The Lion of the North (2 page)

Titus’ confusion only deepened. “What in the world would the Duke of Norfolk have to say to me?” he asked. “And how does he even know me? I am one knight among thousands here today.”

De la Londe looked over the battlefield, at the lines being drawn and the thousands of men preparing to risk their lives for two men who would be king. He glanced at his companion, Declan de Troiu, and noted de Troiu’s serious expression. The man nodded, firmly, as if to give de la Londe the push he needed to speak. De la Londe returned his attention to Titus.

“The Duke of Norfolk wishes to deliver this message,” he said. “Wield your sword for him, swear fealty to him, and he shall provide you with a manse and lands in Westwick. The lands are rich, as are the taxes. Convince your brother to join you and he will grant Atticus a baronetcy. Do this and you shall be well rewarded. Refuse and you shall die.”

Titus was staring at de la Londe. There was no discernible reaction in his features but his gaze implied that he was both confused and shocked with de la Londe’s message.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” he hissed. “Did Norfolk’s messenger tell you that? Where is the bastard?”

De la Londe drew in a long, deep breath. “He is out of range,” he said vaguely. “The messenger came to remind us of what Norfolk himself told us this last night when we met with him. He has granted Declan and me lands for swearing fealty to him. Titus, don’t you see what is happening here? We fight for a madman, a king that is daft and unstable. We fight for a lost cause. Edward has the support of the major barons and he also has the support of France. He has Warwick with him, for God’s sake. Warwick is nearly impossible to beat.”

A warning bell went off in Titus’ head; it was clear that Simon and Declan were not here as a neutral party or even an allied party to relay a message from the enemy. From what de la Londe had just said,
they
were now the enemy. Shocking as it was, it was the truth.

Titus thought quickly; his broadsword was sheathed in his saddle behind him. He couldn’t get to it undetected. He had an assortment of daggers on him, but de la Londe probably did too. So did de Troiu. It would be two against one but Titus was confident he could prevail. But he had to get the upper hand and strike first, eliminating de la Londe before de Troiu came down on him. He could already sense a battle coming and he was disgusted; enraged and disgusted.

“Am I to assume you have accepted Norfolk’s bribe?” he asked steadily.

De la Londe nodded. “We have,” he said, sounding almost regretful about it. “Titus, come with us. Fight with us. This is a fight that Henry cannot win.”

“We outnumber the York supporters.”

De la Londe sighed heavily. “For now,” he said. “Norfolk is four hours away and he brings ten thousand men. When he comes, he will turn the tide. Lord Fauconberg, fighting with Warwick, has hundreds of archers and he has the wind at his back. You will be killed, Titus; everyone here will be killed. I, for one, do not want to die.”

Titus’ jaw ticked. “So you climb into bed with Norfolk,” he growled. “I never thought I would see the day, Simon. You disappoint me.”

Simon shrugged, having difficulty maintaining eye contact. “Better a disappointment than a dead man,” he muttered. “Will you join us, Titus? Will you join us and speak to Atticus about joining us as well?”

Titus shook his head. “I will not,” he replied. “My fealty is to Henry Percy. I am sorry your fealty was not as honorable, Simon. If you are quite certain that is what you wish to do.”

“It is.”

He seemed as determined to turn as Titus was determined not to turn. “I am having difficulty believing your loyalty can be bought,” Titus said, trying to insult de la Londe into letting his guard down or even walking away from him. “You are no better than a common mercenary. Where is your honor, man?”

De la Londe would not waver but Titus’ insults struck a chord in him. He had always admired Titus, his commander and his friend, up until a few moments ago. “My honor wants to survive just like the rest of me,” he replied, pointing to the armies in the distance. “This is a fight that Henry cannot win, Titus. And I am not ready to die this day.”

Titus took a step back, in the direction of his horse and his broadsword. “I suppose each man must follow his own path in life,” he said. “But this is where our paths diverge, Simon. If you are truly serious about serving Norfolk, I will give you a few minutes to ride out of my sight. If you do not, I will kill you.”

De la Londe scratched his beard, looking at de Troiu. “There are two of us,” he said. “Two against one, no matter how good you are. Unfortunately, I have a task to perform and you are now standing in the way of it. If I cannot recruit you, then I have orders to kill you so you will not warn the others. I have been asked to speak to every man in Northumberland’s knight ranks. Norfolk has offers of wealth and lands for all of them.”

Titus looked at the man as if he had completely lost his mind. “You cannot be
serious
?”

“I am, indeed.”

Titus sighed sharply, shaking his head in a gesture that implied he was truly disgusted with the situation. But his thoughts were really calculating just how fast he could get to his broadsword before de la Londe, who was closer to him, could unsheathe his broadsword and impale him. The odds weren’t good and Titus knew it. Pretending to ponder the situation, he swaggered casually in the direction of his horse, moving closer and closer.

“Then I should re-think this,” he lied. “I have a wife now. Lands of my own would be most beneficial for her. She would like to be the lady of her own manse, I think.”

De la Londe wasn’t an idiot; he had served with Titus de Wolfe for five years and knew the man was sly and cunning. He also knew why he was moving near his horse and he panicked, putting his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. The moment he did so, Titus snatched his broadsword, unsheathing it from the side of his saddle and slashing it in de la Londe’s direction.

De la Londe was slower than Titus by a fraction of a second but it was enough time for Titus to slash Simon across the face and neck with the tip of his broadsword. Simon screamed and fell back as de Troiu, too far away to engage with his broadsword, withdrew a massive dirk from a sheath on his saddle and hurled it at Titus, catching the man in the torso just beneath his right armpit.

Impaled, Titus staggered back, falling to one knee as the very large blade pierced his body, carving through both lungs and nicking a major artery. As de la Londe struggled with a massive gash to his face and neck, de Troiu flew off his horse, broadsword in hand, and rushed Titus, who lifted his sword just in time to fend off a blow that would have cut his head off. But the force of the blow was enough to send him backwards in his weakened state and when he fell back, de Troiu lifted his broadsword again and gored Titus straight through the gut.

It was a mortal wound, one that cut through more vital organs. Titus was down, unable to defend himself, as de Troiu lifted his sword again to finish him off but de la Londe stopped him.

“Go,” he bellowed. “He is as good as dead anyway. Get on your horse and go. We must leave this place.”

De Troiu turned to de la Londe, seeing the blood pouring from his face and neck. “Christ,” he hissed. “Look at you. You are bleeding to death.”

De la Londe was fumbling in his saddle for something to stop the bleeding but he couldn’t find anything suitable. Titus’ horse was several feet away and he saw something that looked clean and white peeking out from a saddlebag. He snatched Titus’ clean tunic from his saddlebags and held it tightly to the wound to stop the torrents of blood. He staggered back over to his horse.

“Get mounted,” he gestured to de Troiu. “We must get out of here and return to Norfolk.”

De Troiu leapt onto his horse, snatching at the reins. “But the others –?”

“Nay!” de la Londe bellowed, blood in his mouth from the gash Titus had inflicted. “There is no time. Let us return to Norfolk and tell him that we were nearly killed by Northumberland’s knights when we attempted to recruit them. With the gash on my face de Mowbray will believe me.”

De Troiu didn’t have much more to say to that. He simply tightened his reins and charged off to the south, followed by de la Londe as the man struggled to control the bleeding on his face. It was a wild ride across snowy fields as they raced southward, towards Norfolk, leaving the battle to commence on the great, snowing fields behind them. The battle that would later be called “A Day of Much Slaying”.

The Battle of Towton had begun.

~ The Long Farewell ~

March 30, 1461 A.D.

The Towton battlefield aftermath

T
he battle, more
than most, had been brutal to a fault. Even though it was March, there had been a heavy snowfall most of the day, adding to the misery of a battle that had seen seventy thousand participants fighting for the houses of Lancaster and York, in the culmination of battles upon battles with seemingly no end. Yet this battle had an end. It was almost over; decisively over. The smell of victory was almost as heavy as the smell of death.

The big knight plowed his way through the slushy, bloody snow, mingled with mud that gave it a brick-red appearance. There were bodies everywhere of the dead and dying, and he found himself stumbling over men who were breathing their last and calling to gods or wives or mothers. Still, he ignored them, singularly focused at the moment. He had been summoned.

A bone-weary foot soldier had called him to Northumberland’s tent. His liege, the Earl of Northumberland, was part of the contingent of the defeated in a battle that had virtually wiped out the House of Lancaster. The Yorkists were now in control and Edward IV had taken the throne from Henry. It was almost too surreal to believe, in any case. But the big knight with the worn, dented armor and circled, dark eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in two days didn’t care about any of that at the moment. If what the foot soldier had told him was true, he would soon be facing his own particular brand of grief.

His charger had fallen in the first few hours of the battle so he crossed the snowy, bloody field on foot. As he mounted a small rise and struggled not to slip in the bloody sludge, a wounded knight in heavy armor suddenly rose from the dead, emitting a strangled growl as he charged with his broadsword leveled. The big knight lifted his weapon, a massive blade forged in Rouen with the de Wolfe family crest on the hilt, and engaged the wounded knight in a nasty sword flight that, when the blade was knocked from his weary and frozen hand, turned into a fist fight.

It was a short and brutal fight as the big knight threw several punches to the head of the wounded knight, driving the man to his knees and finally back to the ground. Even then, the big knight didn’t stop; he took the wounded knight’s own weapon from him and shoved it through his neck.

Grunting with effort, exhaustion, and perhaps despair, the big knight collected his fallen sword and continued across the frozen moor, slipping in the coagulated blood, heading for the collection of tents on the southwest side of the field where Northumberland’s encampment was lodged. By the time he reached the tents, his breath was coming in big, great, foggy puffs. Against the sunset and the snow, he looked like a primal beast making its way through the mists of time. It was a surreal and mystic vision.

It was a sad and defeated encampment. Where there had been hope only yesterday, now there was the start of trappings of defeat. The snow had attached to the fabric of the tents, soaking them and causing them to sag, much like the sagging spirits of the men they sheltered. The big knight headed straight for the largest tent, half of it collapsed under the weight of the melting snow.

The tent belonged to his liege, the Earl of Northumberland, who had been killed along with thousands of others that day. Now, Henry Percy’s advisors were in charge because there was no one else. Northumberland still had over a thousand men that were still mobile; that was only a guess because the death rate was so high that no one could even guess how many men Northumberland had really lost that day. The big knight ignored the beaten, defeated soldiers standing around the entrance, men who looked at him with sorrow and perhaps some fear. Eyes watched the knight as he disappeared into the sagging tent.

It was warm and stale inside in spite of the condition of the tent, smelling of shite. A brazier was glowing –hot with burning dung and peat, offering a small measure of warmth against the freezing temperatures. But it was dark inside the tent and all the big knight could see were silhouettes of men, phantoms in the darkness, and his eyes sought out those he recognized. As he struggled to adjust to the dim light, a man suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his path.

“Atticus,” the man said, relief in his voice. “Thank God you have come. What have you been told?”

Sir Atticus de Wolfe was trying very hard to keep his composure. “My brother has been injured,” he said. “Where is he?”

Warenne de Winter, Earl of Thetford and one of the defeated of the Battle of Towton, gazed steadily at the knight known as The Lion of the North. Atticus had been given that name for very good reason; Atticus was a de Wolfe and all of the de Wolfe knights were legendary in Northumbria. It all began with The Wolfe himself, William de Wolfe, and now that male line had culminated in perhaps the fiercest and most cunning knight of all. Much like his ancestor, Atticus was the stuff legends were made of. Men both revered and feared him.

But he also had a fierce temper and had been known to tear men apart with his bare hands. Warenne had seen confirmation of that particular talent himself. It was therefore imperative that he keep Atticus calm in the face of what was to come. If he didn’t, there was no telling what de Wolfe would do. Warenne dreaded that specific thought.