De Wolfe Pack 05 - Walls of Babylon (2 page)

The Conquest of Babylon

Early February

Lancashire/Yorkshire Border near the village of Moselden

Smoke from the campfires filled the night sky like misty gray ribbons. The smell was strong in the damp air, blanketing the landscape and infiltrating the nostrils of the living with the sharp, offensive odor. An encampment perched at the edge of a small forest, what tents there were arranged carefully towards the middle while a perimeter of soldiers made sure nothing came in or out without their knowledge. It was a dark time, a time of war and unrest, and these men fought for one of two powerful factions. In this case, there could be no definitive winner, though both sides were determined that there would be.

A larger tent sat towards the center of camp, the light from a massive bonfire dancing shadows across the canvas side. Several men squeezed inside the tent, all of them focused on a table that bore several sheets of well used, and sometimes torn, vellum. Familiar maps were drawn in lines of black and red with big rocks as anchors on the corners.

All of the tent's occupants wore chain mail and weapons to some degree, and some of them in full suits of armor. The smell of the night's smoke mingled with the body odors of men who had seen weeks of fighting, little food, and even less sleep. Their weariness was tempered by a sharp determination.

"We should be hearing something by now," a man with dirty, graying hair leaned over the maps, tapping a particular area with a stick. He wasn’t terribly old but war and stress caused him to look much older than his age. "This siege has been days in the making. I cannot believe le Bec has not breached her by now. I sent him to accomplish a task and yet do I see the positive results."

"With all due respect, my lord," another man, younger but more expensively dressed, addressed him, "I am confident that Kenton le Bec will breach Babylon Castle by the end of the week. My lord Warwick must remember that Babylon is one of the more powerful strongholds in Yorkshire, and any competent army would have a difficult time breaching her. I believe patience...."

The man with the gray hair thumped the table sharply. "Patience is a virtue, indeed, but I was never a man to proclaim my virtues. It would be a lie, to be sure. And time is something we do not have in this case. Henry needs Gaylord Thorne's castle if we are to secure the region."

He pounded on the table again with his stick, shoving splinters into the vellum. The area in question was designated by a few thin red lines of ocher, sectioning off the most westerly region of the Yorkshire territory.

Every man in that tent knew they had to secure Babylon Castle, the gateway to the province, if they were to make any sort of advancement into the widely populated district of Yorkshire and, consequently, gain a serious foothold in their enemy's realm. They had been here before, many times, only to be turned away. But they had never come this close. The gray-haired man stared at the map again, his expression slackening as the ugly deeds of war passed through his exhausted mind.

"If we take Babylon, it is only a matter of time before we are able to launch against Leeds and Bradford." He repeated what every man already knew. "From Leeds, we sweep northeast until we reach York herself. With that entire region secured for Henry, we split Yorkshire and most assuredly hold the victory. But we must have Babylon."

He was back to thumping on the table, beating it like a drum. The younger man glanced at the others, seasoned war advisors to the legitimate king to England's throne, a claim that was disputed by the son of the late Richard, Duke of York. But Richard's son, Edward, had picked up the torch admirably and even now, years after his father’s death, fought more viciously than his father ever had, which was why gaining a foothold in Yorkshire was so very imperative.

"Need we be reminded that le Bec has over a thousand men under his command," Warwick assured the others. "If anyone can take Babylon, it will be he."

The men in the tent grunted with agreement. "Not even Edward has a knight as powerful as le Bec," another man said solemnly. "We are fortunate, indeed."

A servant brought them more wine, fuel for the damp night. The men drank, mulled over the map, and pondered what the morning might bring. The gray-haired man finally sat at the table, staring pensively at the surface, his mind several miles away at the mighty fortress known as Babylon.

He could see it, sitting on a rise above the River Black in a dominating position above the village of Moselden, its concentric construction making it virtually impossible to breach. Two hundred years after Edward the First built his masterpiece castles throughout Wales, Babylon was raised in the tradition of that shining legacy when built by Gaylord Thorne's grandfather under permission from Richard the Second. Strategically, it was a force to be reckoned with because it guarded a major road from Lancashire into Yorkshire.

Somehow, the night passed into the chilly, cold dampness of early morning. The bonfire was burning low, spitting layers upon layers of smoke up into the air. The man with the gray hair had fallen asleep on his maps, while the advisors continued to mill around him. Though he could sleep, they would not. The night seemed to drag on endlessly until someone heard the shout of a sentry, which roused about half of the camp. The advisors tensed, waiting for the explanation for the alarm. Someone thought to rouse the gray-haired man, who stirred incoherently until a worn soldier suddenly appeared before him.

The man bowed unsteadily. He was dirty and disheveled, but his eyes held the glow of a man used to such hardship. The gray-haired man stared at him, suddenly tongue-tied.

"My Lord Warwick," the soldier said. "I bring news from Babylon."

The gray-haired man found his voice. "Give me something of joy, man."

"Babylon is ours, my lord,” the soldier said with as much satisfaction as his weary manner could muster. “Le Bec secured her before nightfall and sends word to you of a decisive victory."

The advisors silently gloated. It was as they had hoped and predicted. The man with the gray hair closed his eyes, suddenly very quiet and very reverent. His eyes then opened again and he turned to his advisors. "It appears the saints and gods favor us," he said hoarsely. "Now, we will end it… or it will surely end me.”

There was a prophetic ring to his words, more than any of them could ever imagine. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had divined his own future.

Great outer walls soared to the sky with four corner towers, peppered with murder holes from which to shoot arrows at enemy soldiers. A narrow corridor separated the outer from the even taller inner walls, with a great gatehouse and a five-story keep lodged deep inside. Built from sandstone that had been quarried from the very earth around the castle, a big quarry that also created the moat, Babylon Castle was truly a sight to behold. Kenton le Bec thought so as he stood in the center of the inner bailey, eyeing his prize with the utmost satisfaction. Overhead, the day was dawning clear and surprisingly bright for winter weather and his mood was, for all of his exhaustion, amazingly light.

But his expression belied nothing of his inner emotions. The man could be as joyful as a child or as angry as a hornet and no one would know by looking at him. The only thing vassals and soldiers alike knew was that they feared him, and rightfully so. It wasn't so much that he was thought of as evil; it was more the fact that he was a master at the art of intimidation, so much so that the mere mention of his name within military circles brought chills and whispers of fear.

Peasants and nobles refused to discuss him at all for fear of incurring some distant curse from the know-all, see-all knight of the realm. Anyone who had served with Kenton le Bec knew that the man was unpredictable, unafraid, and as deadly as a snake. Even those closest to him knew to tread carefully, in any situation.

A knight emerged from the massive keep, taking the steps from the second floor entrance down to the muddy bailey. Most of the bodies from the battle had been cleaned up, but there were still a few in a pile near the entrance that were waiting to be burned. Whatever remained of Lord Thorne's fighting force was now outside the fortress, being held in a pen like a herd of animals while le Bec's men swarmed over Babylon like a horde of locusts.

There was a smell in the air, of the ugliness after a battle and the rotting dead. But the knights of le Bec's corps were used to the stench; they lived with it daily. The knight didn't even flinch as he stepped over someone's rotting hand, coming to a halt next to his towering liege.

"We've found them, Ken."

Only in private did the knight known as Conor de Birmingham address his superior informally. Having known Kenton since they were newly knighted, he was the only man who could get away with it. Kenton looked away from the walls of his latest acquisition and focused on the big, red-haired warrior.

"Where?"

"Hiding in the cellar beneath the kitchens."

"How many?"

"Lady Thorne, her three sons, and four servants."

"No sign of Gaylord?"

"None."

"Did you ask Lady Thorne?"

"She will not say a word."

Kenton's gaze moved in the direction of the keep; it was impossible to read his thoughts, but they were easy to guess. Conor followed his focus.

"Gerik and Ack are with her," Conor said. "Their manner is, shall we say, easier than yours or mine. Mayhap they will wrest something from her."

Kenton pondered that advice and promptly ignored it. He started towards the keep. "Gaylord Thorne's whereabouts continue to be unknown and he, along with this castle, are my objectives. Henry wants them both."

"So you intend to interrogate his wife yourself?"

"I intend to do what is necessary."

Conor thought of admonishing him to go easy on the woman, considering she was a delicate lady and knights of the realm were sworn to uphold the code of gentle treatment towards any female, even an enemy. But he bit his tongue; if the wench was foolish enough to resist Kenton, then she deserved whatever she received.

Kenton entered the cool, musty keep and found his way down into the kitchens. Located in the sub-level, it was a low-ceilinged room smelling of smoke and dung, and it was moderately warm. Off to the right, almost hidden behind a table, was an open trap door, and seated against the wall next to the door were several women and three small boys. Soldiers were tying the last of the bindings on the servants. Ducking under the low ceiling, as Kenton was several inches over six feet, he went over to the group.

Two of his knights stood hunched over, their heads brushing against the ceiling. The first man was bear-like with a head of thinning brown hair, while the other man was tall, able, with dark blond hair. Sir Gerik le Mon and Sir Ackerley Forbes, respectively, greeted Kenton with formality. They always greeted him with such manners, though they had served at the top of his command hierarchy for several years. It was the degree of respect that le Bec demanded.

"My lord," Gerik indicated the frightened, huddled people against the wall. "The elusive Lady Thorne and her household."

Kenton's piercing eyes gazed at Gerik a moment; if the man had anything to tell him, he was silently suggesting that now was a good time before he took matters into his own hands. He was weary from battle and in no mood to play games. But Gerik had nothing more to say and Kenton turned his attention to the terrified mass. The diplomacy of their captivity, brief though it were, was about to end.

The first thing he noticed was three little boys gazing back at him; the eldest was perhaps around five years of age, while the other two were identical twins and perhaps around three or four. They were all sandy-headed, well-formed, and regarded him with such challenge that Kenton nearly laughed. He might have, if he had remembered how to do it. To their left sat four cowering women, servants by their clothing, and to their left, it occurred to Kenton, sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He regarded her a moment, studying her porcelain features and the long, honey-colored hair that clung to her slender neck and spilled over her pale shoulders. She wasn't particularly young, nor was she old, but caught in that timeless limbo of a woman who is truly ageless. Were he to guess, he would suspect she was somewhere around her twenty-fifth year. But he had never seen a woman with her maturity look so positively perfect.

The woman gazed back at him with the emotionless expression of someone who had seen much in a lifetime. He knew she was terrified, but he admired the fact that she didn't show it. Wisdom had taught her that. Her magnificent eyes were the palest shade of green and her lips and cheeks were kissed a rosy hue. He had no idea how long he had been staring at her and suddenly felt very foolish that he had been doing so.

"You're le Bec?"

Kenton blinked, realizing the woman had brashly spoken first. But her voice was soft, soothing, like the pelt of a gentle rain on a warm summer night. He deliberately didn't answer her, slowly removing his gauntlets and tucking them into the elbow of the armor on his left arm.

"Your name, Madam?"

She was intentionally slow in replying. "Lady Nicola Aubrey-Thorne."

"Where is your husband, Lady Thorne?"

Her gaze lingered on him a moment before lowering. Kenton watched her long, thick lashes sweep her cheek defiantly. If nothing else, she was brave. Stupid, but brave. He would waste no more time with her. Kenton glanced at Conor and, with an imperceptible nod of his head, had the knight yank Lady Thorne to her feet.

The little boys went wild. Their hands were tied but their feet weren't, and the twins jumped up and began kicking the nearest knight, who happened to be Gerik. The serving women screamed and cried out to the boys, but the little men refused to listen. When Gerik put a large palm on each child's head and pushed them back to the floor, the eldest boy popped up, fully prepared to defend his mother to the death.

"Let her go!" he commanded. "You let my mother go or I'll get you, do you hear?
I'll get you
!"

Conor ignored the boys soundly. They may as well have been mice for all of the regard he gave them. He handed the struggling lady off to Kenton, who took her by the arm and pulled her across the kitchen. On the opposite side of the room, she was torn between defying the enormous knight and watching her little boys pick a fight. Welfare for her children won out.

"Tab!" Nicola hissed. "Stop it this instant. Teague, Tiernan, be quiet. Do you hear me? Be quiet!"

Her attention wasn't on Kenton. He braced one arm on either side of her head, forcing her to look at him without so much as laying a finger on her. The woman gazed up at him with those clear green eyes and Kenton stared back; he wanted to make sure she understood what he was about to say, plainly.

"Lady Thorne," he rumbled. "I will say this one time only, so listen carefully. I have come a long way and have lost many men in acquisition of this castle. It is now mine. You and your family are my prisoners. I will ask you where your husband is and you will tell me, truthfully, or I will remove those three boys from this place and you will never see them again. Is this in any way unclear, my lady?"

Nicola paled. "Since when do knights murder children?"

"My patience is at an end, Madam. You will give me the answer I seek."

Tears suddenly glimmered in her eyes. "I... please, you do not understand."

"I understand all too well that you are protecting an enemy of the rightful king of England."

"I am not protecting him at all. I am protecting my children."

"You speak in riddles. I told you I would not ask again."

"And I am trying to answer you. But you are not allowing me to do so."

Kenton didn't say anything. He just stared at her. Nicola knew he was not soft, nor sympathetic in any way. This was the great Kenton le Bec, a man feared and hated throughout the realm. Why he had to attack Babylon was a stroke of bitter luck. They had held out as long as they could. Now she could see it was all at an end.

She lowered her gaze and looked away. "I will... show you."

"You will tell me."

"
Please
." Her tone was almost desperate. "I must show you."

"Madam, I am trying to be as tolerant as possible. Your stalling attempts are not well met."

"I am not stalling, my lord. But I would ask.... please, that if you must know, you must allow me to show you."

Kenton pondered that a moment. He didn't like to compromise a demand. It showed weakness. But he removed his arms and stood back, indicating for the moment that he would trust her word as a lady and allow her to show him where her husband was. He motioned to Conor.

"Stay here with the prisoners," he said. "I will take Gerik and Ack with me."

"Where are you going?"

"To find Lord Thorne."

Conor cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. He motioned to Gerik and Ackerley, who immediately went to their liege. The three knights followed Nicola from the kitchens, listening to the sobs of her youngest children undoubtedly thinking they would never see their mother again. From the great hall above the kitchens, she led them out into the bailey, hardly flinching at the death and destruction she saw there. Across the muck was a rather large, half-moon shaped structure built into the inner wall. There were long, thin windows on the curve of the structure, allowing weak light to penetrate into the gloom.

The interior was cool and dark, and Kenton immediately recognized the chapel. The majority of the room was set deep into the protective inner wall. Three pews were situated towards the front of the chamber and there were at least four sepulchers that he could see, two with large stone effigies affixed to the tomb.

Kenton paused by the door, thinking Gaylord to be a wise man to seek sanctuary within his own chapel. Public or private, the Holy Church had jurisdiction over all sacred meeting places and removing the man from here would prove controversial at best. He watched Nicola make her way over to one of the low-built, stone crypts.

"I am waiting, Madam."

She looked at him and he could see a tremendous sadness in the pale green eyes. Then she reluctantly patted the stone. "He's here."

Kenton cast her a long look. "Where?"

"In here."

"He's dead?"

"Aye."

"How long?"

"Four months now."

He made his way over to her, slowly, his gaze sweeping across the plain, gray tomb. There was nothing of decoration on it at all. Without remorse or emotion, he turned to his knights. "Open it."

Nicola was horrified. "No! You mustn't!"

"I must confirm your story, Madam. Surely you know that."

"But... you cannot violate his tomb!"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "There is no name on this tomb. It could be empty for all I know and your husband could be halfway to Scotland by now. If he is not in here, your children will receive the punishment for your lies. You do realize that, of course."

"Of course I do, I'm no fool," she struggled not to become hysterical. "He is in there, I tell you. I would not lie with my children's lives at stake."

Gerik returned to the chapel bearing a heavy hammer. He marched straight to the sepulcher and raised the hammer above his head.

"Wait!" Nicola cried. "Please, hear me first before you smash it to bits and release this horrible secret!"

Gerik ignored her. He was in the process of bringing the hammer down when Kenton stopped him. His incredible strength halted what surely would have been a crushing blow. Kenton looked at the woman, his blue eyes hard.