Chapter One
Eight months later
Thropton Castle, Northumberland
Thirty miles southwest of Bamburgh
“Have you seen him?”
“Who?”
“Herringthorpe.”
William de Wolfe’s brow narrowed in puzzlement. His best friend and leader of an allied army, Paris de Norville, was asking him the question rather breathlessly. Given that they were in the middle of a battle, the exhaustion and excitement was understandable.
But this was different.
Paris had an odd look to his eyes.
“You mean the Angel of Death?” William asked.
“Aye.”
“I’ve seen him in battle,” William said, keeping an eye on the action around them.
“I saw him cut down three men not fifteen minutes ago, men that were seasoned and skilled. Why do you ask? You know I’ve not seen him before today.
This is the first battle we’ve supported Bamburgh in since Herringthorpe took command. ”
Paris merely nodded, a pensive and pregnant pause.
There was much more he had to say on the subject but bit his tongue.
For the moment, anyway. Clad in expensive and well-used protection, he commanded the armies from the House of de Longley, the Earls of Teviot.
The red, black, and gold standards were distinctive in the north, announcing the mighty bastion of Northwood Castle.
Being one of the biggest castles in the north with thousands of men on active duty, Northwood Castle was a force to be reckoned with.
But, then again, so was de Wolfe.
If the Earls of Teviot were imposing, the House of de Wolfe was twice that and more.
Led by the man who was known as the Wolfe of the Border, William de Wolfe commanded five times what Northwood carried and more men than anyone in the north with the exception of possibly Alnwick Castle, another massive fortress in the north.
But de Wolfe, once the captain of the army at Northwood Castle, had earned himself much during his service for Henry III, the man they were currently supporting at the moment.
He’d earned titles and castles, and had at least six castles and royal garrisons he was responsible for.
There was no one in the north more respected or revered than William de Wolfe.
But the man still answered the call to battle, personally.
Every time.
That’s where he found himself now. William and his allies were currently doing battle at Thropton Castle because Henry had declared that they should.
Bamburgh Castle was an enormous royal garrison and William and his allies were in support of Bamburgh’s actions against Thropton.
A certain Hugh de Whitton, Lord of Thropton, had been a big supporter of Simon de Montfort.
He’d even been at the Battle of Evesham where de Montfort had lost his life.
When that had happened, he’d retreated back to Thropton and kept to himself, refusing missives from the king until Henry finally sent his royal garrison after him.
And that’s where they found themselves.
De Montfort supporters had been allowed to keep their property if they swore allegiance to Henry, but that allegiance came with hefty fines.
Close friends of William’s, the House of de Shera, had managed to hold on to their properties but it had drained their coffers drastically.
All over England, great warlords who had supported Simon de Montfort’s rise to power were going broke.
But de Whitton hadn’t gone broke, nor had he communicated any allegiance to Henry.
He’d simply hunkered down and ignored the world.
But no longer.
Leading Bamburgh’s mighty royal force was a knight who had earned a reputation at a young age.
William had heard the name but he’d never met the man.
These days, he didn’t get to London because he had an empire of his own that took all of his time, so he’d only heard the name Warwick Herringthorpe.
The knight they called War had risen amongst Henry’s ranks during his battle against de Montfort, so much so that he’d risen to the king’s personal bodyguard until Henry sent him to the north to man Bamburgh.
Probably at Herringthorpe’s request because any young knight worth his weight wanted to fight.
He didn’t want to be the king’s nursemaid.
By all accounts, Herringthorpe was a hell of a fighting man.
William had seen the evidence.
But Paris’ question sounded queer. Even now, the battle for Thropton had reached the turning point because the gatehouse has been partially destroyed thanks to William’s eldest sons.
Thropton troops were pouring out through the gap, not a wise tactic considering there were about five thousand men waiting for them, but they’d begun to take the offensive.
When that began to happen, the battle wasn’t long for the taking.
It was only a matter of time before the castle itself was secured and de Whitton along with it.
But meanwhile, it was a nasty fight.
“Well?” William said when Paris didn’t respond to his question. “What about Herringthorpe?”
Paris turned to him, opening his mouth to reply, when they caught sight of a bright red warhorse heading in their direction.
The horse was made brighter by the fact that his right shoulder had been sliced by a blade and blood streamed.
The knight upon him was the most enormous knight in the north, with shoulders as wide as a tree trunk and strength that rivaled Samson.
Sir Kieran Hage had made an appearance.
“Kieran?” William called out to him. “Are you well?”
Kieran reined his horse to an unsteady halt, dismounting deftly and immediately focusing on the slice to the horse’s leg.
“Aye,” he said, grumbling. “They couldn’t get to me, so they tried to disable my horse. ’Tis a deep gash.”
William and Paris converged on Kieran, watching his back as he inspected his wounded horse. He’d brought another one with him, as most seasoned knights had a horse in reserve should something happen to their first choice, but Kieran treated his horse like it was a member of the family.
He didn’t like it when his family was wounded.
“Bastards,” Paris muttered. “Take him back to the camp and collect a fresh horse. The gates have been breached and you will be needed.”
Kieran nodded, grumbling as he took the reins and mounted the horse. “At least he will not bleed to death, but the wound must be stitched.” He was about to leave when he suddenly looked at William. “Have you seen Herringthorpe?”
William shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “At least, not face to face. The battle had started by the time we arrived and I’ve not yet spoken to the man. Why? Paris asked me the same thing.”
Kieran flipped up his visor, of the latest style, and fixed William with his dark, intense eyes. “You do not have a brother you have never met running around, do you?”
William snorted. “Knowing my father, it is possible,” he said. “Why?”
“Because Herringthorpe looks just like you.”
William frowned. “But I am much more handsome, I am sure.”
“Of course,” Kieran said. “But Herringthorpe bears a strong resemblance to you in your youth.”
William shrugged. “Hopefully he will not realize it and then expect something from the de Wolfe coffers.”
Kieran grinned. “If he does, I would just give it to him. The man is terrifying.”
William snorted. “I shall determine that for myself.”
Paris leaned forward on his saddle. “He’s not, mayhap, your bastard, is he?”
William shook his head. “I am not aware that I have any.”
Paris pressed him because the man never knew when to shut up. “You were not celibate before you met your wife,” he said. “Herringthorpe looks enough like you that I should be suspicious. You must find out who his mother is.”
The humor of the conversation was running thin and William gave him an impatient look. “Enough,” he muttered. “I would have known by now if I had any little de Wolfe bastards running around, so cease your innuendos. You are being ridiculous.”
“Herringthorpe is not little,” Kieran said quietly. “I’m not saying he’s your son, of course, but he has to have some de Wolfe blood in him. The resemblance is uncanny. Mayhap a distant cousin?”
William simply shrugged. “Possibly,” he said, disinterested. “There are enough de Wolfe relations throughout England, so it’s possible.”
The subject wasn’t worth speaking on any longer, so they let it drop, mostly because William was growing irritated and Paris wouldn’t press him so much that William would take a swing at him.
That had happened before. Therefore, Kieran headed back to the encampment to tend to his horse while William and Paris headed towards the castle where the gatehouse was smoldering and heavy fighting was going on.
William unsheathed his broadsword, followed by Paris, and charged into the battle where he noticed that two of his sons were fighting in a pocket of angry de Whitton soldiers.
The Wolfe was on the hunt.
Near the gatehouse entry, the portcullis had been heated by a bonfire and then chains were used, tied to horses, that partially pulled the portcullis away from the opening.
It was a twisted mess, but men were still able to get in and out.
He could see his eldest sons, twins Scott and Troy, and his third son, Patrick.
Atty, as the family called him, was more than a head taller than any man around him.
Patrick had inherited the height from some towering ancestor so in a fight, he was never difficult to find.
William headed towards his sons.