The Scots backed off a bit. Those who weren’t killed by 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 her 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 w
ay across a devastated Scot bailey. Once they crossed through the debris from the destruction of the wall and actually entered the bailey, 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 of the fate of Jordan’s family. He hoped to God that they had not been captured and made an 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 front 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 don’t 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 was 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 front 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.
William didn’t take the offensive, not yet anyway. He was still lingering on the words spoken to him by the irate Scot. He had called the structure ‘his home,’ which could only mean he was a Scott. Damn. He could not see a bloody thing in the cloying darkness!
Paris stood back, sword in hand, watching the amazing little soldier go after William. After the first few seconds it became increasingly apparent that the small man was the only person on the attack; there were no men waiting in the wings to ambush them all and slice them to death.
When Michael and Ranulf moved to aid William, he waved them off. He had heard the words the man had spoken, too. This was his home they had invaded.
William stepped back, tripped over a bit of debris but recovered with the grace of a cat. The man was chopping at him vigorously, grunting with his effort.
“Where is Thomas Scott?” William demanded, diverting another blow.
“Prepare to die, ye…!” The man suddenly faltered, the sword freezing in mid-chop. “Ye’re bloody English.” The accent had caught him by surprise.
William kept his sword in front of him warily. “Aye,” he replied. “I am William de Wolfe. Who are you?”
“De Wolfe?” The man was still in the same position, still in the shadows so William could not see his face. “Northwood’s de Wolfe?”
“The same.” William, too, hadn’t changed positions. “You have not answered me. Who are you?”
It seemed like an eternity. The man maintained the raised sword for several long, drawn-out moments before slowly, laboriously, lowering the blade. William, however, maintained a protective stance, unsure if the down stance was permanent.
To his surprise, the man’s sword clattered to the stone floor. William sheathed his own blade slowly, watching the phantom figure as he took a few staggering steps backwards, tripping over a burnt piece of wood and landing on his bottom. William followed him at a distance, straining for a glimpse of his face.
“What happened to ye, Sassenach?” the man asked softly, painfully.
William crouched down a few feet away, noting that Paris had stepped closer with a torch. In the warm flickering light, he could make out the features. Amazement and relief filled him.
“Laird Scott?” he breathed.
Thomas Scott looked dully at him, his eyes dark circled, and his whole body filthy and worn.
“We are allied with ye, man,” Thomas said faintly. “Where were ye when we needed ye?”
It was a question from the soul. William felt a surge of flaming anger at Alexander, hoping he was burning in hell at that very moment. He sighed heavily.
“The Scots cut us off,” he explained lamely, knowing it was no excuse at all. “We underestimated their strength. By the time we broke through the lines, the damage had been done.”
Thomas stared back at him, the blatant pain touching William. This was Jordan’s father, his father-in-law, the grandfather of his sons. He felt completely helpless and entirely to blame.
“I know,” Thomas said, much to William’s surprise. He had expected ranting and cursing at the very least, calling him a liar. “Our spies told us the clans formed a line between Langton and England. To divide and conquer is what they intended to do. They conquered us. How did ye fare?”
“We fought them off,” William replied. “Northwood stands.”
Thomas nodded once, faintly. “And my daughter. How is she?”
William could not help himself, he smiled faintly. He suddenly remembered Jordan’s plea to go easy on her father when he informed him of who she had actually married.
“She is well,” he replied noncommittally. Honestly, he didn’t think the man was strong enough to hear any more at the moment.
Thomas nodded again, not noticing the smile on the baron’s face. In faith, he was so damn tired he could have cared less about anything. He simply wanted to die and be free of his misery.
“Then I am glad. But, as ye can see, there is no longer need for the contract. We canna offer ye anymore support, military or otherwise. Langton doesna exist anymore.” His dim eyes filled with weary, pained tears, seeking out William’s gaze in the darkness. “Pray be good to Jordan, man. She is
worth nothing but the clothes on her back now, but she is more precious than gold. Dunna allow the situation to reflect unkindly on her.”
William’s chest constricted tightly at the man’s anguish for his daughter. Of course he believed that with Langton gone and the treaty voided for all intents and purposes; Jordan was now at the mercy of the English earl to do with as he pleased. She was his chattel. God, he was going to enjoy relieving the old man’s mind. Jordan was safer than he could possibly know.
“When did you eat last?” William asked quietly.
Thomas sniffed loudly, angrily dashing away an errant tear. “I…I dunna know. Mayhap yesterday or the day before.”
William rose, extending a helping hand. “Come, my lord. We have much to discuss.”
Thomas eyed the outstretched hand distrustfully, glancing for the first time at the knights behind The Wolf. It was as if one could read the emotions rippling across his face as he regained his composure.
“What do ye want of me?” he asked warily.
William silently reached down and pulled him up by the arm. Thomas pulled away from him, although the assistance had not been unkind.
“Is there some place we can go and sit?” William asked, turning to his men. “Bring the provisions.”
Thomas was wise, and even in his disoriented state he knew that if these men had come to kill him, they would have done so by now. More than that, there was something in The Wolf’s voice, something almost gentle that disarmed him. He didn’t know what to think. In his fatigue and desolation he was indecisive. But, as asked of him, he wearily led them down a burnt-out corridor into a small room completely void of any furniture. There was, however, a narrow alcove with a window seat.
“ ’Tis the only place left to sit,” he indicated the stone bench.
William nodded, stepping back as Corin and Deinwald set down the saddlebags bearing food. William dug through one, bringing forth a bladder of wine and offered it to Thomas, who drank nearly the whole thing in three swallows.
Good, William thought to himself. This should fortify him for the news to come.
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 104