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, morethan 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 lastand 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 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 primalbeast 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.”
