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.
CHAPTER ONE
~ The Long Farewell ~
A Day of Much Slaying
There was a day, not long ago, beneath a sky of graying,
Where men were called to battle.
This day, so bold, of heroics untold,
Was known as the Much Slaying.
—Unknown poet, 15th c. following the Battle of Towton
March 30, 1461 A.D.
The Towton battlefield aftermath
The 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 fight 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 bac
k 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.
“He is resting,” Warenne said softly, putting his hands on Atticus’ broad chest to prevent the man from moving forward for the moment. “I must speak with you before you talk to him, Atticus. You must listen to me. Will you do this?”
Atticus was looking around the tent, spying his brother’s legs about ten feet away from him. Titus was lying down and there were men around him, enough so that Atticus couldn’t see his brother from the knees up. Seeing his brother in a prone position did nothing to ease his anxiety and he looked at Warenne imploringly.
“What happened to him?” Atticus asked. Begged. “I was told he was injured.”
Warenne sighed heavily; a younger man bearing the great de Winter name, he was muscular and handsome with dark hair and dark eyes. He was a respected commander and ally of Northumberland, and a close friend of the de Wolfe brothers. He knew how hard Titus’ mortal injury would be on Atticus and with that in mind, thought carefully on his reply.
“You will listen to me carefully, Atticus,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know but you must vow to remain calm. Your fury will not help your brother. Is that clear?”
Atticus’ eyes narrowed, briefly, as if struggling to process what the earl was telling him. “Fury?” he repeated, bewildered. “What in the hell happened?”
“Your vow, Atticus. You will remain calm.”
Now he was frustrated. Atticus nodded impatiently. “You have it,” he said. “What happened to my brother? Tell me now.”
Warenne drew in a deep, pensive breath. “Titus tells me that he was summoned by de la Londe and de Troiu,” he said, keeping his voice low. “This was just after sunrise. He was approached by these two Northumberland knights, men you have fought with time and time again. He did not think anything strange of it. Atticus, did you see your brother at all today?”
Atticus thought a moment. “I did not,” he confessed. “But I saw him before sunrise and he said nothing about de la Londe and de Troiu. I did, however, see those knights after sunrise in the heat of battle. De la Londe looked to have a serious wound to his face. Why? What do they have to do with this?”
Warenne’s jaw ticked faintly, so very sorry for what he was about to say. “They are traitors,” he said simply. “Although they are Northumberland knights, and men well paid with a history of service to Northumberland, they have evidently been in negotiations with John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. De Mowbray promised them money and lands if they would swear fealty to him and help turn the tides of this battle. Evidently, de Mowbray asked them to recruit men from Northumberland’s stable of knights. They did not approach you with this offer, then?”
Atticus was stunned. He had served with de la Londe and de Troiu for four years. They were good knights and he trusted them, so this news was quite shocking.
“They did not,” he said, clearly surprised. “Are you sure of this?”
“I am.”
Atticus shook his head, baffled. “I would not believe them capable of treason.”
Warenne rubbed his eyes wearily. “Neither did Titus,” he said. “De la Londe and de Troiu approached your brother with de Mowbray’s proposition. When Titus refused, they tried to kill him to silence him so he could not tell others what they had offered him. That is the story your brother told me. I cannot find de la Londe or de Troiu to confirm this, but there is no reason why your brother would lie. He is mortally wounded, Atticus. He will not survive the night. Sit with him and tell him of your love for him. This will be your last chance to speak with him in this life.”
Atticus stared at the earl. For several long, painful moments, he simply stared, as if unsure how to react. Disbelief swept his features followed closely by anguish in its most raw form. Atticus’ face, usually so expressionless, was now flooding with emotions he could not control. Titus… dying. Dear God, was it possible? Was the man he admired most in this life soon to leave him? He finally hung his head, reaching out to grasp Warenne as if struggling to hold on to something, anything, to keep him from falling to the ground. Warenne, in turn, held the man’s arms tightly.
“It is not true, Ren,” Atticus hissed. “This cannot be true.”
Warenne could feel the man’s anguish as it flowed through his body, entering Warenne’s at the point of contact and flooding him with grief. His heart hurt so badly that he could hardly stand it.
“It is true,” Warenne murmured. “I am so very sorry, Atticus. I love your brother very much. I feel as if I am losing my own brother.”
Atticus was holding Warenne with a death grip, staring at the ground. He realized that tears were finding their way to the surface and he blinked rapidly, chasing them away. Nay, he could not show emotion now, not when the Northumberland advisors were standing about, watching him for his reaction. They had already lost their liege today and were brittle enough without watching Atticus de Wolfe lose his composure. The Lion of the North was beyond the pull of emotion, always in control of himself. He was a rock when all else
around him was crumbling.
Except now; Titus, his beloved older brother, was dying. Dying. Dear God, was it even possible?
Atticus let go of Warenne and turned in the direction of Titus. He pushed through a pair of advisors, men he knew, but said nothing to them. He was focused on his brother, intensely focused on fighting off an emotional breakdown. As he came upon the man, supine on Warenne’s personal cot, he could see that Titus’ naked torso was wrapped tightly with bloodied bandages as the earl’s personal surgeon bent over him, inspecting something on Titus’ chest.
Reality hit him, causing his knees to weaken. Titus was pale and pasty, the look of a man who was standing in the shadow of death. Atticus stared at the bloodied wrappings a moment, feeling his heart shatter. A million pieces of pain exploded into his body, causing his limbs to ache and his knees to weaken further. Physical pain manifested. When he managed to tear his eyes away from the bloody linen and look at Titus’ face, he could see that Titus was looking at him with those hazel eyes he knew so well. When their gazes met, Titus smiled grimly.
“You are here,” he sighed weakly. “Praise the saints that you are alive. I had feared otherwise.”
The surgeon moved away and Atticus’ knees gave way as he knelt down next to his brother, taking the man’s hand and holding it tightly. The moment he gripped the man’s warm flesh, the tears very nearly returned. Titus was warm and alive in his hand. According to Warenne, that was not to be for much longer. He could hardly grasp the concept.
“There is no Yorkist in England that can topple me,” he said, his voice tight. He was trying to make the moment light but failing. His smile faded. “What happened, Titus? Ren said something about de la Londe and de Troiu trying to kill you.”
Titus de Wolfe gazed steadily at his younger brother by two years, a man he had helped raise when their mother had died those years ago. They were so very close, the two of them, and he knew his passing would be very hard on Atticus. It had been just the two of them for so long that he could only imagine how he would feel if the situation were reversed and he was the one about to lose his brother. He knew he would feel incredibly alone. But even that description couldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the true loneliness and abandonment he would feel. He would be lost. With that in mind, he squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could, feeling his flesh one last time, something to be remembered in the afterlife.
Brides of the North Page 35
