Prologue
“I saw him, William. Ramming a sword into the chests of injured Scots and then running off. We need to find him before someone else does.”
Kieran Hage was covered in gore and filth from where a band of Scots had pushed him down and tried to beat him to death.
But Kieran was strong, and big, and he’d managed to get to his feet and break a couple of necks before the Scots went off to find another victim.
In a battle against the English, there were always plenty of targets for their rage.
And apparently, now there was an unexpected target in their midst.
William looked at Kieran with confusion.
“Repeat what you just said to me,” he said, keeping an eye out on the fighting around him as he held a conversation. “Say again.”
Kieran took a deep breath. He was an old man these days, fighting in wars he should not be fighting in because William was fighting. William de Wolfe never went to battle without his second in command, so no matter how poorly Kieran felt, he was at William’s side, always.
He had been for forty years.
But this… this was something different.
“I saw Ronan,” he said succinctly. Then, he jabbed a finger towards the field of battle. “James’ lad is out there, somewhere, killing off men and then running and hiding. He must have followed us from Castle Questing.”
William’s jaw dropped as Kieran’s news sank in. “He’s only eight years of age,” he said. “He would never do such a thing.”
“I have two eyes, William, and you have only one. I know what I saw.”
That was true. William had lost his left eye many years ago in battle. He held up a hand of apology. “I do not dispute your sight,” he said. “I’m simply in disbelief that an eight-year-old lad would follow us into battle.”
Kieran took another deep breath, a smile flickering across his lips. “He has de Wolfe and Hage blood in him,” he said. “He was a knight the day he was born. He is out here, fighting. We must find our grandson before the Scots do.”
That was an understatement. They were near Canonbie, Scotland where the large Douglas Clan had pushed through the border and attacked Carlisle Castle because a soldier from Carlisle had killed the son of an important Douglas man.
This was an attack of vengeance and the garrison commander at Carlisle had called in reinforcements.
Armies as far away as Castle Questing and Northwood Castle, closer to Berwick, answered the call.
And, evidently, one eight-year-old boy.
“Tell Scott and Troy,” William said, referring to his older sons and the boy’s uncles. “And anyone else in the family that you happen to see. Tell them to keep an eye out for Ronan and hold him for me. I’m going to give that boy a beating he’ll not soon forget.”
Kieran, who was more of a soft touch with children and grandchildren, put a hand on William’s arm. “Nay,” he said quietly. “Do not do that. This is the life he was born for and he is eager to fulfill his destiny. You cannot fault him for that.”
William was snappish. “Nay, I cannot fault him, but I also cannot lose him,” he said, a hint of grief flickering in his face. “He is all I have left of his father. Should he foolishly lose his life out here, then James’ legacy is ended. It will be as if he never existed.”
Kieran grunted softly. “William,” he said softly. “Ronan has a sister. Isabella looks just like James. He will live on through her. But to your point, I cannot lose Ronan, either. We must find him.”
William softened, just for a moment, knowing that Kieran’s daughter had married his son, James, who had perished in Wales the year before.
The de Wolfe and Hage families were so intertwined that William and Kieran shared several grandchildren.
But more importantly, their rebel grandson was the eldest offspring of a son William still wasn’t over losing. He never would be.
Nor would Kieran.
That pain ran deep.
“I will not beat him,” he finally said, forcing himself to calm. “But find him, Kieran. We must find him.”
Kieran nodded, heading off to find any knights he could to help in the search.
William did the same, heading off towards the west where the sun was beginning to set, bathing the battlefield in rays of red and gold light that made it seem as if the entire world were bathed in blood.
Men were dying all around them, mostly Scots, and as William walked, he picked up soldiers who naturally gravitated around England’s great Wolfe of the Border to both protect him and obey any commands he might have.
But his commands were most confusing at this moment.
Find Ronan!
Men began to spread out, heading towards the outskirts of the battle to search for the errant young lad as William came to a halt.
He scratched his chin wearily, trying to think like an eight-year-old boy who was determined to find glory.
They were on the north side of Carlisle Castle, between the fortress and the river, and he could see a thicket of trees near the river’s edge.
If I was a lad and trying to hide, I might hide there.
He mounted his battle-hardened steed. Spurring his warhorse straight through the battle that was beginning to wane, William had to fight off a couple of Scots who came at him, but they were easily subdued or brushed aside as he went.
He headed straight for the trees, now lit up by the brilliant sunset.
As he drew close, he could see another horse and rider in the trees, realizing it was Kieran. The man had the same idea he’d had.
He plunged into the brush.
It was cool and damp, moisture from the river heavy in the air.
William caught up to Kieran, holding a finger to his lips in a silent gesture as the two of them fanned out, heading southeast. There was movement in that direction that could quite possibly be a young man hiding out from his grandfathers.
It was thicker in this area, with plenty of places to hide, and as the two of them created a sweep with the intention of flushing Ronan from the brush, several Scots suddenly appeared instead.
The fight was on.
William took a club to the chest almost immediately. His shield was still slung over his left knee and his broadsword was sheathed on the side of his saddle, so the Scotsman flying out of a tree and clobbering him on the chest took him by surprise. Off-guard, William went toppling off his horse.
Because of the heavy foliage, it was difficult for Kieran to get to William.
He could see the Scots attacking him as he lay on the ground and, on horseback, Kieran was at a disadvantage for once.
He couldn’t maneuver his animal through the saplings and bushes to get to him, which spurred his panic.
He began kicking men in the face and using his broadsword to chop through the branches as William finally lurched to his feet.
Without his sword or shield, William was vulnerable.
He had daggers and other weapons on his body, so he unsheathed two wicked-looking daggers and began slashing and stabbing at anything that came close.
Men were losing eyes or receiving enormous gashes to the arm as The Wolfe cut and chopped and gored.
They began falling away only to regroup and make attempts to overwhelm him again.
William was in a fight for his life, with Kieran nearly upon him, when another figure rushed forward from the thicket.
The figure was small but as fast as lightning.
He had a large dagger with him which, upon closer inspection, was really a small sword.
He rammed it into the backs of two Scotsmen before the others, realizing there was some kind of tempest in their midst, turned on the little figure as it darted in and out of the foliage.
It was enough of a distraction for William to recover.
A couple of limbs were hacked off and one man had his neck broken when Kieran reached down and squeezed, and that was enough for the Scots to take off running.
As William stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing heavily with exertion, Kieran dismounted his steed and rushed to his side.
“Are you injured?” he asked, concerned.
William shook his head, wiping a bit of blood from his upper lip. “Nay,” he said. “I am not. Are you?”
Kieran shook his head. “Nay,” he said. Then, he started looking around. “Ronan? Show yourself.”
He boomed the words and they echoed off the trees. Both William and Kieran looked around them, looking for that small figure they knew to be around, but no one stepped out of the foliage.
“Ronan,” William said loudly. “I promised Kee that I would not beat you, but if you do not show yourself immediately and I am forced to locate you, I could quite possibly change my mind.”
“Kee” was what all of Kieran’s grandchildren called him.
William and Kieran waited a few more seconds with no response before looking at each other, trying to figure out what to do.
Either Ronan was ignoring them or he was out of earshot.
As William sighed sharply, with frustration, a lone figure emerged from the thicket several feet away.
Ronan de Wolfe appeared, dressed in clothing that blended in with his surroundings.
He had a brown tunic and hose on, shoes, and a scarf over his head that covered up his blond hair.
His face was smeared with dirt and, as he approached, they could see that the boy was trying not to weep.
He was wiping his eyes and smudging dirt all over his neck and hands.
But William was unmoved.
“Well?” he said. “What do you have to say for yourself? You did not have permission to come to Carlisle.”
Ronan’s lower lip was trembling. “I… I had to come, Poppy,” he said. “I had to fight.”
“Why?”
“Because my father is not here to fight with you. I must do it in his place.”