PROLOGUE
‡
The Legend of WARWOLFE
Battle, East Sussex
Two years ago, Present Day
“Queenie? Are you home?”
A gray-haired man with a hand-hewn wooden cane opened the old door even as he pounded on it, raining rust from the old hinges onto the floor. The house in which the door was lodged was ancient by any standard, a squat farmhouse built from the pale gray stone that was so prevalent to the area. There were big warped beams running up the exterior walls, however, which suggested late-Medieval architecture, but the shape and design of the house was purely Georgian. Everything was symmetrical from the alignment of the old cracked windows to the roofline, pitched in shape and covered with dried thatching that matched the color of the stone.
It was every historian’s dream.
Which was why the young woman behind the gray-haired man was so wide-eyed at what she was seeing, following the man into the cool foyer as her eyes so greedily soaked up all of the ancientness around her. This was pure awesomeness as far as she was concerned and she tried not to be distracted by the time-capsule quality of the old house.
They were in search of someone.
“Queenie!”
The old man banged his cane on the wooden floor, a floor that, at one time, had been finished but now it just looked splintered and dirty. And the smell of the house… God, the smell was that of dust and must and dampness.
It was glorious.
“Do you think he’s home?” the young woman asked timidly. “I mean, the front door was open and….”
“He’s home,” the gray-haired man cut her off with confidence. “Queensborough Browne and I have known each other for many years. My family has lived in a house on Telham Lane adjacent to this house since the turn of the last century. My property backs up to Queenie’s property. He’s most definitely home, Miss Devlin. He never leaves. Therefore, we simply have to find him.”
So they were on a hunt for a man named Queensborough Browne and Abigail Devlin was simply along for the ride, an important path in the course of her research for her Ph.D. dissertation in Medieval History at the University of Birmingham. She’d been to the bucolic village of Battle several times over the past nine months, all of her time spent at the battlefield or the museum that held the artifacts of the Battle of Hastings. During these many visits, she’d struck up a friendship with one of the docents there, a Mr. Peters Groby.
It had been a most fortuitous acquaintance.
Mr. Groby was blind in one eye, half-crippled and had a terrible wet cough that seemed to weaken him when it came on, but the man knew the history of England, and the history of the Battle of Hastings, like nobody’s business. He and Abigail spoke weekly and she’d been making the trek down to Battle nearly every weekend to listen to his tales and speak with the curators of the museum. They had artifacts and documentation in their archives that she’d been given access to, thanks to Mr. Groby, and she was very grateful for it, but it seemed like all of that history wasn’t telling her much about what she really wanted to know. For Abigail, she was looking for something very specific.
The unsung heroes of the Norman Invasion and their impact upon the Conquest.
That was the tentative title of her dissertation. She’d refine it at some point, but right now, that was pretty much the entire focus of her paper – the men other than the Duke of Normandy who had made a difference in the conquest of England. The curators at the museum had been very helpful with suggestions on where else she could find additional material that might tell her of the driving forces behind the Duke of Normandy’s army, but the truth was that there was very little documentation about that subject in general. There wasn’t a great deal known from period sources about the actual Battle of Hastings and the ensuing conquest.
Nearly a year into the first of three years for her Ph.D. studies, Abigail was starting to become discouraged with just how very little information there was about a subject she was certain held great and deep secrets – the front lines of the Duke of Normandy’s army, the knights who would have led the cavalry and would have broken through the English army’s mighty shield wall, a shield wall that had held for nearly nine hours on that fateful day. But someone had eventually broken through.
Abigail wanted to know who that was.
Now, she had what she thought might be a breakthrough in finding out. Mr. Groby had a friend, it seemed, whose family had been original land owners in the area in the High Middle Ages. This family was very old and the very last of the line, an old man by the name of Queensborough Browne, lived like a hermit off of Powdermill Road, which was in sight of the battlefield and the demolished abbey. Mr. Groby had made an appointment on this day to go and see him but it seemed that Queensborough was nowhere to be found.
Now, they were wandering in the guy’s house like a couple of burglars, hunting him down as Mr. Groby continued to bang his cane on the floor and call his friend’s name.
“Queenie!”
“Mr. Groby, maybe he’s just not here,” Abigail said, trying to insist because, even though she was awestruck by the old house, it didn’t seem right prowling through it without an invitation. “I can always come back. I’ll be back next weekend.”
“Nonsense,” Groby said. “He is here, somewhere. He’s expecting us, I assure you.”
Abigail wasn’t so sure. They had made their way through the foyer, into what appeared to be a back hall that was cluttered to the roof with all kinds of things, and now they were entering an extremely old kitchen. The floor was stone and the stove in what had been the old hearth had to be a hundred years old. They hadn’t made stoves like that for decades, if not centuries. The old sink was iron and the very old spigots were also made of iron, or so it seemed. Truthfully, it was difficult to tell. As they passed through the kitchen and towards what looked like an orangery beyond, an old man suddenly appeared with plants in his hands.
“Queenie!” Groby exclaimed. “Didn’t you hear me calling you, old man?”
Queensborough Browne looked rather surprised to see his friend, immediately spying the young woman behind him. A stub of a man with a crown of white hair that looked like cotton and enormous hands now dirty from potting, his old eyes inspected the young woman for a moment before replying.
“Is that the girl?” he asked.
Groby nodded, turning to look at Abigail rather proudly. “An American convert,” he said. “She’s coming back over to this side of the pond. A very intelligent young lady, actually. This is Miss Abigail Devlin. Miss Devlin, this is my friend, Mr. Queensborough Browne.”
Queensborough’s gaze lingered on Abigail for a moment before turning to set the plants down on the potting table behind him. In fact, the entire room with glass walls and ceiling, called a sunroom in America but in England it had a variety of names, like garden room or The Orangery, was full of plants in various stages of growth. Plastic pots littered the table along with gorgeous mums and foxgloves. Queensborough brushed off his dirty hands as he returned his attention to his guests.
“Come on, then,” he said, sounding annoyed that he’d been interrupted. “It’s all in the dining room.”
That was as much of a greeting as the old hermit could muster. Abigail looked anxiously at Groby, who simply shrugged and followed Queensborough as he headed towards the front of the house.
“Queenie, when is the last time you left this place?” Groby asked, trying to strike up a cheerful conversation. “I’ve not seen you over at The 1066 in over a month.”
Abigail knew that The 1066 was a bar over on High Street, an older place without televisions or games to entice the younger crowd. It was an old establishment for older people who just wanted a pint without all of the noise and hype of today’s bars. She was trying to peer around Groby to see how Queensborough was reacting to the question, but the man with the cotton hair didn’t give much reaction. He seemed singularly focused on what was in his dining room.
“No time,” he told Groby. As they entered the dining room with the dark blue walls of peeling paint, dark wood, and a fireplace that was as tall as Abigail was, he waved his guests in with impatience. “Come, come. Sit down so we can get on with it.”
Abigail was coming to think he wasn’t the hospitable type but Groby didn’t seem to be bothered by it. He sat down in a very old chair with a faded red velvet cushion as Queensborough organized a vast array of items already on the table – papers, things that looked like booklets, and an old box that was fairly nondescript except for the fact that it was ancient like the rest of the house and reinforced with iron strips.
In fact, Abigail was quite interested in that box. She summoned her courage to speak as Queensborough fumbled with the latch on it.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to see us today,” she said politely. “Your home is just exquisite. Mr. Groby said that your family has lived here since Medieval times.”
“Henry VIII to be exact,” Queensborough said, his manner clipped. “That’s not exactly Medieval. The lands were given to an ancestor of mine, a great friend of the king’s, but most of it was sold in the eighteenth century and our family retained just this small parcel of land and this house. The rest of it went to different owners.”
Abigail looked around the dining room, magnificent in its aged state. “How old is the house?”
Queensborough opened up the top of the box, the iron joints creaking. “These two front rooms were built in the time of William Rufus. It was a house for the abbot of Battle Abbey but legend says that his mistress and their children lived here. The rest of the house was built with stones from Battle Abbey when Henry demolished it during the dissolution.” He paused to look at her, his old eyes intense. “Tell me something, Miss Abigail Devlin – tell me why you’ve really come here. What stories do you intend to tell about us?”
Abigail was a bit taken aback by the question because it bordered on hostile. In fact, Queensborough hadn’t shown anything but hostility since they’d arrived. He was either an ass or just extremely socially awkward. But something told her it was more than that; there was a look in his eye that suggested… protectiveness… even fear.
An old man with a secret.
Not looking at Groby, Abigail answered calmly.
“I only intend to tell the truth,” she said. “Mr. Groby explained who I am. I’m researching my….”
“I know what he said,” Queensborough cut her off. “I know you’re from university. You want to know about what’s been buried.”
Abigail regarded him. Having parents who were trial lawyers, she was used to aggressive people. His manner didn’t bother her. “I want to give a voice to those who have never had their stories told.”
“You? An American?”
“Americans have done pretty well at telling English stories and vice versa.”
Queensborough’s bushy brow furrowed. “But this isn’t your right. You know that, don’t you?”
Abigail leaned forward on the ancient table. “Why not? Because I wasn’t born on this soil?” she asked, trying not to sound defensive. “Mr. Browne, I have had a fascination with England for as long as I can remember. I probably know more about its history than most Brits do. Just because I wasn’t born here doesn’t mean I don’t have a great love for it. It doesn’t mean I can’t do justice to telling the story of those whose glory isn’t yet known. In fact, I don’t see any of your native British students taking a stand and demanding to tell the stories I want to tell. So why not trust me with them? I don’t love England because it’s in my blood; I love it because it’s in my soul.”
Queensborough considered her declaration. She was well spoken and passionate, and that impressed him just the slightest. But he was still hesitant.
“All right, Yank,” he said after a moment. “Then tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want to know.”
Abigail could sense that they were getting somewhere now and she didn’t waste the opportunity. “Mr. Groby told me that your family has artifacts that no museum has seen,” she said quietly. “Artifacts pertaining to exactly what I’m looking for – the knights and soldiers who were on the front lines of the Duke of Normandy’s fighting force when they arrived in England. These are the men who really won the Battle of Hastings, Mr. Browne – the Duke of Normandy was a great commander, but it was these line officers who fought and died for England. It’s their stories I want to tell and Mr. Groby says you know something about that. Will you please tell me what you know?”
“And you’re going to write a paper about it?”
“I am writing my doctoral dissertation about it, yes.”
Queensborough looked like he was considering it. Then he looked at Groby. “You have been begging me to turn these things over to the museum,” he said. “Is this how you intend to force my hand? Once she publishes her sources, every Medieval scholar in the world is going to want to see them.”
Groby cleared his throat. “I’m not trying to force your hand. But this young woman may be the perfect way to introduce your artifacts to the world.”
Queensborough pondered that a moment before finally shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He’d been hiding the artifacts for so long that he really didn’t know any other way. It was a difficult mindset to change. “Maybe… maybe you should come back tomorrow. I must think.”
Abigail didn’t want to lose control of the conversation, not now. She didn’t want to leave and take the chance that she’d never be invited back.
“Mr. Browne, do you have any children?” she asked pointedly. “Children that you plan to pass all of these artifacts down to?”
An expression of regret, perhaps even concern, flickered across Queensborough’s face. “Only nieces,” he said. “But that shouldn’t concern you.”
Abigail wouldn’t let go. “Do they care about these artifacts?” she asked. “I mean, are they going to take good care of them? Hide them away from the world like you do?”
“I’m sure they’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Do you really want to take that chance?” Abigail asked, her tone nearly pleading. “Why are you hiding these things away? If what Mr. Groby tells me is true, then you have a story that has never before been told about men whose names have been lost to time. Why are you hiding away these men who lived and died in a battle that changed the course of history? Don’t they deserve better than to be hidden away? Don’t they deserve to have people know of their bravery?”
Queensborough simply looked at her; it was clear that her words were having an impact on him. She made a good deal of sense. Truth be told, he’d been wrestling with the same thing for years. Next to Abigail, Groby spoke softly.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you for years, Queenie,” he said with some regret. “For you not to let these stories be told… they’ll die with you. You know that. Your nieces don’t care about these family artifacts. They’ll probably donate them or just let them rot. Why not let Abby take a look at what you have? At least let someone who will love these artifacts like you do tell the story you can’t tell.”
Queensborough’s gaze hovered on Groby for a few long moments before, finally, he turned his attention to the open box in front of him.
With a heavy sigh, he reached into it and pulled forth what looked like an extremely old cloth covering up something square shaped, roughly twelve inches by twelve inches and maybe four inches high.
In fact, Abigail stood up as Queensborough sat down with the package in front of him, leaning over the table so she could get a good look at the object as Queensborough unwrapped it, revealing a rather thick book with ancient yellowed pages and writing that was more artwork than letters.
Classic Medieval writing.
Abigail’s heart started to pound. Having spent many an hour reading through Medieval manuscripts and having studied ancient codices like the Book of Kells, she knew a very old book when she saw one. Pinpricks of excitement began to pepper her hands as she began to suspect the magnitude of the object before her.
“This is called the Book of Battle,” Queensborough finally said. “It was finished in the year 1068 A.D., two years after the Battle of Hastings, by a fighting priest known as Jathan de Guerre.”
“Jathan of War,” Abigail translated, instantly enamored with the book in front of Queensborough. “My God… is that book really almost a thousand years old?”
Queensborough nodded. “It is, indeed,” he replied, reverence in his tone. “Jathan came to these shores with the Duke of Normandy’s army. I suppose you could call him the first war correspondent because he described the battle down to the last detail and he also relayed a remarkable event following the battle. It was a journey of sorts to regain one of the duke’s men who had been kidnapped by the enemy.”
Abigail’s pounding heart grew stronger as she realized the significance of the book. She was so excited that she was beginning to feel faint. “Oh… my,” she breathed. “Actual details of Hastings? But we know so little about it. To have another source – a source who was actually there – that would transform everything we know about the battle.”
Queensborough nodded, glancing at Groby, who was sitting back in his chair with his hands resting on the top of his cane. There was some guilt in Queensborough’s expression.
“I know it,” he said. “My old friend, Groby, knows it, but to his credit, he’s never told anyone what he knows. He’s been all through this book but he’s never told a soul about it. He knows that it is my decision to make it known and if anyone knew what I have, they’d beat down my door to get it.”
Abigail was nearly beside herself. “Yes, they would,” she agreed fervently. “And rightly so. Surely… surely you know what you have there, what this means to the historians of the world.”
“I do.”
“But it could be the most significant find of this century!”
Queensborough reached out to touch the old book, affectionately, as one would touch a pet or a child. In a sense, maybe it was his pet or child, something he’d been protecting so long that it was oddly a part of him. But all Abigail could see was the man touching an ancient document with his grimy hands and she resisted the urge to slap his fingers away. Meanwhile, Queensborough was deep in thought.
“It probably will be one of the most significant finds in English history,” he finally said. “I don’t know why my family never turned it over to the authorities. It was just something we kept, like grandmum’s furniture or an old aunt’s silver set. It was just part of our family. But I suppose… maybe it’s time now. I’m an old man. Maybe it’s time to finally let this go.”
Abigail left her seat to go and stand next to Queensborough, bending over the manuscript and admiring the craftsmanship. Getting a closer look at it only fed her sense of amazement. “This is just exquisite,” she said, awe in her tone. “And it’s in remarkable shape for being as old as it is. But how did your family come into possession of it?”
Queensborough was looking at the old book as he spoke. “This house has belonged to the abbots of Battle Abbey since the beginning,” he said. “When Henry VIII came along and the dissolution of the monasteries happened, things that were kept safe at the abbey were brought here and buried in the floor beneath the stones so that Henry’s men couldn’t find them. When my ancestor was granted these lands, this house came with it and when he sold everything, our family still kept the house. That’s why these things belong to us. They have for centuries.”
It made sense. “And somewhere along the line, you had someone translate this book?” Abigail asked. “Or are were your ancestors able to read it?”
Queensborough shrugged. “Both,” he said. “It’s written in Latin, which most people learned in the old days, especially if you were Catholic. But back in the nineteen twenties, my grandfather took it over to the Church of the Virgin Mary, right across from the demolished abbey, and asked the priest to translate the entire book for a sizable donation. Until then, all the family really knew were bits and pieces of the story. I supposed no one really cared enough to read the entire thing. But the priest did the translation and it’s here, in this box. That was the first time anyone had ever heard tale of the Duke of Normandy’s Warwolfe.”
Abigail cocked her head curiously. “A Warwolf? You mean those big trebuchets that Edward I had built for his battles in Scotland?” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Did the Duke of Normandy have those war machines, too? Two hundred years before their use was first recorded? Holy Smokes… did he bring those war machines to the Battle of Hastings?”
She was very excited about it but Queensborough shook his head. “No, not the war machines,” he said. “At least, not the ones you are referring to. But those machines were named after the original Warwolfe, I’ll wager. Because there was a man known as Warwolfe and, according to Jathan, he led a team of the most powerful Norman knights the world had yet seen.”
Those words hit Abigail like a ton of bricks; it was what she’d been looking for, what she’d been waiting to hear all of these months. The most powerful Norman knights the world had yet seen.
The unsung heroes whose stories needed to be told.
“Oh, my God, yes,” she said, breathless in her glee. “Those are the men I want to know about, men that history has forgotten but the ones who changed the course of history. And you’re telling me that the fighting priest wrote about those men?”
“He did, indeed,” Groby said, a twinkle in his eye when he saw how excited Abigail was. “When you first came to the museum and spoke of what you were looking for, the first thing I thought of was Queenie and his manuscript. I knew he had it, you see, but I also knew he didn’t want the world to know about it. It’s taken me nine months to convince him to tell you the story and let you see the manuscript for yourself. I agree with you, Abby – these men need to have their stories told. This Warwolfe – he was the greatest one of all. He very much needs to have his story told.”
Abigail listened to Groby, a stunned expression on her face, before looking at Queensborough. “I swear to you that I will only treat this subject with the greatest respect,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement and emotion. “Could you possibly let me read the translation?”
Queensborough didn’t know Abigail; he didn’t know her heart or mind. But at that moment, he could see into her soul, in through those big brown eyes, and he could understand what this meant to her. Maybe Groby was right; maybe it was time for the men buried within the Book of Battle to have their stories told. Men of war, of conquest, but flesh and blood men who had risked everything for glory. And Warwolfe… well, he had quite a story.
It was time.
“You can read it but it stays here with me,” he said. “You can come back as many times as you wish.”
Abigail nodded eagerly. “I promise, I will never take it out of your house,” she said. “I won’t even tell anyone about it, at least for now, but when I publish my dissertation, I’ll have to cite the source. You do understand that, right?”
Queensborough nodded. His focus was on the old book, thinking of the story he’d read in those pages and of what his grandfather had told him. Settling back in his chair, he kept his gaze on those faded vellum sheets.
“Lupus Guerre,” he muttered. “That means Warwolf in Latin, but I’m sure you already know that. But I want you to remember these names I am about to tell you, Miss Devlin.”
“Of course.”
“De Wolfe, de Lohr, de Russe, de Reyne, de Moray….”
“Okay?”
“De Winter, de Lara, St. Hèver, du Reims, and Wellesbourne.”
“Who are they?”
Queensborough looked up at her. “The men whose stories you are about to hear.”
Abigail could feel anticipation like she’d never felt in her life. A smile flickered across her lips, tugging the corners of her mouth. “I’m more than ready to hear about them.”
Queensborough could see the unadulterated happiness in her eyes. That told him that he was doing the right thing.
“Tea first?”
Abigail’s expression fell and Groby, with a snort, leaned on his cane and slowly stood up. “I’ll get the tea,” he told Queensborough. “You tell that young lady what she’s been waiting to hear before she explodes.”
Queensborough grinned, a surprising gesture. “Make mine with gin,” he called after his friend.
“No gin until you finish your story!”
Groby was off, hobbling in the direction of the kitchen and the kettle, as Queensborough returned his attention to Abigail. He pointed to the chair that Groby had vacated.
“Sit down,” he said. “This is going to take a while.”
Abigail quickly planted herself in the warm seat. “I have all of the time in the world, Mr. Browne.”
“What were the names I told you to remember?”
Abigail didn’t hesitate. “De Wolfe, de Lohr, de Russe, de Reyne, de Moray, de Winter, de Lara, St. Hèver, du Reims, and Wellesbourne.”
His grin returned. “You’re very sharp.”
“I have an eidetic memory. I see words.”
Queensborough was increasingly impressed with the young American. “Then I won’t keep you waiting.” The smile faded from his face as he settled back, his expression turning into something distant. “While the Duke of Normandy came to these shores aboard the Mora, Warwolfe had his own vessels, named for the angels because Gaetan de Wolfe and his knights called themselves Anges de Guerre, or the Angels of War.”
“Gaetan de Wolfe?”
“Warwolfe.”
Now, the man behind the legend had a name. “Go on,” Abigail begged.
Queensborough did. “De Wolfe evidently had at least a dozen ships to carry thousands of men, ships named the Ramiel and the Sachael, the Raphael and the Uriel. Jathan came aboard the Ramiel, which was named for the angel of thunder, and that ship contained all of those men whose names I had you remember. Those were the Angels of War, arriving on a boat named for thunder. Appropriate, considering the storm that was approaching England on that day.”
Abigail was already fascinated with the tale. “Just ten knights?”
Queensborough nodded. “Ten knights and thousands of men,” he said. “According to Jathan, the knights were experts in warfare. The Duke of Normandy would use them like a crack group of specialist warriors. Sort of like a modern-day SAS squad. They were, literally, the Angels of War. There wasn’t anything Warwolfe and his men couldn’t do, the first ones into battle and the last ones out. You’ve been looking for the unsung heroes of the conquest? These men were it, Miss Devlin.”
Abigail had waited her whole life to hear this tale. “Will you start from the very beginning of Jathan’s story? And even if you think a detail is unimportant, please don’t leave it out. Tell me everything.”
Something wistful reflected in Queensborough’s eyes. “All I ask is that you do this justice when you write your paper. As you said, these men deserve to have their stories told. But I’ll take it a step further – bring them back to life again, Miss Devlin. Will you do that? Will you bring them back to life?”
There was so much delight and passion in Abigail’s eyes that she was positively aglow from it all. Leaning forward, she put a hand on Queensborough’s dirty fingers.
“I’ll make you proud, I swear it. I’ll make these men breathe again.”
He believed her.