Reiver

by David Pilling

  Stephen touched his forearm. “The heath lies yonder,” whispered the Brampton man, pointing at a ridge some thirty paces ahead. “If the Crookback means to give battle, it will be there, on the flat ground.”

  Richie chewed his bottom lip. The drumbeats were louder now, punctuated with trumpet blasts and the noise of men and beasts. A cheer suddenly burst from hundreds of throats. Wordless at first, then resolved into a wild chant, repeated over and over against clashing cymbals and rolling drums.

  “Upon them! Upon them! A Dacre, a Dacre! A red bull!”

  Richie’s blood thrilled to the famous cry. His ancestors had heard it at Flodden and Solway Moss and other killing grounds. They had witnessed the red bull standard carried forward into battle against the Scots. Spilled their blood alongside old Tom Dacre, the Crookback’s ancestor.

  Shall the bull gore me today? Or shall my dreams be fulfilled?

  Death waited beyond the ridge. Richie knew that. It would be easy to turn around and leave the contending armies to slaughter each other. Escape. Live.

  “You were bred of the Border and you’ll die on the Border. Most likely with a sword in your guts or a bit of hemp round your neck. The same goes for all of us.”

  These were Davy’s words to Cleave-Crown. A few weeks later his prophecy came true, and Cleave-Crown lay dead at Eslington with a Scottish broadsword in his chest.

  A reiver could run from death or turn to face him, sword in hand. It didn’t matter. Either way, death won. Yet perhaps the gesture counted for something.

  Richie hitched up his belt. “Right,” he growled, “let’s go and see what all the bloody noise is about.”

  *

  Dacre struggled for breath. His breastplate felt too tight. It squeezed like a constricting band round his chest.

  Fear, he told himself. Just fear. Let it flow through and out of you. Lord God, lend me courage.

  “Leonard! Look – look! The enemy are moving!”

  His brother, Edward’s voice. The young man sounded on the verge of hysteria, jabbing his rapier at the loyalist soldiers. Hunsdon and Forster were clearly visible, the burly redhead and lean old man, side by side on the southern edge of the heath.

  Their soldiers were already pouring out of the woods. Infantry with pikes, hurriedly formed into several ranks on the marshy ground. Cavalry rushed to deploy on the flanks. These were a mixture of armoured troopers, Berwick men, and light horse. Some of the troopers dismounted and started to load their carbines in disciplined silence. Forster’s March riders carried pistols and longbows.

  We should have brought the guns, thought Dacre. Naworth was stuffed with ordnance, culverins and demi-culverins and mortars. In his wisdom he had chosen to leave them all behind. They were meant to batter down the walls of Carlisle and York, perhaps even London, when the time came.

  Now he saw his mistake. A few culverins, handled by expert crews, could have done wonders here. Blown great holes in the loyalist ranks. The Wardens had clearly marched in a hurry from Berwick, and had no guns of their own.

  Too late now. Dacre glanced from left to right. His infantry were drawn up in ragged companies, five or six ranks deep, either side of the bull standard. These were his loyal tenants, turned out to fight and die for their lord. Foresters and gamekeepers, farm labourers, tradesmen, servants, shopkeepers and the like. Even a few women.

  Dacre had kitted them out as best he could with weapons and gear from the armoury at Naworth. Many brought their own equipment: the Border was an unstable place, and wise folk looked to their defence. The wealthier sort could afford helmets and breastplates, some of ancient make. Others made do with jacks or no body covering at all. The very poorest wore their everyday clothes, and for weapons carried daggers or rusted axes and swords, crude spears made from knives strapped to broom handles. Perhaps a score of men, gamekeepers and one or two poachers, carried matchlocks.

  A rabble. Brave and loyal, but still rabble. No soldiers.

  His best fighters, the mounted Border men, were drawn up behind the foot. Over a thousand had answered Dacre’s call to arms. Lancers of Redesdale and Tynedale, outlaws and broken men, hard-faced rogues of every stamp. He had taken them all, so long as they could ride and fight.

  Dacre knew the fighting qualities of Borderers. At his back were some of the best light cavalry in Christendom. They were precious, only to be thrown into battle when necessary.

  Edward clutched at his arm. “Leonard! Brother! Speak, in God’s name – give the order to charge or retreat. Anything! We can’t just stand here, waiting to catch cold.”

  Dacre swallowed. Now the grip had come, the moment he had longed and planned for, he found it difficult to act. A kind of paralysis seized his limbs. His brain was full of fog.

  Only one idea presented itself. The heath sloped gently from north to south, and his army enjoyed the advantage of high ground. His infantry were good for nothing except a stand-up brawl, in which they might hope to overwhelm the enemy with sheer enthusiasm and weight of numbers.

  “Charge!” he shouted, rising in his stirrups. “Buglers, sound the advance. Edward, you will lead the foot. Sweep away those whoresons for me, and may God be your shield!”

  His brother grinned and rode away to put himself at the head of the infantry on the left. The Dacre tenants cheered and waved their pennons and bonnets at the sight of the knightly figure on horseback. Dacre’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. He had always resented his sibling’s popularity with the mob.

  The standard of the bull went forward, carried by a mounted sergeant of the Naworth garrison. Bugles screamed, and once again the skies above the Gelt were split by the deep-throated roar:

  “Upon them! Upon them! A Dacre, a Dacre, a red bull!”

  Edward dug in his spurs and hurtled down the slope, sword held straight before him. In his wake the Dacre tenants stampeded like a herd of angry cattle. They galloped headlong at the enemy: a great mass of bodies covering the heath from end to end, driven on by war-shouts and bugles.

  Dacre prayed the Warden’s men would take one look at the vengeance bearing down upon them, and break. God refused to listen. The slender company of loyalist infantry were rooted to the spot, pikes in the middle, archers behind and in skirmish order on the flanks. Their cavalry also held firm. The handgunners on foot knelt on the damp ground, pieces levelled, waiting for the order to fire.

  Forster had vanished. Dacre wished his rotten old bones to Hell. Hunsdon, however, was still visible. His red-haired figure, clad in black armour, could be seen among the mounted troopers on the left.

  Dacre’s fingers twitched. If Heaven willed, he would get a chance to drive his sword into the flesh of King Harry’s bastard before the day was out.

  *

  Hunsdon hefted his broadsword. Years had passed since he last swung it in anger. A physically powerful man, he had kept himself fit and battle-ready in the tiltyards of Richmond Palace. Cutting at dummies stuffed with straw, however, or noble opponents on the tourney field, was very different to the real work of slaughter.

  The wild charge of the rebel foot inspired reluctant admiration in him. My God, look at them come, he thought. The bravest charge I ever saw.

  Around him every man was still, braced for impact or ready to fire. Hunsdon was forced to admit the Berwick lads did well under pressure. Faced with a horde of yelling savages, their discipline held. Perhaps they were fitter for more than the alehouse after all.

  “The red bull! The red bull!”

  The rebel yells were deafening. They plunged recklessly towards the pikes and calivers, filled with animal bloodlust, careless of their lives.

  Hundon’s entire body tensed. A pace closer…now!

  “Fire!”

  His officers knew their business. Their shouted order rippled up and down the line. The guns spat. Gouts of foul-smelling smoke filled the air. Hunsdon tasted the acrid tang of powder in his mouth.

  At a range of fifteen paces, the volley was lethal. Rebel bodies jerked v
iolently as lead shot tore into them. They flopped to the ground, dead and bullet-riddled wounded, fierce cries turned to shrieks of pain. Arrows from Hunsdon’s longbowmen showered among the packed crowd. The shafts skewered limbs and eyes and throats, drove through jacks, mowed down men and women like grass.

  Their comrades ploughed on, leaping or stumbling over the bodies. A second volley burst from Hunsdon’s cavalry. The handgunners on foot, with no time to reload, reached for their swords.

  The rebels crashed headlong into the wall of pikes. It sagged under the crushing impact, almost splintered, then was driven backwards down the slope. Rather than face contact, Hunsdon’s archers took to their heels and sprinted for the riverbank.

  Hunsdon saw no more before the rebels were upon him. Dacre’s militia flung themselves at the loyalist horse, howling like mad dogs as they strove to claw men from their saddles. The horsemen fought back with equal savagery. They thrust lances at unprotected faces, fired pistols at point-blank range, hacked and stabbed downwards with their swords.

  The Warden himself came under attack. A man with a billhook came screaming at him. Hunsdon swerved his horse aside to avoid the slash of the deadly curved bill. At the same time he cut downwards at the rebel's head. His victim wore no helmet, only a felt bonnet, and the broadsword split his skull with ease.

  Hunsdon didn’t see him fall. The Warden's horse instinctively jerked his head to avoid the swing of a Jedburgh axe. Cursing, Hunsdon spurred the beast forward and thrust at the axe-wielder, a beggarly fellow in torn and patched breeches and a stained jerkin. The beggar's eyes opened wide in shock as the sword plunged into his throat. Blood sheeted down his chest as Hunsdon tore the weapon free.

  “Close ranks!” he bawled. “Hold your ground!”

  None heeded him. The ordered ranks of his cavalry had been smashed by the weight and fury of the rebel charge. Driven backwards, Hunsdon's troopers desperately tried to reform around their standards. His ears rang to the screech of bugles, shouted oaths and orders, clash of steel and neigh of terrified horses, pistol-shots, the occasional volley of carbine fire.

  The March riders had deliberately scattered and retreated into the woods flanking the heath. Howling in triumph, the rebels hared after them. There the horsemen turned at bay and dozens of savage combats broke out among the trees.

  A hand grabbed at Hunsdon's thigh. He instinctively stabbed downward, sword-point sinking into soft flesh. A shrill scream of agony rose above the noise of battle. His mouth dropped open in horror when he saw his victim: a young woman, fair of face and hair. She dropped to her knees, blood bubbling from her mouth. A long dagger slowly slipped from her fingers.

  Disgusted, Hunsdon tore his eyes away from the dying girl and looked for Forster. His colleague had taken charge of the reserve, five hundred cavalry. Hunsdon spied his pennon behind the infantry, now almost engulfed by the raging sea of rebel bodies.

  Hunsdon's bugler had vanished, swept away by the tide. “Advance!” the Warden roared in Forster's direction, rising in his stirrups. “Commit the reserve! Shift your arse, you old fool!”

  His voice was drowned in the chaos. Hunsdon could only rely on Forster's good sense. Unless the reserve was thrown in, and quickly, Dacre would break their army all to pieces.

  *

  “They cannot hold,” said Davy. “Two shillings and my second-best knife says Hunsdon calls the retreat.”

  “I'll take that wager,” replied Clemmie. “Lord Hunsdon fights like a mad dog. He won't run. Watch old Forster, though. As soon as Hunsdon's down, he'll be off.”

  The elderly reiver sniffed and adjusted his belt. “Aye,” he smirked, “old dogs like us know when it's time to cut and run. How else do we win our grey hairs? Heroes die young. Your silver is as good as mine, Davy Reade.”

  “Done,” cried Davy, and he and Clemmie shook hands on a wager.

  Richie did his best to ignore their cold-blooded gambling. The Bairns lurked on the western edge of the wood above the waters of the Gelt. From here they watched the progress of the battle.

  He seemed to be the only one who cared about the outcome. Some of his men had already fallen to playing cards, or casting wagers. They were immune to the horrors of battle, and laughed to watch other men fight and die.

  Davy was right, though. Hunsdon was hard-pressed. His men, outnumbered at least three to one, were being steadily forced back. There was no space on the cramped heath, hemmed in by woodland, for them to rally and reload. Otherwise they might have stood back and shot down the rebel foot, who had only a few decrepit matchlocks to return fire with.

  He glanced to the north, where Crookback Dacre waited under his red bull banner. A thousand cavalry, many of them Richie's friends and kinsmen, waited with him. Their lances, a steel-tipped forest, glittered in the pale morning sun.

  “Why does Dacre stay?” hissed Ruth. “Why not lead his riders down and finish the job?”

  Richie rubbed his jaw. “Perhaps he waits on Forster. The old bugger will have to charge soon, or quit the field.”

  The old bugger seemed to hear him. Not long after a bugle shrieked, and Forster's pennon was seen to move. Hooves drummed on the heath. Richie's men threw down their cards and gathered to watch.

  Richie's soul kindled at the sight of the charge. Forster's white-haired figure was unmistakable, riding at the head of his March men. He had doffed his helmet, and held it high in one hand, sword raised in the other. Behind him his lancers swarmed in close order.

  The ground shook under Richie's feet as they shifted from a trot to a canter to a flat-out gallop. A low keening noise rose from their throats. The wordless cry hung in the air, almost merging with the ear-splitting crash and thunder of hundreds of charging horses.

  They drove headlong into the great crowd of rebel infantry. Richie gasped at the dreadful impact; broken bodies flung high into the air, men and women trampled under the flailing hooves, banners slashed down, entire ranks crushed or burst asunder. Richie glimpsed the old Warden, laying about him with the berserk fury of a man half his age, sword bloodied to the hilt.

  “God bless Sir John,” Richie overheard Davy remark, “he's a bonny fighter, whatever else may be said about him. Clemmie, you owe me two shillings. And I'll be keeping my knife.”

  Clemmie handed over the money with bad grace, muttering that Davy could shove his knife up his arse for all he cared. Their idle chat was a surreal background noise to the murderous clash and din of battle.

  The rebel infantry were flung backwards, up the slope, chivvied like sheep by Forster's cavalry. Battered and confused, all the fury of their initial charge spent, they started to waver. Wailing in terror, some of the fainter hearts cast down their weapons and ran for the woods. Richie's Bairns jeered and hooted at their cowardice.

  “Run, you bloody farmers!” shouted Jock of Hawick, cupping his hands round his mouth. “Back to your sheep – they'll be missing your cuddles at night, devil a doubt!”

  “Shut your noise, for God’s sake!” Richie snarled. “Do you want to give away our position?”

  The Bairns piped down. Before them the great mass of rebel infantry swiftly dispersed, their ranks expertly broken up by Forster’s riders. At the same time Hunsdon’s battered troops launched a counter-attack. His pikemen rallied and drove forward, supported by lethal showers of arrows from the longbowmen.

  Not to be outdone by his colleague, Hunsdon himself galloped back into the fray. His towering, black-armoured figure cleaved deep into the press, roaring “God and Saint George for Elizabeth!” as he hacked his way towards the red bull standard. Edward Dacre had vanished, probably unhorsed, but the sergeant of Naworth still held up the ancient banner.

  The sergeant’s helmet was gone, his breastplate dinted and smeared with blood. More blood flowed from a livid gash on his face as he swung round to face Hunsdon, sword in hand.

  Richie looked again to the Crookback. Still the long lines of horsemen on the brow of the ridge remained motionless, like so many mounted figur
ines.

  Dacre has to move, he thought. What will it be, my lord? Fight or flight?

  *

  Dacre’s breast churned with conflicting passions as he watched the slaughter play out below. His initial surge of euphoria had dissolved along with the impetus of the rebel charge. Now he watched, still and silent, almost paralysed, as the Wardens butchered his infantry.

  Tears stung his eyes. He had thrown these people to their deaths. His own people, devoted tenants, turned out to fight and die for his sake.

  I have betrayed their trust. Betrayed my ancestors. Betrayed my family name. Yet I have not betrayed God, or Mary Stewart.

  He clung to these last certainties. They were all that prevented him from quitting the field, or riding down the slope to offer his surrender.

  “My lord.”

  Startled out of his funk, Dacre jerked his head round and saw one of his militia captains, a young lad of barely fifteen summers. The boy’s pimply face was almost lost inside an oversized helmet. His slender arm trembled with the effort of lifting his broadsword.

  “My lord,” he repeated, “will you sound the advance? Your standard is in danger of being captured. Our troops are sore-pressed. We must go to their aid.”

  The young officer’s courage shamed Dacre into action. “Yes…yes,” he said, coughing to hide his confusion, “at once.”

  Dacre’s own hand shivered as he drew out his sword. He had never killed a man before, never tasted real action. All his previous confidence dissolved like morning mist as he faced the dreadful prospect of leading his cavalry down that slope, into the hell of battle.

  He glanced right and left at his Borderers. A thrill of horror ran through him when he saw some start to peel away and ride off into the woods. Ever fickle in their loyalties, these men had clearly decided all was lost.