Day 9 - A Pilgrimage of Personal Importance

In the morning we finished our packing and moved our things into the other house. Only one story, it is a much smaller house. Briefly, the entry opens into a common area, with two foldout sofa beds and a television (four stations). Off of the common area is a bedroom with two beds (Mommy and Daddy’s room) and the kitchen. In addition, off the kitchen is a full bathroom and a small bedroom with a single bed. This is where my siblings have decided I will sleep; but I think I will surprise them and bed down with them in the common area. I can sleep alone anytime I like at home.

We all piled into the car and drove to Bosworth Battlefield, near the town of Market Bosworth in Northumberland. This weekend they are hosting a special Medieval Weekend, an event I found while scrounging on the internet before we left the U.S. Though it has always been on my list, I thought something like this would make it more fun for the rest of the family while I enjoyed making a pilgrimage to the place where the medieval era ended.

The Weekend was a little bit like out Renaissance Festivals back at home, but much less commercialized. There were a few vendors, but not screaming at you from every side. Instead, most effort was put into the historical side of everything. It was unusual to be in an atmosphere where everyone truly appreciated history for what it was, instead of merely reducing it to fairytale costumes, huge lamb shanks, and ale.

Spread around a central area, a hundred or so tents were set up so that visitors could move among them and see what was going on inside. Some sheltered footmen, some cavalrymen, and some common men like weavers and basket makers. You could talk to and ask questions of any person in costume. In one corner of the battlefield was a huge armory.

Several events took place during the day in the central area, including jousting, falconry, and mustering of soldiers. Two events in particular were my favorites: the jousts and the re-enactment of the Battle of Bosworth. Throughout my life I have always enjoyed reading stories that described jousts – Ivanhoe, to name one. Heraldic banners snapping in the wind, lovely ladies honored, and brave knights dealing in death and daring. A more bracing atmosphere you could not find.

This joust was not disappointing. Four men, apparently professionals because they had jousted for Queen Elizabeth II herself, rode their sturdy horses into the arena. Each knight was arrayed in full steel armor, said to weight anywhere between 50 and 70 pounds. A “commentator” explained the rules of the joust (dating back to the late 1400s, when a Constable of England wrote them down) and ordered that the pages set up the lists. Finally, the crowd was taught to cheer “Huzzah” in medieval fashion for their heroes and the joust began.

For and hour or so the contest continued. At the end the two highest scoring knights had it out, and a highly unfavored Frenchman eventually won with 15 points. The commentator then introduced each knight to the crowd for huzzahs. Dismissing them from the field, the commentator invited “everyone, most especially the pretty young ladies, to come visit the four knights in the jousting tents.” Unfortunately I was fairly stuck wandering around the “educational” tents with the rest of the family, or else I would have taken them up on the invitation. One of the jousters wasn’t all that bad looking, in fact. ;-)

At 4PM the crowd began to gather for the centerpiece of the afternoon, the reenactment, which lasted an hour and a half. The Battle of Bosworth took place on August 22, 1485, between the reigning King Richard III and the exiled rebel Henry Tudor (later King Henry VII). It was the battle that ended both the medieval period and the Wars of the Roses with the death of the last Plantagenet, Richard. It is a battle that I have reviewed in my mind’s eye a thousand times over, imagining how tragic the day must have felt to the worn and vanquished Yorkshire army.

Before our eyes history was replayed: the thunder of cannons, cavalry skirmishes, the whistle of arrows, gunshot, and the clash of steel as the two armies locked in combat. Breathlessly I watched King Richard III, alone but for a few close supporters, in his final charge down the hill on Henry Tudor. If it hadn’t been for the traitorous Stanleys – supposed friends to Richard – turning on him at the last moment, the battle would have been a Plantagenet victory.

This was not to be the case. To the end Richard fought bravely, hacking through his enemies in a vain attempt to cut down Henry. But soon the King was knocked from his horse and quickly dismissed with a dozen sword points. His army dispersed, running for their lives. A servant cut the crown from Richard’s helmet and gave it to Henry, who raised it on high in a gesture of victory.

The late king’s body, stripped of its armor and clothing, was hoisted onto a horse. From Market Bosworth it was carried to Leistershire where it was hung on public display for two days as a warning to all who dared oppose their new king Henry VII. The body was finally laid to rest in a monastery, but was later removed after the monastery was destroyed during the Reformation. Eventually, King Richard III’s bones would be desecrated and thrown into a river.

Something I have always found fascinating about Henry Tudor was his remarkable (and rather suspicious) efforts to rewrite history after he took the throne. Soldiers were sent out to all nobles, etc. who had dealings of any kind with Richard and every single scrap of paper relating to him was collected and carefully burnt. Then, Henry saw to it that new statements were written (by force), back dated, and signed by friends of the late king decrying him as a monster and a tyrant. Thus history is as it exists now.

But Henry could not have foreseen the advance of science. Revealing his plot, carbon dating on these documents has revealed that the dates written on the pages and the age of the paper and ink do not correspond. In addition, historians have found diaries belonging to friends of Richard, detailing how they were forced to help Henry ruin the name of Richard Plantagenet.

So the visit to Bosworth Field meant a lot to me; it was a pilgrimage of sorts that I have wanted to make for several years. In two days, on the anniversary of King Richard’s death, the annual memorial service will take place. I wish I could be there.

When the day was over, we left and ate dinner at a nearby pub/restaurant called The Hinckley Knight. The food was good, but there wasn’t much atmosphere to speak about. On the way home we stopped at Tesco’s for a little shopping. Exhausted but satisfied with a fun day, we arrived back at St. Neot’s, unpacked, and crawled into bed.