The Wolfe (89 page)

These were, in fact,
his
men.
He would take them with him to Questing; he knew that now without a doubt.
Adam, of course, would have to remain at Northwood as the new earl, but the
rest were going with him. He knew he would have to do something he was going to
hate to do, and that would be to use his name and influence to get what he
wanted, but so be it.

Several yards away Ranulf and
Deinwald were engaging the enemy, alternately yelling at each other and screaming
at the Scots. He had to smile; he knew how happy they were to see one another
ever though one could never tell by the tone of their voices.

William found himself engaging
several Scots, all trying to beat him off of his horse. With some difficulty,
he met their swords and clubs, fending off blows but receiving a few strong
enough to dent his armor. He was quite involved in his fight, but not so
focused that he did not hear the approach of another destrier. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw Paris riding to assist him, swinging his broadsword
like an avenging angel.

The Scots backed off a bit; those
who weren’t killed between Paris and William ran elsewhere only to be engaged
by English soldiers. Paris, arrogant to the end, rested a haughty fist on his thigh.

“You are welcome!” he yelled to William.

William shook his helmeted head back
and forth. “Think you are doing me no favors, captain.”

He heard a familiar laugh as once
again they were forced to defend themselves.

“Who is left at Northwood?” William
yelled over the clash of metal. Usually, any talk at all in battle was
forbidden lest the enemy hear any useful information, but William considered it
extremely remote that the Scots would launch any sort of counter-offensive at
this point.

Paris swung hard at a fervent Scot,
severing the man’s forearm. Still clutching the sword, it fell to the ground
and the soldier with it.

“Payton-Forrester and Brockenhurst,”
he yelled back. “Lowell took his men back to Hawkgrove.”

William matched thrusts with a large
Scot knight, his destrier snapping at the enemy’s leg and coming away with a
piece of shin armor. Paris watched a moment, reflecting of the fact that he
never thought he would be witness to this sight again. The Wolf in battle. It
was indeed an awesome sight to behold.

The Scot knight was good. He matched
William quite well blow for blow, steel crashing together with unmatched force.
William fought him for a while, waiting for the man to tire and make a mistake,
but he saw no signs that the event was imminent.

Drawing upon his bag of tricks, he
faked an upper cut and when the knight moved to counter, William suddenly
brought the blade around in a sweeping arc and caught the man in the back of
the neck, hard enough to knock him cold. He tumbled to the ground in a heap of
metal and mail.

Paris rode up, raising his sword to
deliver the final blow, but William stopped him.

“Nay,” he said. “He is skilled.
There are too few knights as skilled as he. Let him live.”

“So that he may cut you down the
next time you meet?” Paris demanded.

“He will not,” William replied,
reining his horse around. “Come, captain, there are others who require our
attention.”

Paris shook his head. Since when did
The Wolf show mercy? It seemed to be linked to this new change that Paris was
having a difficult time determining, a new dimension that William had taken on.
He was not displeased.

The war raged on for a full day and
night until the Scots finally crossed over into their own country. Across
Carter Bar they fled through the lowlands, leaving the English army wearily
cheering with victory.

William, Paris, Deinwald, Michael,
Ranulf, Marc, Jason and Corin sat on their steeds, side by side, watching the
remnants of the Scot army fade in the distance. A few of the knights that had
come with William from London sat several feet back. They knew to join the
front rank of knights would have been an intrusion into the personal circle of The
Wolf.

“Thank God, those bloody bastards,”
Marc said, propping his helmet up on his forehead and wiping the sweat and
grime off his face.

The others nodded, except for
William and Paris. They both knew of the promise William had made to Jordan,
and they both knew he would follow through and ride into Scotland after the
fleeing clans.

The men watched until the enemy
troops disappeared and then some. The horses began to get restless, weary like
their masters to return home, but no one would move until William gave the
order. Finally, he tightened his grip on his heavy leather reins and his destrier’
s head came up in anticipation of a command.

“Paris, take the men back to Northwood,”
he said. “I have unfinished business to attend to.”

“We go with you, baron,” Paris said
quietly.

William turned to him. “Nay, you do
not. I will do this alone.”

Paris spurred his horse forward and
nearly plowed into William. “Do not be foolish,” he growled. “You cannot do this
alone. You must take us with you, if for no other reason than to cover your flanks.
She is a part of us, too, William.”

William looked hard at him, albeit
through his lowered faceplate. Paris was right, of course, in all aspects of his
statement, but William would not dream of asking anyone to accompany him on this
dangerous journey.

“Where in the hell are you going?”
Deinwald finally asked what they were all thinking.

Paris turned around, speaking so
that all of the knights could hear. “He promised his lady wife that he would
personally see what happened to her home and family. He intends to ride to Langton.”

“Not without me, he’s not,” Ranulf
gripped the reins on his destrier so tightly that the animal jumped in
expectation of the prick of the spurs. He jerked the animal back, waiting.

As he knew they would, every knight
chimed up to volunteer their services. William’s horse was so excited he was
having a hell of a time keeping him in one spot as he gazed back at his men. He
knew even if he denied them that they would follow. He could spout orders until
he was blue in the face for them to return, but he knew they would disobey.

“De Moray!” William raised his visor
and bellowed back to the king’s captain of the troops. “Take the troops back to
Northwood. Await me there.”

The captain acknowledged him and the
order spread through the troops to retreat. Satisfied at least some of his men
were obeying his orders, William glared menacingly at his knights before
slapping his visor back down again.

“We ride,” he growled, urging his
destrier north at a full gallop.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

The road to Langton was completely
deserted. The seven knights and the baron rode the entire day, stopping only
once to feed and water the horses, who had been in constant service for days.
Hearty as they were, they were not invincible. Properly rested, they resumed
their hell-bent pace and continued to Langton Castle.

William was somewhat prepared for
the sight. But not entirely.

The castle he remembered, his wife’s
home and the seat of her clan was, literally, a shell of its former self. They
slowed their pace as they came upon it, keeping vigilant of the surrounding
trees for any signs of life, but they were vacant and barren. The landscape
surrounding the fortress was vacant and barren, too, shades of gray blending
into one another. It looked like a desolate wasteland, eerie under the light of
the full silver moon.

William reined his destrier to a
walk as they came upon the once-mighty wall, now partially destroyed. His jaw
ticked as he examined the damage, the complete carnage that had taken place.
God, how the allied clans must have hated the Scotts for bonding with the
English, and the hatred was evident at the destruction he saw. He could plainly
see that the reports were not exaggerated. It was utter destruction at its very
height.

He didn’t realize he had come to a
halt surveying the damage. His knights stopped behind him, their eyes roving
over the blackened hulk, wondering what in the hell happened to the clan but at
the same time catching the unmistakable whiff of death on the cold air.

William was mesmerized by the sight,
his heart breaking for Jordan. This was where she had been born and raised and
he could only imagine how he would feel if he had not been successful in
defending Northwood. Yet his former home stood and hers was razed. He glanced
about, feeling ill and wondering what had become of her father and considerable
extended family.

“Langton carried hundreds of men,”
he murmured, removing his helmet deliberately. “Where are they? Dead, all of
them?”

“Damnation, William, you fought the
Scots that attacked us,” Paris said with disgust. “They were like dogs on a
feeding frenzy. And you fought them after they had been in the field for weeks.”

William stared at the burned-out
shell a moment longer before dismounting. He propped his helmet on his saddle,
dreading what he was going to find once he entered the structure. With a
reluctant glance at Paris, he began to pick his way through the crumbled wall.
The other knights dismounted and followed.

It must have been a strange sight; eight
armored English warriors picking their way across a devastated Scot bailey.
Once they crossed through the debris from the destruction of the wall and
actually entered the barley, there were plenty of bodies for their viewing
displeasure.

Men, women, children; it made no
difference. They were all dead, the lot of them, and William found himself
increasingly apprehensive with the fate of Jordan’s family. He hoped to God
that they had not been captured and made example of. Better to die quickly in
battle than rot away in a dark hole somewhere or be maimed or tortured.

William ignored the dead bodies
after seeing the first few and made his way to what had once been the frontal
door of the castle. He mounted the stone steps, remembering that they were the
very steps he had seen Jordan standing on when he had come to take her. The
memory brought a tug to his heart, a warm memory in the midst of all this
death.

The doors were burned to charcoal
but still hung on their hinges. He kicked at them, aided by Paris and Ranulf,
and they instantly crumbled away. William stepped over the threshold, his
senses incredibly alert in the dim, smoky depths.

“William, we can see very little in
the darkness,” Paris said softly. “Why do not we wait until dawn to search the
castle itself.”

William paused, examining the
darkness. “Nay, I would face this nightmare now. Ranulf, procure us some
torches.”

They waited until Ranulf, Jason and
Corin returned with several torches to light their way. Paris held the torch as
he walked beside William.

It took them hours to search out the
castle. So much of it was completely destroyed that they concentrated on the
portions that seemed remotely inhabitable. This included the subfloor and the
dungeons and, surprisingly, the kitchens.

There were a few bodies, mostly
burned until they were charcoal themselves. It became apparent that the
attacking armies had looted Langton, for nary a scrap of furniture or tapestry
remained. To show their complete contempt of the Scotts, enemy soldiers had urinated
and defecated on the walls. William felt sick in the pit of his stomach; he was
so damn glad Jordan could not see this.

They completed their sweep and
discovered nothing of the fate of Jordan’s family. William was dreading the
news he would have to deliver to his wife and cursing Alexander’s stupidity in
the same breath. Thank God the man was already dead; after viewing this scene
here this night, he would have ridden all the way back to Northwood this night
and killed him personally.

“There’s obviously no one left
alive,” he said finally, defeat in his voice. “I would wait here until morning
and at least burn the dead we have come across. I want to be able to look my
wife in the eye when I tell her we did all we could.”

His companions grimly agreed. With a
final glance at the burned-out grand hall, he kicked aside a piece of burnt
wood and moved toward the frontal doors.

Something flew out of the shadows,
hitting William full-force in the breast plate. He grunted and staggered
backward from the blow, moving to his sword and unsheathing it all in the same
second. The other knights moved like lightning, drawing broadswords and
preparing for a battle in the dark against unseen assailants. It was exactly
the sort of situation they had prayed to avoid; an ambush.

“Goddamn bloody bastards!” Came a
heavy Scot lilt. “Come here to loot my home, did ye? Well, I shall give ye a
fight, ye whoreskin.”

William caught the unmistakable
flash of a blade slicing through the air at him. He brought up his own sword,
deflecting the blow. The phantom was smaller than he was by far, but wielded
the sword with amazing skill and strength.

The man cornered William into the
darkened recesses of the foyer, dancing about and swinging his sword like a
madman. William fended off the blows as they came in quick, angry succession,
well aware of the fear and fury in the strokes. The small man was so quick he
felt as if he were fighting a wily little elf.