Prologue
Early February
Lancashire/Yorkshire Border near the village of Moselden
Smoke from the campfires filled the night sky like misty gray ribbons.
The smell was strong in the damp air, blanketing the landscape and infiltrating the nostrils of the living with the sharp, offensive odor.
An encampment perched at the edge of a small forest, what tents there were arranged carefully towards the middle while a perimeter of soldiers made sure nothing came in or out without their knowledge.
It was a dark time, a time of war and unrest, and these men fought for one of two powerful factions.
In this case, there could be no definitive winner, though both sides were determined that there would be.
A larger tent sat towards the center of camp, the light from a massive bonfire dancing shadows across the canvas side.
Several men squeezed inside the tent, all of them focused on a table that bore several sheets of well used, and sometimes torn, vellum.
Familiar maps were drawn in lines of black and red with big rocks as anchors on the corners.
All of the tent’s occupants wore chain mail and weapons to some degree, and some of them in full suits of armor. The smell of the night’s smoke mingled with the body odors of men who had seen weeks of fighting, little food, and even less sleep. Their weariness was tempered by a sharp determination.
“We should be hearing something by now,” a man with dirty, graying hair leaned over the maps, tapping a particular area with a stick.
He wasn’t terribly old but war and stress caused him to look much older than his age.
“This siege has been days in the making. I cannot believe le Bec has not breached her by now. I sent him to accomplish a task and yet do I see the positive results.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” another man, younger but more expensively dressed, addressed him, “I am confident that Kenton le Bec will breach Babylon Castle by the end of the week. My lord Warwick must remember that Babylon is one of the more powerful strongholds in Yorkshire, and any competent army would have a difficult time breaching her. I believe patience….”
The man with the gray hair thumped the table sharply. “Patience is a virtue, indeed, but I was never a man to proclaim my virtues. It would be a lie, to be sure. And time is something we do not have in this case. Henry needs Gaylord Thorne’s castle if we are to secure the region.”
He pounded on the table again with his stick, shoving splinters into the vellum. The area in question was designated by a few thin red lines of ocher, sectioning off the most westerly region of the Yorkshire territory.
Every man in that tent knew they had to secure Babylon Castle, the gateway to the province, if they were to make any sort of advancement into the widely populated district of Yorkshire and, consequently, gain a serious foothold in their enemy’s realm.
They had been here before, many times, only to be turned away.
But they had never come this close. The gray-haired man stared at the map again, his expression slackening as the ugly deeds of war passed through his exhausted mind.
“If we take Babylon, it is only a matter of time before we are able to launch against Leeds and Bradford.” He repeated what every man already knew.
“From Leeds, we sweep northeast until we reach York herself. With that entire region secured for Henry, we split Yorkshire and most assuredly hold the victory. But we must have Babylon.”
He was back to thumping on the table, beating it like a drum.
The younger man glanced at the others, seasoned war advisors to the legitimate king to England’s throne, a claim that was disputed by the son of the late Richard, Duke of York.
But Richard’s son, Edward, had picked up the torch admirably and even now, years after his father’s death, fought more viciously than his father ever had, which was why gaining a foothold in Yorkshire was so very imperative.
“Need we be reminded that le Bec has over a thousand men under his command,” Warwick assured the others. “If anyone can take Babylon, it will be he.”
The men in the tent grunted with agreement. “Not even Edward has a knight as powerful as le Bec,” another man said solemnly. “We are fortunate, indeed.”
A servant brought them more wine, fuel for the damp night. The men drank, mulled over the map, and pondered what the morning might bring. The gray-haired man finally sat at the table, staring pensively at the surface, his mind several miles away at the mighty fortress known as Babylon.
He could see it, sitting on a rise above the River Black in a dominating position above the village of Moselden, its concentric construction making it virtually impossible to breach.
Two hundred years after Edward the First built his masterpiece castles throughout Wales, Babylon was raised in the tradition of that shining legacy when built by Gaylord Thorne’s grandfather under permission from Richard the Second.
Strategically, it was a force to be reckoned with because it guarded a major road from Lancashire into Yorkshire.
Somehow, the night passed into the chilly, cold dampness of early morning.
The bonfire was burning low, spitting layers upon layers of smoke up into the air.
The man with the gray hair had fallen asleep on his maps, while the advisors continued to mill around him.
Though he could sleep, they would not. The night seemed to drag on endlessly until someone heard the shout of a sentry, which roused about half of the camp.
The advisors tensed, waiting for the explanation for the alarm.
Someone thought to rouse the gray-haired man, who stirred incoherently until a worn soldier suddenly appeared before him.
The man bowed unsteadily. He was dirty and disheveled, but his eyes held the glow of a man used to such hardship. The gray-haired man stared at him, suddenly tongue-tied.
“My Lord Warwick,” the soldier said. “I bring news from Babylon.”
The gray-haired man found his voice. “Give me something of joy, man.”
“Babylon is ours, my lord,” the soldier said with as much satisfaction as his weary manner could muster. “Le Bec secured her before nightfall and sends word to you of a decisive victory.”
The advisors silently gloated. It was as they had hoped and predicted.
The man with the gray hair closed his eyes, suddenly very quiet and very reverent.
His eyes then opened again and he turned to his advisors.
“It appears the saints and gods favor us,” he said hoarsely.
“Now, we will end it… or it will surely end me.”
There was a prophetic ring to his words, more than any of them could ever imagine. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had divined his own future.