Hello there. Welcome back. Come sit down or lie back somewhere. Quiet, somewhere warm. Tonight we drift back to England to a green field in the year 1485. The wind is soft. The sky is gray. The soil is damp from the night before, and in just a few hours, a king will die and a new world will begin. This is the story of the Battle of Bosworth, a war ending moment in the long tangled tale of the wars of the roses.

Let your body relax as we begin. England for decades had been torn between two rival houses, the red rows of Lancaster and the white rows of York. They were family, but they were enemies, and their feud had soaked English soil in royal blood. Kings were crowned and un crowned. Brothers turned on. Brothers and nobles were never sure which side will survive the next season.

In the end, the House of York held the throne and on it set Richard III. He was fierce, intelligent. But surrounded by rumors. He had taken the crown from his young nephew, a boy who vanished in the Tower of London. Some whispered that Richard had killed him. Others said he ruled justly. But in the shadows, a challenger rose, a quiet exile, a man of Lancaster blood.

From Bosworth came stability and eventually glory. Henry reformed the treasury. He ended much of the futile chaos he brought order to a land that had only known war, and his son Henry vii, would become one of the most famous kings in history. But it all began in a muddy field where one king died fighting bravely, and another began with quiet resolve.

So now you know how a single battle closed a bloody chapter in English history and began another. The wind still whispers across Bosworth field. Sometimes people say you can feel something there, a sense of ending, a sense of beginning. Let that settle in your chest softly. Let the roses sleep. Let the armor rust and let your thoughts fade into stillness.

Goodnight. Sleep well.

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