All the King's Men
Robert de Vere was not having a good day, to put it mildly. Against all odds, he had somehow lost the Battle of Radcot Bridge - how was he supposed to know that his men, despite their sheer numbers, could not break through Derby's pike line in a single direct charge? - and had also lost a perfectly good suit of blackened armor, which he had to pull off to swim his way to safety in the Thames after Appellant reinforcements showed up to his flank. Worse, none of his officers joined him afterwards: indeed, one Thomas Molyneux who he had declared to be in command of the royal host seconds before quitting the field, had apparently died. From the news he had gathered on his way to a friendly port, his army gave up after the arrival of Derby's other men and his own disappearance (and how could that be? He was very clear in his final orders to Molineux, 'fight to the death' he had said! Sure he didn't exactly take his own advice, but those simpletons had to understand that he was far more important to King Richard than they) and Molineux was killed by some Mortimer after also jumping into the river. Fool should've remembered to remove his armor, Ireland had thought with a shake of his head when he'd first heard the news.
Now Ireland had made it to...well, Ireland. Specifically, he was now holed up in Fethard Castle, one of the stone castles he found lying around Wexford when he was generously awarded some Irish turf by his...ahem, patron, the King. Robert had considered fleeing to the continent as well, but soon realized that would leave him with no easy avenue to renew the struggle against these damned Appellants. Treacherous vipers, the lot of them, who wanted to intrude on his and King Richard's good time to count pennies more carefully and start up the war in France that they'd been floundering in for the last two decades. Now having tasted roast boar and good wine once more (as opposed to hard bread & the swill commoners consumed, which he shamefully also had to eat and drink on his way here) & outfitted himself in De Vere reds and yellows, as well as a sable fur-lined cloak clasped to his shoulder with a gleaming silver Star of Oxford, the Duke of Ireland issued a summons to the council which helped him govern Ireland and awaited not only their coming, but also the arrival of any other fellow loyal Ricardians in Fethard's main hall.
Surely some of them had the good sense to flee England after Radcot Bridge, too - jolly fat Brembre, perhaps? Slick-tongued Tresilian? De Vere wouldn't even mind the stuffy company of Burley, if he made it out. Any who stayed behind were likely doomed, what with the Appellants having been very clear about wanting his head and those of Richard's other true friends even before the confrontation on the Thames. And he'd need every hand on deck if he was to rebuild an army and take the fight back to those murderous rebel swine in England.
Royalist Army in Ireland
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Originally Posted by Barry Goldwater
