudor tradition, firmly maintained the line that a great tyranny was overthrown with Richard's death.
Since then, some historians have given Richard credit for the more positive aspects of his rule, if largely retaining the judgment promulgated by his Tudor opponents. He has attracted his own legion of defenders. Their redress of a wronged reputation can be as stereotypical as the defamation that prompted it. The debate between supporters of the 'good' and 'bad' Richard resembles a Kafkaesque court of justice, perpetually reconvening to discuss the 'crimes' of a long-dead figure.
Richard was born in 1452 with clouds of civil war gathering over England. He was only eight when his father, Richard, Duke of York, was killed in battle at Wakefield, and just 17 when a bitter feud between his guardian, the earl of Warwick, and his eldest brother, King Edward IV, paralysed the nation. Warwick temporarily outmanoeuvred the king, driving him into exile in Burgundy. Richard loyally shared his brother's exile in 1470-71 and took a prominent part in restoring his rule. Yet despite a record of good service to Edward, he seized the throne following the King's death in 1483, almost certainly murdering his brother's two sons, the 'Princes in the Tower', in the process.
History's verdict seems clear. Richard III was unable to escape the consequences of this bloody usurpation of power. He faced a major rebellion in October 1483, within months of his accession. This was defeated, but many of his opponents fled to France, joining the court-in-exile of his challenger Henry Tudor. In the summer of 1485 they launched their invasion through Henry's native Wales. Richard's army lacked the will to resist. At Bosworth, many of his men simply refused to fight. Faced with this erosion of support, Richard lapsed into despair and was overwhelmed in a desperate attempt to reach and kill Henry. In this interpretation, the battle of Bosworth was a judgment for the way Richard came to the throne. He had no right to .the crown, and he paid for it with his life.
But what if Richard did have a cause he believed in? It could give us a very different battle of Bosworth. One starting point is an account made by an Italian visitor to London in the summer of 1483, Dominic Mancini. His chronicle offers us an astonishing revelation. Richard's mother, Cecily Neville, the dowager Duchess of York, was so angered by Edward IV's clandestine marriage to the widowed Lancastrian commoner Elizabeth Woodville that she announced that her eldest son had been conceived in an adulterous liaison, and was not his father's rightful heir. Mancini's testimony is first-hand, pre-dating the histories of the victorious Tudor dynasty. It has been recognised as one of our major sources ever since CAJ Armstrong brought out a scholarly edition in 1969. And we also know this extra-ordinary charge figured in Richard's own stated grounds for taking the throne.
Yet there is more to this slander than has been thought. Edward was born at Rouen on 28 April 1442. His father, Richard, duke of York, was serving there as lieutenant of the Lancastrian King Henry VI in France. A rich mine of material on this period exists in the voluminous registers of the archbishopric of Rouen. I made an interesting discovery in this archive. It concerned the christening of the York’s second son, Edmund, also born in Rouen, just over a year after his brother, on 17 May 1443. Edmund's birth was celebrated with notable splendour. The christening took place in Rouen cathedral, the most impressive venue available. After lengthy negotiations with the cathedral chapter, York secured a remarkable honour, the use of a treasured relic, the font where Duke Rollo of Normandy had been converted to Christianity, kept covered in subsequent centuries as a mark of respect. Commentators in France and England recognised this as an exceptional accolade.
The antiquary William Worcester noted that Edmund was christened 'where none had been baptised since Rollo, ancestor of William the Conqueror, received Christianity from its waters' However, the earlier christening of Edward, the elder son and heir, had, in complete contrast, taken place very quietly, in a small, private chapel in Rouen castle It was highly unusual to accord the second son so much greater respect than the first, unless with this latter birth, the couple had more to celebrate together.
I continued my search through the documents. Edward was probably conceived in late July or early August 1441. York was absent on a military expedition for the last two weeks of July, but was apparently back with Cecily in Rouen by the beginning of August. Only the records told a different story. Processions were being held for York's safety over a week later, clearly stating that he was still on campaign. He did not return until 20 August. He was absent at the crucial time. The chronicler Philippe de Commynes related a scandalous rumour that Edward was the son of an archer named Blaybourne. Could this be true?
Legitimate King of England
The consequences of this would be devastating. For although Richard was York's youngest son, his brother Edmund had been killed with his father at Wakefield in 1460, and his other brother, George, duke of Clarence, was executed by Edward IV in 1478. Clarence had engaged in insurrection with the earl of Warwick, when, in the summer of 1469, the astounding allegation of Edward's bastardy had first been aired. Richard thus considered himself the head of the House of York and legitimate King of England. For him and his supporters this would have justified the removal of his brother's offspring as a matter of family honour, rather than ruthless ambition or fear. He did have a legitimate cause to fight for.
Accepting this possibility, the meaning of Bosworth is transformed. And this is stunningly displayed in the ritual of preparation Richard employed before the battle. Ceremony could be used to inspire and unify an army, providing a theatrical demonstration of a rightful cause. Before Bosworth, Richard carefully devised such a ritual, performed with nothing less than the coronation crown of England. This remarkable occurrence certainly struck contemporary observers. The Crowland Chronicle describes
Richard wearing the 'priceless crown', the epithet normally used for the coronation crown of Edward the Confessor. The archives in Rouen offer us an explanation: Richard believed he was rightful king of England, and was communicating this through a powerful ritual to his assembled soldiers. If Richard took such care in his preparations, he would have also thought carefully about where he would have fought.
It is to the traditional site of battle that we now need to turn. Today, Richard Ill's white boar banner flies imposingly from the top of Ambion Hill, in Leicestershire, the focal point of an impressive battlefield centre, whose markers chart the course of the Bosworth fighting remarkably precisely. William Hutton, writing the first book on the battle in the 18th century, had Richard starting from the summit, and most modern scholars have followed suit. Why is this detail so important?
The choice of a hill-top encampment reveals both a commander's state of mind and his tactical thinking. It is defensive, and limits the scope of deployment of cavalry and infantry in any pro-active manoeuvre. It suggests a Richard passive and defensive, lacking conviction and self-belief whose only thought was to wait for Henry, or worse, that his planning was so deficient that Henry came upon him before any strategy was in place. But Richard was a soldier by training, experienced in warfare and celebrated for his military acumen in previous campaigns. It is unlikely that such a man would back himself into a corner. The top of Ambion Hill is an improbable place to find him,
In 1990, the historian Peter Foss put forward a different argument, suggesting the battle did not take place on Ambion Hill itself, as centuries' old tradition had it, but a mile or so further south, near the village of Dadlington. As with history's judgement of Richard as man and monarch, I no longer believe this minor adjustment is enough. We need to consider the bigger picture. While there was always evidence for Ambion Hill, and then for Dadlington, there were also problems with both sites, small but significant details that wouldn't quite fit. The most telling piece of overlooked evidence is fundamental: the position of the sun. Henry Tudor's army landed in Wales and marched east into England, while Richard, who had spent some weeks in Nottingham gathering a force to confront his challenger, prepared for battle in the Midlands. The two armies met on an August morning.
It is logical to assume that Richard launched his charge towards the west, the direction of Henry's approach. How could it have been otherwise? So, when the Tudor court chronicler Polydore Vergil speaks of Henry's advancing 'with the sun behind him', forcing Richard's troops to confront them with the sunlight dazzling them, this makes no sense at all. The morning sun would have been in the east, and as the day wore on, would have moved steadily higher and further to the south. The west-facing slope of Ambion Hill presents a narrow escarpment. If Richard charged from its summit, how could he possibly have faced in the direction of the sun? Vergil must be mistaken.
A new source for the battle suggests differently. It is a fragmentary but fascinating account, related by a French mercenary in Henry's army. I found this material in print, in an 1897 article by the French scholar Alfred Spont, for the journal Revue des Questions Historiques. Spont describes reforms in the French army of the late-15th century, and in particular, how a war camp was set up at Pont-de-1'Arche, in eastern Normandy, in the early 1480s. This housed a substantial number of pike- men, drilled in the latest martial techniques by Swiss experts. Henry Tudor chose to hire about a thousand of them for his invasion of England and their expertise was to serve him well at Bosworth. Spont offers us fleeting extracts from a letter written by one of its soldiers, the day after Bosworth. It was peripheral to Spont's main theme, and it has not been possible to trace the original. Yet I believe that the extracts, as they stand, are almost certainly genuine.
Richard's battle plan
This source describes the battle's climax entirely differently. Rather than a rash, desperate charge by Richard and a fanatical group of loyalists, it tells us that the king rode forward with his 'whole division', in a well-planned and large-scale assault on Henry's position. It is an extraordinary shift. If using cavalry was part of Richard's battle plan, he would not deploy his forces on a narrow hill-top, with little room for manoeuvre. Knowing this, I no longer believe that Vergil made a mistake. He had spoken face-to-face with men who fought in Henry's army. Powerful evidence exists to locate the battlefield eight miles to the west of the traditional site, close to the small town of Atherstone in Warwickshire, in very different terrain, which would have allowed Richard to use his cavalry to full effect. This fits with a remark made by the Crowland Chronicle, a contemporary source well-informed on Richard's military preparations, which named the encounter 'this battle of Merevale', after the abbey south-west of the town, and a compensation grant made by the new Tudor king, Henry VII, delineating the place of his triumphant combat in the fields north-east of Atherstone. The two sides would now be facing each other in opposite directions to the traditional reconstruction. If Richard had charged to the east, his opponent must already have outflanked him and swung back, to gain the tactical advantage of the sun behind him as battle commenced. But was this advantage enough? The French soldier's comments give a very different perspective on the battle’s climax. Richard's charge was powerful and well-supported. It was only frustrated by a new manoeuvre that the king could not have seen before, in which the French pike men pulled rapidly back to surround Henry's position with a near-impenetrable defensive wall of weaponry. This informed eyewitness account relates how Henry Tudor 'wanted to be on foot, in the midst of us, and in part we were the reason why the battle was won'. Richard's resulting rage and frustration against these 'French traitors' is recalled by someone close enough to hear.
In this alternative scenario, the open fields near Atherstone, the battle's final act may now be found at the intriguingly named Derby Spinney, just north of the village of Fenny Drayton. It is intriguing because Tudor sources later related how Thomas, Lord Stanley – whose forces' late intervention in the battle on Henry's side may well have helped to clinch his victory - crowned the winner in the battle's aftermath, the crown famously recovered from a thorn bush, where it had presumably rolled off Richard's head. Stanley was created Earl of Derby soon afterwards. The spot is incongruously occupied today by a mobile roadside cafe.
This suggested alternative site may well reshape our understanding of the events that took place on 22 August 1485. And yet, in the end, real awareness of the meaning of Bosworth will not be found on a trek from field to field in the Midlands countryside. A battlefield is a gateway to the experience of those who fought there. Olivier conjured his own truth about Bosworth on a Spanish bull farm. Loncraine found it in a ruined London power station. For both, the goal was to enter the psychic space of the battle itself, to feel and understand as men must have felt and understood there. The revelation that at Bosworth the last Plantagenet king of England had a cause to fight for, and was only denied victory by extraordinary chance, is the real and enduring discovery.