PROLOGUE
March 29, 1461 A.D.
Battle of Towton, Yorkshire
Ascension of Edward IV
“There he is,” a knight in snow-covered armor hissed. “Do you see him?”
His companion, with a bushy red beard and dirty blond hair, was focused on a copse of white-encrusted trees off to the south. It was early morning and snow was falling so heavily that it was as if a thick blanket of the stuff had been tossed onto them. Breath hung in the air from both man and beast alike, and the sun, though risen, was shielded by heavy clouds.
“I see him,” the knight with the bushy beard said. “He has already deployed all of the men, including his brother. He will not be alone much longer.”
“Are you sure Atticus is away?”
“I am sure. I saw him ride off.”
“Then we must move quickly. We promised Mowbray we would start with Titus.”
“He really wants Atticus.”
“I know. But if we can sway Titus, Atticus should follow.”
Spurring their horses forward, the pair charged down a small and snow-covered incline, heading towards the right flank of the massive Lancastrian army that was poised on the rise, waiting for the Yorkist opposition to move into place. This day had been weeks and months in the making, years even, as the largest army England had ever seen upon her own soil was moving into position to decide the fate of the country. Would Henry VI remain on the throne, or would his young cousin, Edward, wrest the royal reins of command? Well over seventy thousand men would soon decide upon an answer. Hell was coming and it was coming very soon. With that in mind, the two knights made haste towards their target in the distance.
Sir Titus de Wolfe was standing next to his big, brown charger, a mean horse with a fierce temper. He was rather fond of the beast, though, and had been feeding him small green apples and handfuls of oats throughout the morning, an incentive for the horse to obey him. He needed persuasion. As Titus muttered a last few encouraging words to the horse, he had no idea he was being stalked.
The end, for him, was nearer than he knew.
“De Wolfe!”
Titus turned towards the sound of his name, seeing two Northumberland knights riding up to him. These were men under his command, men he had fought with for a few years. He knew and trusted them. He put the apples for his horse back in his saddlebags.
“What are you two doing away from your posts?” he asked. “I told you two to cover the far end of the right flank. Why have you returned?”
The knight with the bushy beard dismounted. “Something very serious, de Wolfe,” he said. “We must speak with you.”
Titus looked up from his saddlebags. “Now?” he asked, perturbed. “The earl wants you in your position, de la Londe. Get to it. We can speak afterwards if there is still a need.”
Simon de la Londe shook his head, ice crystals from his beard raining onto his chest. “I am afraid it is too important to wait,” he said. “I will only take a moment. I come with a message for you.”
Titus scowled. “A message?” he repeated. “From whom?”
“Norfolk.”
Titus’ scowl faded and genuine bewilderment took hold. “De Mowbray?” he asked. “How is that possible? He is not even here yet.”
De la Londe nodded patiently. “He is a few hours out,” he said. “We received his messenger with a message for you.”
Titus’ confusion only deepened. “What in the world would the Duke of Norfolk have to say to me?” he asked. “And how does he even know me? I am one knight among thousands here today.”
De la Londe looked over the battlefield, at the lines being drawn and the thousands of men preparing to risk their lives for two men who would be king. He glanced at his companion, Declan de Troiu, and noted de Troiu’s serious expression. The man nodded, firmly, as if to give de la Londe the push he needed to speak. De la Londe returned his attention to Titus.
“The Duke of Norfolk wishes to deliver this message,” he said. “Wield your sword for him, swear fealty to him, and he shall provide you with a manse and lands in Westwick. The lands are rich, as are the taxes. Convince your brother to join you and he will grant Atticus a baronetcy. Do this and you shall be well rewarded. Refuse and you shall die.”
Titus was staring at de la Londe. There was no discernible reaction in his features but his gaze implied that he was both confused and shocked with de la Londe’s message.
“You cannot possibly be serious,” he hissed. “Did Norfolk’s messenger tell you that? Where is the bastard?”
De la Londe drew in a long, deep breath. “He is out of range,” he said vaguely. “The messenger came to remind us of what Norfolk himself told us this last night when we met with him. He has granted Declan and me lands for swearing fealty to him. Titus, don’t you see what is happening here? We fight for a madman, a king that is daft and unstable. We fight for a lost cause. Edward has the support of the major barons and he also has the support of France. He has Warwick with him, for God’s sake. Warwick is nearly impossible to beat.”
A warning bell went off in Titus’ head; it was clear that Simon and Declan were not here as a neutral party or even an allied party to relay a message from the enemy. From what de la Londe had just said, they were now the enemy. Shocking as it was, it was the truth.
Titus thought quickly; his broadsword was sheathed in his saddle behind him. He couldn’t get to it undetected. He had an assortment of daggers on him, but de la Londe probably did too. So did de Troiu. It would be two against one but Titus was confident he could prevail. But he had to get the upper hand and strike first, eliminating de la Londe before de Troiu came down on him. He could already sense a battle coming and he was disgusted; enraged and disgusted.
“Am I to assume you have accepted Norfolk’s bribe?” he asked steadily.
De la Londe nodded. “We have,” he said, sounding almost regretful about it. “Titus, come with us. Fight with us. This is a fight that Henry cannot win.”
“We outnumber the York supporters.”
De la Londe sighed heavily. “For now,” he said. “Norfolk is four hours away and he brings ten thousand men. When he comes, he will turn the tide. Lord Fauconberg, fighting with Warwick, has hundreds of archers and he has the wind at his back. You will be killed, Titus; everyone here will be killed. I, for one, do not want to die.”
Titus’ jaw ticked. “So you climb into bed with Norfolk,” he growled. “I never thought I would see the day, Simon. You disappoint me.”
Simon shrugged, having difficulty maintaining eye contact. “Better a disappointment than a dead man,” he muttered. “Will you join us, Titus? Will you join us and speak to Atticus about joining us as well?”
Titus shook his head. “I will not,” he replied. “My fealty is to Henry Percy. I am sorry your fealty was not as honorable, Simon. If you are quite certain that is what you wish to do.”
“It is.”
He seemed as determined to turn as Titus was determined not to turn. “I am having difficulty believing your loyalty can be bought,” Titus said, trying to insult de la Londe into letting his guard down or even walking away from him. “You are no better than a common mercenary. Where is your honor, man?”
De la Londe would not waver but Titus’ insults struck a chord in him. He had always admired Titus, his commander and his friend, up until a few moments ago. “My honor wants to survive just like the rest of me,” he replied, pointing to the armies in the distance. “This is a fight that Henry cannot win, Titus. And I am not ready to die this day.”
Titus took a step back, in the direction of his horse and his broadsword. “I suppose each man must follow his own path in life,” he said. “But this is where our paths diverge, Simon. If you are truly serious about serving Norfolk, I will give you a few minutes to ride out of my sight. If you do not, I will kill you.”
De la Londe scratched his beard, looking at de Troiu. “There are two of us,” he said. “Two against one, no matter how good you are. Unfortunately, I have a task to perform and you are now standing in the way of it. If I cannot recruit you, then I have orders to kill you so you will not warn the others. I have been asked to speak to every man in Northumberland’s knight ranks. Norfolk has offers of wealth and lands for all of them.”
Titus looked at the man as if he had completely lost his mind. “You cannot be serious?”
“I am, indeed.”
Titus sighed sharply, shaking his head in a gesture that implied he was truly disgusted with the situation. But his thoughts were really calculating just how fast he could get to his broadsword before de la Londe, who was closer to him, could unsheathe his broadsword and impale him. The odds weren’t good and Titus knew it. Pretending to ponder the situation, he swaggered casually in the direction of his horse, moving closer and closer.
“Then I should re-think this,” he lied. “I have a wife now. Lands of my own would be most beneficial for her. She would like to be the lady of her own manse, I think.”
De la Londe wasn’t an idiot; he had served with Titus de Wolfe for five years and knew the man was sly and cunning. He also knew why he was moving near his horse and he panicked, putting his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. The moment he did so, Titus snatched his broadsword, unsheathing it from the side of his saddle and slashing it in de la Londe’s direction.
De la Londe was slower than Titus by a fraction of a second but it was enough time for Titus to slash Simon across the face and neck with the tip of his broadsword. Simon screamed and fell back as de Troiu, too far away to engage with his broadsword, withdrew a massive dirk from a sheath on 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.