Chapter Fourteen
Berwick Castle
Berwick Castle was the jewel of the north, a massive fortress built from the gray granite so prevalent to the area.
It had enormous towers and an enormous curtain wall, including a stretch of the wall that went all the way down to the river to protect the cogs that would come to do business with the castle.
Set within the complex of walls and towers sat an equally massive keep, five stories including the vaults below.
Berwick was the stuff of legends.
That was mostly why it was so coveted by the English and the Scots.
It was probably one of the most fought-over castles in all of England because there were times when it would belong to the Scots and then times that it belonged to the English.
Each faction tried to hang on to the castle for an extended amount of time, but in the end, the other faction would come for it and it would change hands once again.
At this point in time, happily, it belonged to England.
Technically, it was a royal outpost that had been garrisoned by the de Wolfe family.
Patrick de Wolfe, the third-born son of William de Wolfe, had been the garrison commander for more years than he cared to admit.
He had been married there, and all his children were born there.
Several years ago, the king acknowledged that extended service and made Patrick the Earl of Berwick.
It was because Patrick had been able to hold the castle against the Scots for possibly more years than anybody else had, and he was rewarded for that vigilance.
These days, no one referred to Berwick as a royal property, but as part of the de Wolfe empire.
There weren’t even any royal troops in Berwick, in fact, because de Wolfe had enough men that he didn’t need the reinforcements.
It was staffed completely with de Wolfe soldiers, and there were almost two thousand of them.
More than half of them were stationed in the castle itself, but the other half of them were housed throughout the village of Berwick because the castle didn’t have enough space for them.
That kind of an arrangement made the villagers feel very safe, so it worked out well for all.
There were always hundreds of soldiers throughout the village ensuring that it was safe for everyone.
The castle itself, because it was so contested, was almost always locked up, and those who did come in through the massive gatehouse were heavily screened.
Essentially, the entire village of Berwick was a heavily armed outpost.
And the Scots knew it.
The only thing that kept the Scots from completely and constantly laying siege to the castle was the fact that Patrick’s wife was Scottish.
So was Patrick’s mother, in fact, and several border clans claimed some kind of an alliance with the House of de Wolfe because of it.
The Scots would fight amongst each other without hesitation, but oddly enough, when it came to an English knight being married to a Scotswoman, they tended to be hesitant to ruffle that relationship.
More than that, Patrick de Wolfe and his five brothers were the toughest, meanest, and fiercest knights on the Scottish borders.
That was intimidating in and of itself.
But it wasn’t just the sons of William de Wolfe to be feared.
Those sons had sons, and the de Wolfe cubs, as they were called, tended to be just as fierce, if not fiercer, than their fathers.
Each de Wolfe son had at least four or more sons, which meant all of Northumberland and the borders were overrun with de Wolfe knights.
That made the borders relatively safe, in many cases.
On this fine, sunny day, the earl himself happened to be on the walls of Berwick, watching the sea.
The castle was close to the ocean, and from the top of the castle walls, they could see the water in the distance.
Many a Northman had come to Berwick, and the castle had always seen them coming and had time to prepare.
Fortunately, that had not happened in decades because Patrick’s wife was the daughter of the king of the Northmen.
There were other Northmen princes to the north, ruling islands and causing problems with the Scots, but they tended to avoid Berwick altogether.
Still, there were those that watched the sea to make sure there were no longships on the approach.
Old habits died hard.
“Still looking for Farfar to return?”
Patrick heard a voice behind him, turning to see his son, Magnus. The knight had been referring to his mother’s father, the Viking king sometimes affectionately called “Farfar” by his grandchildren. Smiling weakly, Patrick returned his attention to the sea in the distance.
“Possibly,” he said. “Though your grandfather does not take to the seas any longer, he has plenty of men who would happily steer a longship into the mouth of the river and bring a horde of Northmen to overrun my village.”
Magnus laughed softly. “He would, but the men would bring barrels of wine and feast with us when it was all over,” he said. “I remember when I was young and Magnus would come and literally feast for days. How on earth did you ever make it through those orgies?”
Patrick snorted. “Why do you think I look so old?” he said. “Those days of too much wine and days of nonstop feasting have taken their toll.”
Magnus was still chuckling as he came to stand next to his father. “You will not look so old when I tell you what I know.”
“What do you know?”
“Our scouts have returned from the south, and they tell me Titus will be here very shortly.”
Patrick’s face lit up. “My youngest terror has come home?”
Magnus’ eyes twinkled. “He has,” he said. “I’m glad I happened to be here and not back at my home of Raechester. I’ve not seen my youngest brother in quite some time.”
“Does your mother know?”
“Nay.”
“Then you’d better hurry and tell her,” Patrick said, already moving away from the wall and toward one of the towers with stairs that led down to the bailey. “I will go to the gatehouse and await my favorite son.”
Magnus nearly doubled over laughing. “That is me, and I am already here.”
Patrick winked at him, taking the stairs in front of him as they both headed down to the bailey.
With Magnus off toward the keep, preparing to tell his mother that one of her sons was returning, Patrick hurried toward the enormous gatehouse of Berwick.
There were actually two—one attached to the curtain wall and then, across the bridge that spanned the brook-fed moat, a second, smaller gatehouse that was squat and solid.
As he crossed the bridge, he could see several soldiers, along with a familiar knight, clustered at the smaller gatehouse.
“Did Magnus tell you the news, my lord?” A very big knight with a crown of glorious red hair came out to meet him. “Titus is approaching. He must be in town by now, for the news is about twenty minutes old.”
Patrick nodded. “He told me,” he said. “Open the gate. Do not keep it closed or Titus might try to burn us to the ground if he thinks we are not welcoming him.”
Sir Peter Summerlin grinned as he turned for the gatehouse and bellowed for the portcullis to be lifted.
Patrick had had many knights at Berwick over the years because it was such an active outpost, but Peter was one of the better ones.
He was young and idealistic and hell on the field of battle, much as his father had been.
Peter’s father was Alec Summerlin, a knight known as The Legend to the armies of Edward I, and Peter had followed in his father’s footsteps.
He was a man to be trusted, and usually in command when Patrick was away.
Word that Titus was approaching had gotten around, and men were moving to the walls to catch sight of him.
Patrick and Peter walked out to the portcullis that opened directly into the town, noting villagers passing by, smelling the salt and sea from the fish markets down by the river.
As Patrick stood there, looking down the main road for a glimpse of his son, he was joined by another knight, the son of his youngest sister, Penelope.
Penny, as the family called her, had married the hereditary king of Anglesey years ago and had a fine brood of children, including six sons.
They were men of two worlds, of Welsh royalty and English nobility, and all six had trained in England as knights.
However, only four of them chose to serve in England at the de Wolfe properties, while the other two sided much more with the Welsh.
It was difficult for them, being warriors of two bloodlines, but Bowen de Shera had never been confused about his heredity.
He was all English.
“I hear Titus is coming, Uncle Atty?” he said with some excitement. “Do you think he’s come to stay for a time?”
Patrick grinned at his eager nephew, who, coincidentally, happened to look exactly like his mother with his green eyes and nearly black hair.
Bowen was young, but experienced, with his father’s muscular build and a keen intellect.
But he also had an immature streak in him and loved his cousin Titus, because between the two of them, mischief was a given.
“Why do you want him to stay?” Patrick asked. “So you and he can get into as much trouble as possible?”
Bowen snorted. “I have missed Titus,” he said. “I hardly ever see him anymore.”
“Am I going to have to order the taverns in town closed for the duration of his visit simply to keep you two out of them?”
Bowen was having a marvelous laugh at his uncle’s expense. “It would not stop us,” he said. “We will ride over to Norham or Coldstream, where they have taverns for our choosing.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “That I exactly what I need,” he said. “The two of you roaming the countryside, raiding taverns for drink.”
“We would not be so terrible.”
“How am I going to explain it to your mother when you end up pickled?”