by Nigel Green
His story came out incrementally. He had led his patrol out to the Bruntshields and then decided to do a sweep to the west. On the fourth day, they spotted a small number of Scots and Anderson pursued them.
They chased the Scots hard for a full half day until they came to a thick wooded area. The Scots disappeared into it, and Anderson and his men followed, but the increasing thickness of the wood, and the absence of paths, made it hard for them to keep together. After only a few moments, he had only half his force with him and had lost sight of the Scots completely. It was then that he heard shouts to his right and turned to investigate. They reached a clearing where suddenly his troop was hit by a volley of arrows coming from all directions. Almost all of the horses were hit and at least two of his men. He and the remaining eight huddled together in a crude circle, as there was no enemy in sight – only total silence.
There was another volley of arrows and Anderson saw three more of his men go down. In desperation he threw his lance and sword on to the ground. His surviving five men followed suit. The silence continued as the six of them looked nervously at the undergrowth. Slowly from all sides men in half-armour emerged with spears and swords pointing at them.
The Scots bound the six of them together and took their surrendered weapons. The Scots made sure that the men in his patrol who had been hit by arrows were definitely dead, and the survivors were marched a few hundred paces to another clearing, where they found more Scots. A burly man in a fur cloak, who seemed to be the leader, indicated with his double-sided axe the fate of the missing men of Anderson’s troop. They all lay lifeless on the ground before him; some had been killed by arrows but a number had simply had their throats cut. The six remaining men were marched onward in deathly silence.
Once out of the wood, they were taken westward. Anderson estimated that they covered three or four miles in the dark. One of his men, who was wounded, found it difficult to continue, but being bound they were unable to assist him. The Scots noticed this and halted the group. The man was untied and was killed with a spear thrust to the throat. In horrified silence, the five survivors were marched on until, at length, they came to a crude settlement.
There were four or five huts; in the centre a huge fire burned. Seeing his badge of office, Anderson was separated from his four men and tied to a post by the fire. He watched, in disgust, as a group of ragged men, women and children emerged and started to strip his men of their armour and clothes. As they stripped the men, so the clamour rose and the villagers began to quarrel then fight each other for the best plunder. He watched helplessly as his men were injured in the ensuing scuffle. The Scots were like animals, as they fought one another by the light of the great fire. He was tormented by the screams from his men and he struggled ineffectually against the ropes that bound him.
There was a sudden shout and a small man came out from one of the huts, followed by the hulking figure still holding his double-sided axe. As they moved to the shivering, naked prisoners, the crowd of villagers collected the armour and clothing and scurried away. The small man looked at the remainder of Brian Anderson’s troops and then came over to him. The man had cropped hair and only half of one ear. He wore a stolen English breastplate and carried a small axe. In anticipation of death, Brian braced himself and observed his executioner with contempt.
‘Your name?’
The eyes never left Anderson’s face. He told him and the other man nodded.
‘I have a message for Middleton and Lovell,’ he said, his eyes fixing him with a cruel stare.
‘Francis, I asked him what the message was,’ muttered Brian, ‘because I was confused. The Scots would surely not be sending you messages. Then I realised that these weren’t Scots, as the small man with the axe spoke in English. These were the thieves from the Debateable Land.’
‘What was the message?’
Brian Anderson buried his face in his hands and then slowly looked up.
‘He stood there for a minute just looking at me, Francis, tapping that axe of his against his legs.
‘“I think my message to Lovell will carry more impact if you watch something first,” he said to me slowly.’
There was a long silence and I feared that Anderson must have fallen back into a trance, but he suddenly leant forward and seized my arm.
‘Francis, he and the large man with the double-handed axe attacked the other prisoners,’ he gasped. ‘They just kept chopping at them. They were bound; they didn’t stand a chance. Their screams grew louder and louder and then the villagers joined in…’
Brian dissolved into tears.
I put my arm around his shoulders, but he shook me off roughly.
‘You know the worst thing I saw,’ he said wildly. ‘It wasn’t the dead men; it was the two who were still alive.’ He buried his head in his hands and said brokenly, ‘and it was not the screams that were the most harrowing, it was the laughter.’
I sat in silence imagining the horrific scene that Anderson had witnessed.
‘At last it finished and the little man with the axe came over to me and looked up at me. He was covered in blood and his axe had pieces of hair and gore on it. He never took his eyes off me, but he ran his hand over the axe to wipe it and then wiped my cheeks with his hand.’
Anderson fell silent again.
‘Then what?’ I prompted.
‘The villagers and his men crowded round him and I thought I would be hacked to death like my men. I didn’t care, after what I had seen, but he waved his followers away with the axe. He rubbed more blood off his axe and said to me: “Tomorrow you’ll be released and taken to the border; all you have to do is remember what you have seen tonight. This will help you.” Then he wiped more of the gore on my face. “Now to the message,” he carried on. “Tell Middleton and Lovell that I rule in these parts, not them or the Scots and they would do well not to stand in my way, now or in the future.”’
Brian Anderson looked at me.
‘Then, Francis, he said to tell you that this is the only warning you will receive from Skiam.’
During the next month, the rest of us worked with grim determination. While previously I had planned to clear the Debateable Land, I now intended to destroy it forever. Fodder for the campaign proved to be the biggest problem. By November it was proving hard to find oats and hay. I sent messengers to the duke to beg his assistance and to my surprise, three weeks later a small number of wagons arrived, accompanied by Richard Ratcliffe.
‘Why are you planning a winter campaign?’ he demanded once we were in my quarters.
I poured him wine.
‘Firstly, Skiam and his followers will not be expecting us, so we have the element of surprise. Secondly, the ground should freeze over, so there will be no retreating to secret hiding places in marshes and bogs. Finally, once his horses and supplies have been destroyed, he will have no way of replenishing them.’
Ratcliffe nodded and rose. I watched him prowl round the room carefully avoiding the scattered pieces of armour and discarded weapons. He bent to pick up a mace but dropped it when he felt the weight.
‘How soon can you go on the offensive once you’ve destroyed the Debateable Land?’ he asked casually.
His tone was too nonchalant to be convincing, so I grinned at him.
‘What’s the problem?’
Ratcliffe gave a rueful smile.
‘You know me too well, Francis. The fact is that we need a success.’
I reached for the wine.
‘Tell me what has happened.’
Ratcliffe’s story was narrated hesitantly. He apologised for this at the outset; clearly it was not that he did not trust me or wished to withhold sensitive material, rather, that he was dealing in overall impressions and not facts.
Nothing could be proved, Ratcliffe explained, but he believed that people were stirring up trouble for Richard of Gloucester and Anne Neville. A recent spate of rumours had apparently been spread in the South of England, all of which hinted that the Nor
th was not being as well managed as it should.
‘There was talk it seemed about the recent Scottish raids,’ Ratcliffe told me. ‘Men say that the raids could have been halted sooner. The damage need not have been so great.’
‘But that’s absurd!’ I interrupted him. ‘Anyway who’s behind these rumours?’
Ratcliffe could not say for certain.
‘Up until now Gloucester has been well respected in the country. He was seen as a loyal brother to King Edward, serving him well in war and peace.’
‘So who is trying to cause trouble for him?’ I demanded.
Ratcliffe glanced round quickly and lowered his voice.
‘I believe that the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, and her family are.’
‘But what has Richard done to harm them?’
‘On the face of it nothing,’ Ratcliffe admitted. ‘But Francis, the Woodvilles are constantly looking to increase their own political power. Maybe they are trying to weaken Gloucester’s hold on the North so that they can encroach here as they are elsewhere.’7
Ratcliffe shrugged.
‘And then of course there is Anne Neville herself.’
‘How does she come into it?’ I asked.
‘Her father, Warwick, rose up in rebellion against King Edward and the Woodvilles,’ snorted Ratcliffe. ‘In fact, come to think of it, he killed two of them.’
He paused reflectively.
‘Possibly, had he lived longer he would have got rid of them all. Anyway that is one major grudge that the Woodvilles could have against Anne Neville.’
‘How does she view them?’
‘With contempt!’ came the uncompromising retort. ‘To Lady Anne, the queen is wholly undeserving of her title. Her numerous relatives are to her greedy and selfish and their ambition far beyond their abilities.’
He glanced at me.
‘Well, she is Warwick’s daughter, Francis. Anyway the last thing anyone wants is the Woodvilles intruding in the North. We need a success to stop these rumours. Can you help us?’
I thought quickly.
‘There would need to be a period of rest and recuperation following the campaign in the Debateable Land, but I could keep this to a minimum and so advance the timing of the raid into Scotland.’
Ratcliffe’s face lit up when he heard this.
‘That will stop the damaging talk against Gloucester,’ he said happily, ‘and it will prevent the Woodvilles from meddling where they are not required.’
He rubbed his hands together.
‘Yes, this will turn the tables of that family. You’ll find Gloucester and his wife grateful to you, Francis.’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not doing this for reward.’
Ratcliffe gave me a look of pure amazement but then nodded.
‘I suppose you are rich enough not to be motivated by money,’ he agreed. ‘But as a matter of interest, why are you helping?’
The simple answer was that I by now knew I was of use to Richard. Over the past two years I had come to know him better and increasingly liked what I saw. Moreover, when Nan and I had visited him and Anne Neville, we were treated not only like friends but as confidants. As far as I could see they held nothing back. They spoke freely of the challenges that faced them in the North and, as they did, I began to gain an idea of the sheer scale of what needed to be done if their region was to be made prosperous and secure. At times, when he and I were alone, Richard would speak of his own unfitness for the role that he was called on to play. At first I was suspicious of this, fearing that such humility was feigned, but after a while I knew it to be genuine. I sympathised with him too as leadership, whether it was for the West March or all of the North, is a lonely position and what man does not at times feel wholly inadequate for the task ahead? I believed that it helped Richard sometimes to have someone to confide in apart from his wife, and in turn this began to bring out in me the desire to help and protect him and Anne Neville. This was not a concept that Ratcliffe would comprehend.
‘I believe it is my duty to help,’ I told him.
Ratcliffe snorted approvingly.
‘Well, try not to fail him in the Debateable Land or in Scotland afterwards, because we are all relying on you.’
The results exceeded all my expectations. Operating from secure bases, our fresh troops and well-fed horses erupted furiously over the south and east of the Debateable Land, cutting a swathe of destruction and leaving nothing in their wake.
Initially, our men operated cautiously, using guides and outriders, but as the trail of destruction grew, so did their confidence. They began to leave the fortresses while it was still dark to maximise their range. Fortunately, they were blessed with bright days of snow on the ground, rather than in the air.
The method of destruction we devised was simple. Scouts would identify potential targets, and our troops force would surround the hamlet, forming a circle around it. The outer buildings would be set fire to first and then the troops unleashed. Resistance was light, except from Skiam’s followers who, while invariably heavily outnumbered, fought in the desperate knowledge that death awaited them, even if they surrendered. Any male villagers who attempted to fight were to be killed, but the remainder, as well as women and children, were spared. Anyone trying to escape from the village was ridden down – an easy target for mounted men with long spears.
A few survivors made it to the borders and were found half dead from cold and hunger at Solway Moss, but with our ruthless system of destruction, the majority of the population perished. Despite the necessity of this course of action, it was not a campaign of which I was proud, but it proved successful beyond all our hopes. Within three weeks, the whole of the east and the south had been cleared completely and Dick sent a messenger on to us. He wished to mount a final series of raids, culminating in an all-out assault in the north-west of the region. He guessed, at this stage of the campaign, that this was where Skiam and his remaining followers would have fled. He asked me if I would bring up the remaining 200 Carlisle horse and supply additional fodder for a two-week campaign.
I rode north a few days later at the head of a number of creaking wagons, escorted by the Carlisle horse, who were eager to join in the assault. Presently I rendezvoused with Dick and Thomas Broughton.
‘How many men do you think Skiam has left?’ I asked them.
Broughton shrugged.
‘There can’t be many and they must be more or less exhausted by now. They will be no match for us.’
Dick Middleton proposed to divide our 800 men into two groups operating on alternate days, a tactic that had worked well so far. We would further subdivide the two groups so that one could approach from the east and one from the south.
‘To be honest though, Francis, in Skiam’s place I would try to flee north into Scotland. But let’s finish the job.’
I rode with Middleton and his men a day later. We passed through burnt-out hamlets and destroyed farmhouses, but otherwise the country was white and empty. Far to our left, twin spirals of smoke indicated that our fellow patrol had found something worth destroying but of Skiam and his followers there was no sign.
We patrolled for much of the day and returned to camp, following this same routine for a week. Nevertheless we were thorough in our search. Still we found no trace of our enemy either in the bleak salt marshes or in the oozing peat bogs and deserted beaches. We were making the last patrol of the campaign when Dick finally signalled a halt and rode over to me. He exhaled clouds of breath when he removed the wool wrap that he and his men wore across their lower faces.
‘I think that we are probably in Scotland now, Francis. We’ll go three or four miles to the east and then return to Carlisle. There’s nothing and no one here.’
He gave instructions for the men to water their horses and returned to me.
‘I would say that this is the end of the Debateable Land. We’ll rest here for a while and then we’ll be back in half a day.’
Half froze
n, I nodded back; it was the end of the campaign. We had not found Skiam, but I was not overly concerned. No one could live in the Debateable Land for a long time, let alone use it to attack from. It was victory, but I was too cold to enjoy it.
A little later we crossed the Kirtle Water on our way back to camp. The winter campaign was over. It was now time to launch the first major raid into Scotland.
CHAPTER 6
‘Horsemen!’
Edward Franke pointed up the valley.
The archers had seen them too. At the sound of sharply issued command, they dismounted. Their horses were led to the rear of the column to join the packhorses, guarded by a small number of men-at-arms. I sighed as the captain signalled for his men to notch their bows. This was the second time in two days that the Scots had threatened our advance but were too cautious to attack, which was a pity as we would have destroyed them with ease. The Scots would not be reckless enough to attack bowmen head on, but they would try to manoeuvre round to strike at our flanks or to our rear. Of course, they would have been unaware that the Carlisle horse was out somewhere to our right and left, poised to take the Scots on their flank as they attacked.
The Scots had not obliged us last time though. On this occasion, I suspected they would hold their position for a short time and then withdraw. Our advance up the valley would continue and I was hopeful that we could break into the heart of Scotland.
‘They’re leaving!’ someone shouted.
Sure enough, the small band of Scots ahead of us retreated further north up the valley. I looked to the hills on the right and saw that a small number of Middleton’s horse were now in sight. There were probably some to our left, but I couldn’t see them. I gestured to John Fennell to remount his archers.
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Broughton. ‘They won’t stand and fight.’
