The Lion of the North Read Free Page A

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 flight 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 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