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“Aye, my lord,” he nodded, slapping down the visor and spurring his horse south.

William watched him for a brief second before lowering his visor and reining his animal into the heart of the resistance. He didn’t particularly want to fight anymore; he simply wanted to chase the bastards back where they came from. He could see Michael and Corin taking some heat from a group of particularly zealous combatants and turned in their direction.

Michael received a blow to the back of the skull from a mace that damn near tore his head off. William spurred his destrier forward in a rush of armor and leather, using his legs entirely to guide the animal as he came up on the enemy soldier that was preparing to take Michael’s life. When the man raised his dagger, William was there to drive his broadsword right between his ribs.

Michael was reeling from the blow, having difficulty regaining his seat. William rode up and gave him a shove, righting him in the saddle. A glance at the man’s helmet showed a huge dent in the back of it. He could see blood staining the mail hood.

“Are you all right?” William demanded with concern.

Michael put a gauntleted hand to his head. “Aye, I think so,” he replied. “At least I still have a head on my shoulders.”

William eyed him critically. He knew from experience how disorienting a blow like that could be. “Get back to Northwood,” he ordered him. “We can handle this motley crew without you.”

“Nay, my lord, I can still fight,” Michael insisted weakly.

“That was not a request, Michael, but an order.”

Michael flipped up his visor, his face pale with the shock but his eyes lucid enough. “My lord, it has been months since I have fought under your command. When Kieran came to Northwood a few weeks ago, I never thought to see you on the battlefield again. Surely you will not deny me the privilege of serving under you one more time.”

William paused, struggling with his dancing destrier. “Very well,” he said, a note of pleasure in his voice. “But stay back, will you? Another blow like that and we’ll be taking you back in pieces.”

Michael grinned and closed his visor. “Thank you, baron.”

The Scots, however, had dug in a bit and driving them back into their own country was proving a little more difficult than William had anticipated. But as the battle raged, he was aware that he felt whole again. His knights were fighting around him; the men he had learned to trust with his very life, men that he was comfortable with, and he felt invincible. The whole time he had been fighting in Wales with the king’s knights, as good as they were, he could not recall feeling this comfortable. He didn’t know those men or their skills, not the way he knew his own men.

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 even 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 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.”