The Lion of the North Read Free

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
    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