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.
Warriors accepted into the guild trained for years. There were several “trainers” at the guild, each man specializing in something– fighting tactics, military strategy, interrogation, weapons. The list went on. Warriors spent months and even years with some trainers, learning from the best, and one unique aspect of the training was that of a monk from the Song Mountains of Henan. He taught a manner of fighting that required no weapons. Warriors learned to fight with their hands and feet, a brutal and powerful form of combat that made Blackchurch knights unique in the world of fighting.
War had learned that particular skill well.
Therefore, he was more highly trained than almost anyone on the battlefield, present company included. William de Wolfe and his knights and comrades had survived decades in the north and they were the best England had to offer.
But so was War.
He was a different breed of knight.
“Then mayhap we can convene the Mutual Admiration Society at some later date,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I warn you, however, that my praise comes at a cost.”
“Oh?” William said, amused. “What would that be?”
“You must feed me well.”
William chuckled, glancing at Paris, who was smirking at the humor. The knight had a very personable sense about him. “That can be arranged,” he said. “Bamburgh is not terribly far from my seat of Castle Questing. In fact, it is one of the few castles in the north that I do not control.”
