England, August 22nd, 1485

There was something about the way Lord Strange stood that made Sir Ratcliff pause. A man about to be separated from his head was never so calm.

"And why shouldn't I?" screamed King Richard, pointing a gauntleted hand towards the army waiting along the neighbouring ridge. "If Stanley refuses to give his support, why the bloody hell shouldn't I make good on my promise to execute his son? Aren't you always telling me I need to go through with my threats? And now you want me to wait?"

The Earl of Northumberland closed his eyes and held up both hands. "Your Majesty, please. We are only asking you to wait until the end of the battle. Once you've secured the crown, he can be executed publicly. That will set an example and brand the Stanleys as traitors. Now, it's little more than spite." 

"Politics again, Dickon. Not your favourite. Why not turn your mind to what you do best: commanding an army."  

Sir Ratcliff didn't bother flicking his gaze for more than a few seconds from Lord Strange to the man who had just spoken. 

Viscount Lovell stood in full armour, gold-and-wine-red surcoat fluttering in the breeze, smiling benevolently at the king. He'd taken a deep, and in Ratcliff's opinion, dangerous, liking to their human charge, indulging him when he should have pulled the lead line tighter and spending far too many nights drinking with the king in his chambers. 

"And besides, Tudor is aching to meet his maker. I can hear him calling from here," Lovell added. 

As the councillors continued to bring forward reasons for not dispatching Strange immediately, the battle crept slowly towards them from the South. 

Henry Tudor's Lancastrian army had breached the swampland and was gaining ground towards Ambion Hill where King Richard's 10,000-man army watched from the ridge. Yorkist cannon shook the ground every few heartbeats, attempting to break the Lancastrian lines early. Gigantic war horses pawed the ground and danced in anticipation, nearly jerking the squires holding their reigns off their feet. Dogs ran amok, priests roamed among the soldiers hearing last minute confessions and men prayed or vomited up their breakfast in equal measure. The heat and stink of tar, sweat and freshly-sharpened metal mixed with the smell of grass and the nearby forests. 

The day was not going well and the tension was pressing on everyone, not just the king, whose nerves were strung as taunt as a long bow.

There was just something not right with Lord Strange but Ratcliff couldn't put his finger on it. Why did he show no signs of unease? He was a helpless prisoner who had just been written off by his own father for political reasons. Lord Stanley's curt reply to Richard's order to attack the approaching army had been a mere: "Kill him, if it please you. I have other sons."

Ratcliff eyed the prisoner standing quietly between two guards even more closely. The man's short, blond hair was mussed and his clothes were dirty from the makeshift prison he was being held in, but his face was smooth and almost featureless, as if it hadn't been completely formed yet. Strange was said to be all of twenty-five, and yet he looked no older than ten. How could he look so very young? And where. . .

The incongruency Ratcliff had felt the whole time suddenly struck him. 

Lord Strange's face was clean. Not only clean shaven, but without even the slightest trace of dirt. 

Ratcliff's gaze dropped to the man's hands bound together in front of him with leather straps. Pale. Delicately formed. 

And spotless.  

Oh, God's bones, that's all they needed!  

Sir Ratcliff turned in Lovell's direction and allowed his eyes to glow red for a fraction of a second. Any humans who noticed would think it was a trick of the light or their own jangling nerves. Lovell turned to him, that stupidly affectionate smile still on his face, and his eyes glowed slightly in response. 

Ratcliff moved away from the cluster of men around the king and strode back to the lip of the hill as fast as he could. As a precaution, he snapped his helmet out of the hands of a surprised page and strapped it on before he focused his sights down the hill at the swarming mass that was Henry Tudor's approaching army.  

Under the armour, Ratcliff moved beyond the human body that housed him, half allowing his true demon shape to come through. His face under the helmet stiffened into features at once too large and too deep to be human and small, black horns poked up against the cotton padding. He balled his hands into fists so no human would notice the fingernails taking on claw-like form.

With the sight of a demon, the army below them looked very different. Among the advancing, whitish-iridescent ghosts that were human souls and the dark red blocks that were horses, the demons were easy to spot. Tall columns of fire rose from their standards like the tails of dragons and they themselves glowed a yellowish-orange. 

Ratcliff counted four major demons and nine minor ones. The French demons were the most impressive, their standards burning a good fifty feet into the air. That was nothing compared to the flares Lovell had been shooting off all day, of course. Those could be seen more than 200 leagues away and resembled volcanic eruptions, not bonfires. 

A flashy stunt, but possibly very effective. 

None of the demons rallied around Tudor seemed to be as high ranking as Lovell, and if they could be made nervous by a much larger demon flexing his muscles, that was all to the good.  

Ratcliff focused his attention towards Lord Stanley's army massed on the neighbouring ridge and his eyes glowed brightly in surprise. 

No burning standards. 

And no gleaming streaks of gold that marked angels, either. Just a mass of writhing, quivering humans and their animals. 

That made Lord Strange's presence even more suspicious.   

"Quid est?" said a voice to Ratcliff's right. 

"Strange angelus est. Nonne animadverto?"

Ratcliff retracted his demon body, took off his helmet and turned to Lovell, or Thathimet, as his real name was.  

"Are you sure?" Thathimet continued in Latin, narrowing his eyes. No demon liked the sudden appearance of angels. Especially not when important business was at hand. Ratcliff gave his superior a quick summary of what he'd seen and deduced, watching as Thathimet's jaw churned as if he was chewing bitter root.

"Maybe we should have let Richard take his head," Thathimet threw a glance over his shoulder to where the King was mounting up on his grey charger. "Too late now." 

"Aren't you worried? What's an angel doing here? With us, I mean?" 

"He could be just an observer, not an active participant. And we have more pressing things to think about." He gestured with his chin towards Tudor's army, the first lines of which had just come into arrow shot.  

Ratcliff's thoughts were cut short by the deafening sound of drums signalling the Yorkist knights to mount up. 

"Don't tell me he's going to charge?" he said. 

"If Stanley won't engage and anything else goes wrong, he'll eventually have little choice. A small part of our contingent is being sent down in the first run. I want you to go in with them. I've advised sending in Bralgez."

"Fine. But say, is he mad? We all know Richard's brave, but --" 

Thathimet's eyes glowed orange in warning, and Ratcliff took a step back. Thathimet was too deeply involved. What he would do if Richard were killed today? Tear Tudor himself to pieces in a fit of rage? Richard would do best to stay well out of it and let his men do the fighting for him. And Thathimet desperately needed to reign in his emotions. Becoming so devoted to a human was unwise.

"Time to mount up," Thathimat said in English, the glow in his eyes fading back into Lovell's clear, dark brown. "Keep an eye on Northumberland, if you can. I don't trust him. Once a Lancastrian, always a Lancastrian."  

The Yorkist army split into three groups. Northumberland's knights on the left, Norfolk's archers and the cannon on the right, and King Richard with his 4,000 men and eight major demons in the middle. 

Tudor had almost reached the bottom of the hill. 

Ratcliff mounted up and watched through the slit of his helmet as his standard caught fire, sending up a massive flame that burned a most soothing blue for half its length. The human standard bearer was oblivious, of course, but that didn't stop Ratcliff from taking a moment to admire it. Thathimet had ordered none of them to light their standards until the battle had really begun. "Let them think there's only one of us of any importance here." 

Ratcliff's claws scraped the insides of his metal gauntlets in pleasure and the two small tusks that curved out from his his lower jaw pressed into his thick, brown flesh as he smiled. It felt good to be in full demon form. Human form might be more pleasing to the eye, but it had many disadvantages he'd rather do without in a fight. 

The heat from his body had already reached his armour and he knew that he would soon be glowing a bright yellowish-orange, visible across the battlefield for demon -- and angel -- alike. 

What was an angel doing here? Was it just a temporary observer? 

The drums rolled and began to beat out the orders to advance. Norfolk engaged his archers, and Tudor answered with his own. Then Norfolk sent in his infantry. Bralgez -- or Sir Brackenbury to the humans -- rode up next to Ratcliff and nodded. Ratcliff returned the nod and when Brackenbury raised his sword and spurred his horse forward, Ratcliff did the same and they went plunging down the grassy slope at full gallop towards the Lancastrian force.

Both demons sliced through the first lines of humans with ease, opening up a wedge for the two hundred mounted and infantry soldiers following on their heels. Ratcliff saw the closest demon standards tremble and attempt to bunch closer to each other as his horse trampled what his sword arm couldn't reach.  

"Ad sinestram!" growled Brackenbury in the pitch only demons could hear. He'd seen the trembling standards, too. They hacked, shoved and screamed their way left until they met the first demon head-on. Close up, Ratcliff recognised the standard. He should have known. Azelmot had always been a problem.   

Sparks flew as sword struck sword. Azelmot turned his horse to engage Ratcliff, but then thought better of it. 

"Turn back, Azelmot! You've got no chance against us!" Ratcliff shouted and lifted his sword again, but Azelmot had manoevered out of reach, attempting to place humans between them. Ratcliff spured his horse forward in an attempt to turn, but found himself engaged with two pikesmen. A whinny and a crash from the side drew Ratcliffs attention just in time to see Brackenbury plough his horse straight into Azelmot's. The horse lost its footing and toppled over, half-burying two humans and Azelmot under it. The demon screeched and moaned loud enough to shatter skulls but was silenced as Brackenbury's own horse lept the downed one, landing with both hind legs hard on the squirming demon. Ratcliff dispatched both pikesmen, disarming one and cutting off the head of the other. 

Unlike the humans, whose souls sprang startled out of their bodies and began to become solid as they entered the higher frequency the demons were on, Azelmot was merely unconscious. He would awaken eventually, and perhaps have to find a new human body to occupy, but that wouldn't be for a quite a while. They left him where he was. 

Tudor's men were holding their own, regaining lost ground, and some of Norfolk's men had already turned tail and run. 

Ratcliff disengaged and urged his horse up the hill. 

"Not just English and French, but Welsh, Scots and who knows who else. Their mercenaries are good. Brackenbury's giving them a lashing but they're damned determined." Then in a lower tone, "Azelmot is down, and possibly a second one, but I'm not sure. "  

Lovell listened with narrowed eyes, his fist planted against his side. He was mounted on his black charger, but had his helmet off.  The king wasn't far away, but paying no attention to anything but the panorama of the battle below, one hand covering his eyes to protect them from the bright sunlight.  

From this height, Ratcliff could see that they would need charge again soon if they were to keep the Lancastrians from making their way up Ambion Hill. A new volley of arrows blackened the sky but seemed not inflict very much damage. 

Lovell turned his horse and rode over to the king, mounted under his personal banner of a white boar. After a short exchange, Richard turned to his captains. 

"Send in Northumberland!" he yelled, and the drums rolled, issuing the king's order in a series of fast, sharp beats. 

Nothing happened. Northumberland's troops didn't advance, but milled around where they were.

The Lancastrians had now reached the foot of the hill and were starting to climb. Norfolk's men were visibly flagging.

"Send down as many of our group as we can spare!" The king yelled, jerking on the reigns of his charger.

The drums relayed a new order, and a thousand some men from the centre broke loose and charged down the hill. 

Northumberland still did not advance.

"Why the bloody hell is he not moving!" yelled the king. "Has he deserted me, as well!" 

Lovell moved closer and began speaking earnestly to his friend, but Richard was clearly having none of it. "No! I won't think of withdrawing to the baggage! I said no!" 

"Heed me just this once," Lovell shouted. 

"I said no! I understand your concern, Francis, but if that trumped up viper thinks he can scare me into retreating, he's wrong."

"Dickon, listen!" Lovell reached out and grabbed at the king's reigns. "Retire to the --"

The king pulled hard, dancing his horse away from Lovell's outstretched hand.  

Lovell was still shouting at him to retire when Richard stood in his stirrups and cried, "there he is! There's the bastard!" 

All eyes turned. Tudor, who was at the back of his troops and not engaging in the fighting, was moving away from the main army, making towards Lord Stanley's camp. 

"You backstabbing vermin, Stanley! Don't think you'll get away with harbouring him!" Richard slammed down the visor of his helmet and gave his charger the spurs. The king's bodyguard stood in shock as they saw the king charge off on his own, unprotected. 

It was Lovell who moved first, kicking his own horse into action and pursuing his charge down the slope. The bodyguard and the rest of the king's personal men followed in an avalanche of steel and horse. 

Richard galloped around the edge of the fighting, aiming himself like a poisoned arrow straight at Henry Tudor. 

Even from his position at the rear, Ratcliff could see how Thathimet expanded to three times his size and threw a ring of fire around the king to protect him. And protect him it did, as Richard slammed straight into Tudor's personal guard and began hacking his way towards the man himself who cowered, snivelling, behind his bodyguards. Lovell was on the king's heels, casting fire ring after fire ring as they advanced in synchronisation. 

When Richard was only a three sword slashes away from Henry Tudor, all hell broke loose. 

Or all heaven. 

Suddenly, golden slashes of light were everywhere, busting up Thathimet's fire rings and dispelling all of the concentrated demon energy that had so long protected the Yorkists. Thathimet lunged forward and crossed swords with an angel who had spread out his shining, wings in a shield between the king's demon and the king, cutting them off from each other.

"That's my human!" screamed Thathimet. "Out of the way!"

"He's ours now" said the angel. "He was king by the grace of God. That grace has been placed elsewhere. Say good-bye to your charge."

Ratcliff didn't witness what happened next as he was knocked from his horse by the crushing arrival of Lord Stanley troops, and found himself fighting both human and angel before he could even regain his footing. The image of Lord Strange's unnatural calm shot through his mind. 

This had been the plan all along. 

A deep sadness overtook the demon as he brought up his sword again and again, knowing it was all for nothing. The Yorkist cause was lost for good. The divine right of kingship had been bestowed elsewhere and they were dismissed. 

All he heard until his helmet was wrenched off and only nominally later his skull split in half, were his own screams mixing with Thathimet's enraged bellowing and weeping at the loss of his beloved human. 

Then, long after everything had gone dark and Ratcliff had abandoned his human form to retreat entirely into his demon form, came the sound of cheering.  

The coward Henry Tudor had just been crowned king on the blood-soaked grass of Bosworth Field and England taken its first tenuous steps into an unknown future. 

A future without the Plantagenets and their bitterly loyal guardian demons. 

(word count: 2,970)

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A/N: This story accurately follows how the Battle of Bosworth Field played out, as well as historians can construct it. All characters mentioned were real people known to have been present at the battle. (The demon Azalmot is the only made up character.) 

The lack of engagement by the Duke of Northumberland and Lord Stanley's behaviour is historically proven. 

Lord Strange (his real name!) was the son of Lord Stanley, and Stanley's message to Richard III about not being bothered if the king executed him really happened, as did the ensuing discussion about if they should kill Lord Strange right then or later. 

Sir Richard Ratcliff, one of King Richard's advisors, was killed at Bosworth, along with Sir Brackenbury, Master of the Tower of London, and the Duke of Norfolk. Francis, Viscount Lovell survived and lived to mount a rebellion against Henry Tudor, which failed. 

To my knowledge, none of them were demons.