Chapter One #2
The Wolfe began to swing his sword, clipping men who were foolish enough to be in his way.
Those who turned to fight were summarily dispatched, but the closer they drew to the gate, the thicker the fighting.
William found himself not only fighting with his sword, but kicking men in the face only to have them fall to the ground and be trampled by his horse.
The truth was that his horse was as much a weapon as his broadsword.
The beast could kill a man easily. He could feel the concussion of bodies crunching beneath his horse’s hooves as he rode up to his eldest three sons, watching Scott dispatch a man bearing de Whitton colors who tried to take his arm off.
“Where is James?” William bellowed above the noise of battle.
Three hands pointed north and William found himself looking up to the battlements of the castle where heavy fighting was going on.
He could see that there was a great deal of activity – swords flashing, men battling, and he could see his son, James, in the thick of it.
The man was bellowing like a barbarian, tossing men aside, gutting others, in a fighting frenzy beyond compare.
Sweet, humorous James was a madman in battle.
William could also see Kieran’s sons, Alec and Christian, as they wrestled with de Whitton men who simply didn’t want to surrender.
The army from Bamburgh, along with de Wolfe and his allies, had managed to divide the de Whitton army, but a hundred men or more had run up to the battlements, which was where the worst of the fighting seemed to be taking place.
As it was, the gate was more or less secured and the gatehouse seemed to have surrendered in general.
William pushed through the twisted gate to get a better look at the fighting on the battlements from the inside but the moment he entered the vast bailey, there was a new wave of de Whitton men and he, along with Paris, found themselves being pushed back the way they’d come.
The de Wolfe sword was swinging.
Truth be told, William was more at home in a fight than most. Even missing his left eye, which had been lost to a Welsh archer many years ago, he had better sight than most full-sighted men.
He was joined by many de Wolfe soldiers as well as Patrick, who had shoved his bulk in through the opening, and they methodically began to cut down the de Whitton tide.
But then, William noticed something.
He saw why the rush of de Whitton soldiers had pushed towards him because on the other side of the group of men, he could see Bamburgh’s royal troops pushing them towards the gate.
Leading the troops was none other than Herringthorpe himself and William only knew that because the man wasn’t wearing the crimson and gold of the royal army.
From what William had been told, he never did.
The enormous knight was wearing the latest and greatest protection money could buy and swinging a sword that was the height and weight of a seven-year-old child.
Most impressive, indeed.
What was even more impressive was the fact that the man had been badly wounded in a skirmish at Etal Castle about eight months before.
It had been his first major skirmish since taking command of Bamburgh and William remembered hearing the story.
He’d lain by the river’s edge for three days before a scouting party from Etal finally found him and rumor had it that he’d lingered near death for several days before he finally started to improve.
One couldn’t tell that by looking at him now.
The man moved like a force of nature.
Herringthorpe was pushing the troops in William’s direction and he knew why – so de Wolfe and his men could cut them down or beat them down enough so they would surrender. Sandwiched between Bamburgh and de Wolfe, the remaining de Whitton troops had little choice but to surrender.
There was really no choice at all.
It was the classic collapse of an army.
When James, Alec and Christian began throwing men from the battlements into the crowd below, William knew that the skirmish was lost for de Whitton.
Rather than back off and let his men subdue the enemy, William took pride in leading by example.
He’d never been one to let his men do the dirty work, so he involved himself in the blood and gore of a defeated army.
He kicked men down, shouting at them to stay on their knees while his soldiers moved in to restrain them, but when one of de Whitton’s knights surrendered to him personally, he showed the man respect.
De Wolfe might have been hell in battle, but he was not without honor.
On and on it went until the sun began to set and the de Whitton army was nothing more than a broken mess of defeated men.
James, Alec and Christian came off the battlements and, at that point, William backed off.
He let the younger knights do their duty while he and Paris slipped out of the gate only to find Kieran and several other senior knights from Northwood Castle ensuring that any troops on the exterior of the castle had also been subdued and restrained.
William found himself looking at Michael de Bocage and Deinwald Ellsrod, two older and seasoned knights that had once been sworn to him when he’d been captain of Northwood’s army, long ago.
Now, they mostly supervised the younger knights because Michael had an affliction of the joints that made holding a sword painful and Deinwald had become the trainer of men when Northwood’s former trainer, Ranulf Kluge, had passed away a few years earlier.
Deinwald was the one mostly shouting at the troops and junior knights, making sure things were done the way they were supposed to be done.
If they weren’t, he wasn’t beyond thumping on a helm.
In truth, it did William good to see such things.
He liked it when the world he knew, including grumpy Deinwald, didn’t change much.
“Most of the de Whitton army is secure,” Michael said with a slight stutter in his speech. “We are moving them to a holding area next to our encampment. Do you know what is to be done with them from there?”
William lifted his visor, wiping the sweat on his brow. “Nay,” he said. “We are here in support of Bamburgh, so whatever Herringthorpe wants, we shall do.”
Michael nodded, watching as Deinwald kicked over one of the enemy soldiers because the man was trying to stand up when he’d been told to stay on his knees.
Herringthorpe and his men were now coming through the gap from the bailey of Thropton, seeing that de Wolfe and Northwood had the situation under control.
It was Michael who lifted a hand to Herringthorpe, catching the man’s attention.
“We are moving the de Whitton men to a holding area next to our encampment,” he said, shouting over the noise of the men. “What would you have us do from there?”
Herringthorpe reined his distinctive warhorse over to William and the knights.
His horse was a big, hairy beast with black and white coloring all over, making him quite unique.
There was no mistaking Herringthorpe, which could be both a good and a bad thing in battle. Men could aim for him more easily.
They could also run from him more easily.
Lifting his visor, Herringthorpe looked at the collection of seasoned knights in front of him.
“I’ve not yet had the opportunity to thank you for your assistance,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “I’ve only been at Bamburgh since the first of the new year and I’ve not yet had a chance to make my social rounds. May I know your names?”
It was a polite request and Michael replied.
“I am Michael de Bocage of Northwood Castle,” he said. Then, he started pointing in order. “That brute over there is Deinwald Ellsrod and these men are Kieran Hage and Paris de Norville, the captain of Northwood’s army. The knight at the very end is Baron Kilham, William –”
Herringthorpe cut him off, his gaze fixed on William.
“De Wolfe,” he finished. They could only really see his eyes and nose with the lifted visor and the hazel eyes glittering in the sunset were intense.
“Everyone in England knows that name. I know you do not recall, my lord, but I saw you many years ago when you visited London. I was quite young, but I remember the awe with which your name was spoken. Henry himself spoke of you with great respect and adoration. It is an honor to finally meet you.”
William nodded to the polite words of respect. “And you,” he said. “I’ve heard tremendous things about you, Herringthorpe.”
Sir Warwick “War” Herringthorpe gazed at men who were legends in the north of England.
De Bocage had introduced them so humbly that when War realized who he was facing, he was slightly intimidated, unusual for a man who was usually the most confident and powerful in a room of confident and powerful men.
But War was different.
He’d achieved much in his young life, though age was relative.
He was younger than the men he was facing but at twenty years and seven, he was in his prime.
An enormous man of height and breadth, he’d been a large child and, as such, entered training at an early age.
He was big, agile, and smart, and that had equated into being trained by the best trainers England had to offer.
He’d been trained by the Blackchurch Guild.
A Blackchurch knight wasn’t an ordinary warrior.
He, or even she in rare cases, was the best trained warrior in the world.
War had fostered in a regular household until he’d been twelve years of age and as tall as most of the men around him when his father paid a handsome sum of money to the Blackchurch Guild, which admitted War into its training program.
And what a program it was.