A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury

by Edith Pargeter

  They had moved their army south from Milfield yesterday, as soon as they were sure by what route the Scots were returning towards their own country, and chosen their position on the northern bank of the Glen water, a mile and more from its confluence with the Till. From here they could control both river valleys, and deny Douglas his passage home by either. Their front was protected by the Glen, and the foothills in which they deployed their forces, low though they lay, were well-grown with bushes and clumps of trees almost to the waterside, and afforded a clear field of vision before them. They had placed small groups of bowmen wherever this rich cover offered, keeping their main companies higher along the hills to shoot over them. Between the archers were set the formations of pikemen and swordsmen. The cavalry were drawn up in three companies, on the wings and in the centre. And on a high point forward of the central company Hotspur and Dunbar sat their horses, and studied the sweep of country before them.

  The Glen came down from their right turgid and fast, shut in by hills on either side, round the rim of the Cheviots and the great curving flank of Yeavering Bell, and across their front to empty itself into the Till. By this valley of the Glen water Douglas had surely intended to make his way back to Kelso, for he had brought his army out of the cleft of Wooler close under the hills, bearing west, and only when they were clear of the town and close to Homildon village had they become aware of the English army drawn up facing them, closing this route, and in a position also to deny them access to the more easterly route by the Till. Their preference was understandable, for Till was in flood, spreading in lead-grey pools across the water-meadows, and flashing suddenly into silver when fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the mask of cloud overhead. Here, as in Wales and the south, it had been a black, malevolent summer.

  The Scottish host was drawn up now along the flank of Homildon Hill. They could distinguish the four orderly schiltrons of solidly-grouped infantry, ready and able to bring their pikes to bear in any direction. When a shaft of sunlight crossed their ranks the steel heads of the lances glittered and defined them clearly. Between them the light-armed men-at-arms formed smaller companies with room to manoeuvre at need, and the knights and cavalry, visible in snatches of blazonry and colour against the dun-coloured slopes, were drawn back somewhat higher in three squadrons. They had an excellent position, but for the fact that there was an army between them and home, and with England at their backs, and bitterly conscious of their recent attentions, they could not afford to sit still and wait to wear out the enemy.

  Hotspur looked up, and above the enemy ranks the hill soared rounded and perfect, the shape of a woman’s breast, with a sunlit nipple pointing at the sky, that vast, spacious sky of Northumbria that he missed even above the grander mountains of Wales. And beyond that, the outliers of the Cheviot swelled, dappled with cloud-shadows and stained russet and purple with bracken and heather, rolling away in waves to the distant and invisible summit of the Cheviot itself.

  “Take my counsel,” said Dunbar at his elbow, “hold back as long as you may, and the archers’ll do all for you.”

  “Very like!” he said, knowing it was true, and knowing that he would not hold back so long as to let it be true. There were lives to keep, yes, valuable to their lords and their wives alike, but he had learned warfare in another school, and without the shock of arms and the life staked there was no savour. Somewhere there must be an honourable compromise, just as the van chasseours and the parfytours shared the work of the chase, the first coursing the deer and the second pulling it down, equal in achievement. The archers to start and wear down the game, and the knights to capture it; for bowmen can kill, but not make prisoner. And it would be shame to him to hold back and let a fighter like Douglas be shot to death from a distance, with never an enemy at hand to exchange blows with him. A brave man deserves an opponent he can reach.

  “First we’ve to get them within range,” he said grimly. “And how if they sit it out with us?”

  “They’ll not do that. Now they’ve seen you, little choice they’ve got. You need not so much as move a company across the Glen to fetch them down. Wait, and they’ll come to us.”

  And he was right, for unless they could lure the English across into the open they could not make use of their greater numbers or the advantage of the ground. And they knew that they could expect no reinforcements from Scotland, while they could have no certainty that a second force was not closing in behind them from England, since clearly their movements had been known, and their return anticipated. They would not wait it out like this for long. Nevertheless, the English had prepared for the unlikely event of a contest in patience. There was a bridge below, where the track crossed the Glen, and there were three good fording places, level and safe, for even in spate the Glen was not a deep or dangerous river, only an unruly one. The English could use these at will, and looked to do so later; the Scots could not approach them without coming into close range of archery they had learned to respect.

  “Look yonder! They’re moving!”

  The bristling pikes were indeed on the move, the whole mass shifting down the hill, the cavalry pacing slowly with them. They would drop almost into range, and then make use of the slope to give impetus to their charge. Dunbar was grinning in high content as he wheeled his horse to trot back to his own division. “You’ve only to hold on, and let the archers begin and end it.” He rode away complacently, sure of his countrymen, whose deaths he had been so busy arranging, and meant to buy as cheaply as possible.

  The knot of squires at Hotspur’s back hung close and eager, ready to carry his messages. Their eyes were fixed and intent upon the mass of heraldry and steel sliding in formation down the flank of Homildon Hill.

  “Master-bowman!”

  “Here, my lord!”

  “When the first ranks are within range, hold your volley until I signal. They’ll try a feint to bring us out before they risk all, and they’ll want to bring up their pikemen as close as may be. We’ll waste no arrows until they make their true attack.”

  “Ay, my lord!”

  This they had done together many times, though never in such a pattern setting as now. Dunbar was not the only man who knew how to use archers, even if it went against the grain to leave too much to them.

  “If it goes as we expect, then your task, when they are close enough, is to split me a way into the ranks of the two central battles of pikemen.” Cavalry cannot break into a solid phalanx of pikes until a way has been cut for them, but once in they can do fearful slaughter. “Concentrate on the centre of their ranks, and if they try to close, keep the gap open at all costs.”

  “Ay, my lord. Every man knows and understands his orders.” He looked at the hillside across the river, where the moving masses had halted, still just out of range even for the most expert, to redress their line. “Now they’ll come.” And he went to his place jauntily, without even hurrying.

  They came, with a yell that crossed the fields ahead of them like a sourceless bellow out of the air. The cavalry surged suddenly ahead, streaking downhill to the meadows, the massed pikemen broke into a measured run, keeping formation, and followed them. A quiver passed along the English lines, the horses stirred and shuddered, but no more. Hotspur sat bolt upright in the saddle, his eyes narrowed on the hurtling horsemen, and never moved a hand. All the bows braced and drew and leaned, like hawks about to stoop, fixing upon their prey before it was in range. And now his experienced eye told him that the foremost ranks could be reached, but still he did not move, nor did any of the bowmen loose. Their nerve was a match for his; they had most of them served him several years, for his men did not leave him.

  “They’ll turn!” whispered one of the squires at his back confidently; and he smiled, noting the voice. And on the very word, the Scottish wheeled in two wide circles, to form again ahead of the pikemen. There was a strange, silent pause. The English did not come. They would not come. There was no way left but to go to them.

  The pikemen had n
ever lost the impetus of their tireless running, the deceptively slow-looking running of mountain men, that covers the ground with frightening speed and ease. When the knights reformed in front of them they suddenly launched a wild shout, and welded into one moving weapon, that aimed itself at the enemy beyond the river, and this time did not halt. Even so, Hotspur held his hand until the issue was certain, and the thundering vanguard of cavalry well within range, and plainly bent on driving home. Then he raised his lance, and a shaft of sunlight from beyond Homildon Hill fired its point like a captive star, before he drove it down again. The radiance burned from it as it fell; and the master-bowman, somewhere below him with his men, bellowed: “Loose!”

  The air quivered and thrummed and shook, the horses shuddered to the vibration, and their manes rose erect, bristling and undulating to the contractions of their twitching hide. The pent arrows took the air like a flight of hawks, and in the charging ranks across the river sudden gaps were ripped and flattened like corn before the wind. Horsemen heeled sidelong out of the saddle, crests sank and pennants lurched low, fouling other riders, startling other horses. After the first volley there was always more chaos from the terrified horses than from the loss of men. And always it gave time to fit the second shaft and loose the second volley, and redouble the boiling turmoil that was held at a distance by nothing more deadly—but there was nothing more deadly!—than cloth-yard shafts of wood and steel flighted with a handful of feathers.

  A few shook themselves loose from the tangle, and pounded onward, others skirted the fallen and fell in behind them. And now the archers were shooting at will, selecting their targets where they best offered, without haste and without respite. But what was left of the line of knights after every fall always came on, implacably brave; and Hotspur’s heart started and complained grievously whenever the foremost fell, still short of the river bank. Dunbar had said no more than the truth, the archers could do it all. But so much gallantry to be squandered with so little hope!

  Nevertheless, he held his heart in check until the schiltrons of the pikemen were in close range, and being harrowed like arable fields by the steady volleys of arrows. There was place enough there for a knight, after the archers had done their work. He had stood it until his heart bade fair to burst with longing, and if they could not cross the river, then he must go to them. He launched a great shout of: “Espérance Percy!” behind him, waved a hand at the squire who carried his guidon, settled his lance, and plunged headlong down into the river at the ford they had marked out for the centre, and out again in a flurry of muddy spray on the levels beyond, with the whole company of his knights and squires and mounted men-at-arms hurtling after him.

  On the right, his father was not many yards behind him in that charge. On the left, Dunbar held his hand and re-deployed his archers to pick off any strays who might still offer a safe target. He would risk his life coldly where there was need, but here he saw no need. Why exert himself to win a battle the bowmen had already won? When he crossed the Glen it would be in his own good time, and with an eye to what prizes were left alive for the taking, and for them he would fight as doughtily as any man if he must. But he would not be fool enough to fret if he need not fight.

  What remained of the Scottish chivalry had re-formed in haste to face the English charge. Hotspur’s lance, steadily lowered as he came, selected its target, the foremost knight on the tallest horse, and struck the uplifted shield so strongly that the shock flattened its bearer back upon his horse’s crupper; but he kept his seat gamely, rolling under the lance as it flashed by, to recover dizzily and swing a vehement though ineffective stroke with his sword, before the lurch and sway of the press carried him away. Hotspur wheeled to keep touch with him, pleased by the ready retort, but his impetus had swept them apart, and from that moment it was hand-to-hand work with whoever was cast up at him, horsed or afoot, until he could find room enough to choose his man and use a lance again. The warm, wild joy came over him that never failed him when he met hand-to-hand on an even footing with his peers—his peers whatever rank God had given them—in courage and spirit and tenacity, without a grain of malice or hatred. He heaved his snorting, raging mount out of the press of dismounted men, swung him round in a trampling circle to clear ground about him, and drew off to realign his vision and find a just opponent. The field was chaotic now, the archers had done their part, and could do no more from this on but let fly at the occasional fugitive. For some on the fringes were already in flight.

  Therefore this was a battle now as he understood a battle, however mangled beforehand by being half-decided at a distance. And his heart sang as he settled his lance in rest again, and drove at the first and readiest knight who caught his eye. This time his lance struck accurately in the throat of his adversary’s helmet, too fast and too high to be warded off, and hurled the rider to the ground and his mount off-balance, dragged by the tightly-gripped rein, to roll upon his master. The lance shivered, the shaft splintering halfway down to the guard, and Hotspur hurled it from him, and reached a long arm to snatch at the bridle as he was swept past, and drag the terrified horse to its feet again. The man kicked and struggled wildly, and rose on his knees. He had fallen in soft, lush ground, still waterlogged after the flood had somewhat subsided, and he came to his feet whole and angry. But the tide of flesh and steel tore them apart, and Hotspur saw no more of him. If he had known his man, and cared for what he knew, he could have battered Albany’s son and heir into surrender, instead of hauling his horse off from crushing or smothering him in the mud. But he did not know him, and would not have cared too greatly if he had. He was looking for the Douglas.

  He was glad for them, they fought so ferociously, as if they had never heard of defeat, they who were already defeated. He turned his horse time and again, and went ploughing through the thickest of the struggle with bared sword, exchanging strokes with any who cared to stand and debate with him. Time did not exist for him now, as long as any challenged him. He did not even know that most of the Scottish host had already cast off everything that weighed it down, and taken to flight, acknowledging the truth of this meeting. They were pursued, some into the Till, where many drowned and some swam to safety—if it was indeed safety, so far into England—on the further side, some as far north as the Tweed and the border, thirteen miles away. But the Tweed also was in flood, and many perished there.

  But Hotspur was more concerned with those who stood and traded blows as long as they could stand, and some even longer, on their knees and still defiant. These he understood and worshipped, and went about to salvage if they would be salvaged, for they were far too good to waste. He had barely a scratch upon him, he was hardly blown by comparison with these, and he stood off while they breathed, and at the last lighted down from his tired horse, to meet with the most valiant on equal terms. But the terms were not equal, for his assailant bled from the head, under his conical helm and gorget of chain mail, and from some wounds under his plate-armour, also, for there were red seams in his body-harness, and he leaned to his right side, favouring it as he fought.

  Hotspur hung back from him, and let him gather himself, waited, indeed, for him to make the first assay, and put it by when it was made with the utmost care and forbearance. When it was pressed again, doggedly but almost blindly, he struck the questing sword expertly out of the hand that held it, with only the measured force required, and reached a hand eagerly to his adversary as he crumpled to his knees.

  “Be ruled, man, yield yourself to me, you’ve done enough! I promise you all possible honour, it is but your due. I am Henry Percy.” He had uncovered his face; the field was fallen into a curious quietness about them, as though they were alone.

  The mailed hand in his kept hold firmly enough to draw him down to his knees as its owner sank back into the turf. “Is it you, Hotspur?” said a thick, bubbling whisper out of the broken helmet. And again, just distinguishably: “I surrender myself to you. None but you…” The steel fingers loosed their hold, and sl
id down to lie lax in the grass.

  “Do off his helmet, quickly,” said Hotspur, tearing off his gauntlets and himself stooping to fumble at the mail gorget, “he’s breathing blood!”

  They got the harness off him, and turned him to bleed into the grass rather than into his own throat. It was a young face, surely not past the early thirties, comely, dark, passionate in line and feature, with reddish black hair and thick, straight brows. From the eyelid down, one cheek was a mask of blood; the eye stared opaquely from under a half-closed lid. Dunbar came picking his way between the debris and the fallen, and looked down calmly upon the son and successor of his old enemy.

  “You’ve taken a fair prize there,” he said dispassionately, “if he lives. Yon’s Archibald Douglas.”

  “Bring a horse,” said Hotspur, rearing up fiercely and looking about him for the nearest serviceable squire, “and get him on to it. We must have him away into shelter in Wooler. If he dies on us, so gallant a man, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  * * *

  Seven Scottish nobles were killed in that battle under Homildon Hill, five earls made prisoner, Douglas, Fife, Moray, Angus and Orkney, and twenty-three other noblemen captured, as well as three of the French knights. In all, eighty barons and knights of rank, and a host of men-at-arms and archers, besides those killed in action, or drowned in Till or Tweed in their flight. And this battle took place on the same day that King Henry in retreat from Wales rode through Shrewsbury, the 14th day of September.

  * * *

  The squire who was sent south to carry the good news to King Henry overtook him at Daventry on the 20th of September. The young man, whose name was Merbury, was eager and inexperienced, and took it for granted, as an honest man well might, that his story of complete and shattering victory, of the capture of so many of the active nobility of Scotland, and of a bright lustre added to the name of Percy and of England could not fail to be pleasing to his sovereign. He told it well, with a wealth of detail, for he had been there, and was proud; and at every word of praise for his Northumbrian lords he rubbed salt into sore and festering wounds.