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 Eveshamwhere 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 waitingfor 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.”
